With everything hosed down and secured, Ron pulls out a couple of big yellowtails. In quick strokes, he slices behind the gills, down the spine, flips the fish and does the same thing, then, with two final quick cuts, frees the filets. “Put your nose here,” he says and holds up the flounder. “All I smell is sweetness.” “Sweetness is right. It’s fresh. Once you eat a real, honest fresh flounder, you won’t like what lubbers call fresh seafood. You’ll be like the woman after the French tickler—never satisfied again.” He drops a filet in a bag. Ken says, “Cook it up in your truck tonight. Eat it
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