In Homer, Alaska, by a floatplane lake, sits a drab building that houses Homer Fish Processing, the scene of much heartbreak and disappointment. Fishermen stand in line in the gravel lot, waiting to drop off their catch, which is almost exclusively halibut fillets already removed from the carcass. There are no fish heads or racks of bones; those are tossed overboard at sea or end up in the dumpsters out on the Homer Spit, a five-mile-long strip of sand and rock extending into Kachemak Bay. The men, most of them here on vacation, hold white plastic bags of flesh. They grip these bags with serious purpose, for they have suffered to fill them. Note the scent of beer. Note the tiny, flesh-colored patches behind their ears — treatment for seasickness. Some took tablets or muscle relaxers. I listen in on conversations. Overall they are disappointed in the size of the fish they have caught. When they came up ten years ago, it was better.