And Ben approved of it. There were enough places along the coast where divers interested in hunting could spear game; it was good to have one place that was off-limits. Even the clumsy feet of beginning divers were preferable to fishhooks and those who were interested only in how many pounds of fish they could remove from the water.

He walked the length of the beach, ending at the Coast Guard pier. The sound of sea lions barking greeted his ears, followed quickly by the ripe scent of their excretions. It had been a particularly fertile year for sea lion pups, and the water was full of them, splashing and jockeying for position within their established society. He stood and watched as two whiskered young males spun in the water, playing some game known only to them, chasing one another between the pilings while an older bull, feigning disinterest, sat on the deck of an unused fishing boat sunning himself.

“Damn sea lions. Eat all the fish.”

Ben turned around to see who had spoken. On the other side of the pier, the side facing the beach, a man stood with a young boy. Both held fishing rods, and the man was helping the boy bait his hook. The man looked once more at the sea lions and scowled.

“Like this,” he told the boy, who couldn’t have been more than eight years old. The man took the boy’s rod and, hanging it over the edge of the wall, dropped the baited hook into the water. He handed the boy the rod and began baiting his own hook.

“If you feel something pull, then you tug,” he instructed the boy.

Ben walked over, pretending to look out at the water. “What are you fishing for?” he asked casually.

“Rockfish, mostly,” the man answered, flinging his hook into the water, where it sank directly over a group of divers who were making their way along the edge of the Breakwater.

“You know, the rockfish here are pretty small,” Ben said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

“They’re big enough,” said the man. “I’ve been fishing here since I was a kid. I don’t see ’em getting any smaller.”

“Look,” Ben said. “This is a marine reserve. You’re not supposed to fish here.”

The man groaned. “Oh Christ,” he said. “Here we go again. Look, Mack, why don’t you mind your own business. You and I both know that no-fishing bullshit isn’t enforceable. It’s just something the city passed to keep you hippies happy.”

“Hippies,” Ben repeated. “Right. Maybe forty years ago those of us intelligent enough to know that conservation is a necessity would be hippies. Today, though, we’re scientists. I happen to be a marine biologist.”

“A hippie with a degree,” the man said, and laughed. Beside him, his son laughed too, although nervously. “Like a fish or two makes a difference.”

“Multiply a fish or two by five thousand assholes like yourself, and that’s a lot of fish,” said Ben.