Flying fish leap into the waves, leaving behind a surging memory

A figure sliced through the water; from a distance there was no time to make out what it was before it suddenly appeared right in front of me - several silvery, slender bodies with wings that looked impossibly thin in the sunlight yet glittered, splashing up spray with a "whoosh" before darting back into the water and vanishing without a trace.
"It takes off when it gets startled." The captain looked at my stunned face and decided to say a few words to soothe me. "Sometimes it's a mahi-mahi chasing them; just now it was the boat passing by that scared them." My mind raced, trying to replay the event that had unfolded over the blue ocean less than five seconds earlier.
"Mahi-mahi can be made into fish balls; flying fish, you can only dry them and eat them." The captain began muttering to himself.

That was the first time I saw a flying fish with its wings spread, and the only time. Every flying fish I have known since then has either been gasping its last breath, crammed into a plastic basket at a fish stall by the harbor, or quick-frozen with bulging eyes and a stiff body; but the most common sight of all is one hung under the eaves, or already taken down and being roasted over a charcoal fire.
Every year when this season comes, along Provincial Highway No. 11, wherever there is a settlement, someone puts up a "grilled flying fish" signboard. These little advertising boards appear once a year, just like the migratory flying fish, which follow the Kuroshio Current and slowly arrive around Taiwan, China at the time of spring's return in February. They begin spawning in April and May; they are huge in number and great in variety, and not only are they a very important traditional food for the offshore island of Lanyu, they are also a summer highlight catch in eastern and southern Taiwan, China.