rejoice and regret; the fish that would be dinner

Does a picture say a thousand words?

Does it tell you that I snuck out of the cottage after Kate fell asleep to go to the pier, in a balmy, sharp, chilly, harsh, warming-to-the-fishermans-soul wind, hoping that the rough weather would incite the mighty snook, a hard to catch, smart fish that I didn't catch for years until I paid some attention attention to the people that were, and then most of the ones I caught were out of season or a quarter inch too short to keep, or so big I never could turn their head and they broke me off, and that I walked out to the pier carrying only one fishing rod with one lure tied on, no live bait, no tackle bag, only the ruler and pliers in my pocket, and that three people were there that had been fishing hard for hours and not caught anything at all and that I threw only five casts and on the fifth I caught the biggest snook I have ever caught in my life, and that I fought it with my screaming arms and aching back while it tried to pull me into the pilings to cut me off on the sharp barnacles but I actually somehow managed to keep control and how the only guy on the pier with a landing net was so disgusted that I caught the fish after only a minute that he wouldn't help me and another guy ran over to help with the net, and that I brought it to the truck with my heart pounding and adrenalin pumping, giggling like a schoolgirl and grinning from ear to ear, and I was the same way when I woke Kate to take a picture and she was so groggy I had to wake her twice and in her sleepy stupor she exclaimed how big and fine my fish was then promptly, immediately fell back asleep within a millesecond, and how I laid the fish in the big sink basin and it didn't fit, and while I was looking at it, not for the first time, but a rare thing, I felt sorry for it, because it was so big it transcended being a fish and crossed that line to being an animal, and I had a temporary angst that passed and I felt like I should have some ritual to thank the gods for it but instead I underwent the difficult task of cleaning it, understanding why so many people who eat meat somehow dissassociate themselves from the fact that whatever they are eating was once frolicking somewhere, and okay, frolicking might be a strong emotional word, but you know what I'm saying, and could the picture, despite my last words, describe how buttery and firm and rich and delicious it was when we had it prepared at a restaurant the next night, covered with 3 different sauces that had us moaning with delight?
Did you get the picture?