can anyone help me plzz! techniques and analysis

Back in the days when I was handsome and the river was just river
not all these buoys everywhere that trip your net so that you’ve got to cut the headrope and the mesh goes fshoo like a zip
Terrifying.
And there was so many salmon you could sit up to your knees in dead fish keeping your legs warm. I used to hear the tramp tramp tramp under my window of men going down to the boats at three in the morning. Low water, dead calm.
You don’t know what goes on down there. You go to bed, you switch out the light. There’s three of us in the pub with our hands shaking: have a beer mate, you’re going out… we daren’t say anything, they can guess what we’re onto because adrenalin’s up and we’re jumping about like sea trout eeeeeeeee I haven’t calmed down since a week ago, I was standing under a sheer wall with a bailiff above me flashing his torch over the river. I put my hand up and touched his boot and it’s making my hair fall out remembering it. Drink up now. Last orders. Low water. Dead calm. When the sun goes down the wind drops. It’s so quiet you could fall asleep at the paddles. That’s when you can hear them jumping- slap slap- you’ve got to be onto it. I had a dog once who could sense a salmon. That’s your legal fisherman, he’s watching and listening, he’s got a seine net and he hauls out from the shore and back in a curve, like this. But more than likely he’s got a legal right hand and a rogue left hand and when he’s out left-handed, he just rows a mesh net straight across the river-a bloody wall. In twenty minutes he’s covered the cost of the net, in an hour he’s got a celebration coming. That’s where the crack is, that’s when fishing pays. Or if it’s dawn or nightfall, the river’s the weird the sky, you can see a voler as much as two miles away. That’s the unique clean line a salmon makes in water and you make a speckle for which way he’s heading. Your ears are twitching for the bailiff, the car engine, the rustle in the bushes. Bam! Lights come on, you ditch the net- stop running x, we know who you are. There’s a scuffle. The skill’s to time it right, to row out fast and shoot your net fast over the stern, a risky operation when you’re leaning out and the boat wobbles- I saw a man fallover the edge once: oo oo oooo… our boat went under between the wharf and steamer quay. We’d got weights on board, more than you’re meant to and we were all three of us in the water. One drowned. It’s a long story, you’ve got to judge the tide of You’ve got to judge the tide precisely, you draw a semicircle back to land. One man’s up there pulling the net in, knuckles to ground, so the catch doesn’t spill out under, which is hard work till it gets to the little eddy offshore and then the river gathers it in for you. You can see them in the bunt of the net torpedoing round. Sometimes a salmon’ll smack your arm a significant knock, so you pull it up right up to the mud. Some people would perceive it dangerous, but we know what we’re doing, even when it’s mud up to our thighs, we know the places where the dredger’s taken the sand away foul black stuff if you got out there you might well disappear and people do die in this river three men on an oystering expedition, the tide flowing in, the wind coming down, on a wind bit of the river. They filled the boat too full, they all drowned. Where are you going? Flat owers. Who’s owers? Ours? A paddock of sand mid-river, two hours either side of low water. Can I come over? All kinds of weather when the wind spins you round in your fish-tin boat with it’s four-stroke engine. Who lives here? Who dies here? Only oysters and often the quartertone quavers of an oyster-catcher. Keep awake, keep listening. The tide comes in fast and after a while it looks like you’re standing on the water still turning and shaking your oyster bags. Already the sea taste wets and sways the world what now? Now back to the river. Feel this rain the only light’s the lichen tinseling the trees. And when it’s gone, flat owers is ours. We mouth our joy. Oysters, out of sight of sound. A million rippled life-masks of the river. I thought it was a corpse once when I had a seal in the net- huge- a sea lion. They go right up to the weir. They hang around by the catch waiting for a chance. That’s nothing- I almost caught a boat once. On an s-bend. Not a sound. Pitch dark, waiting for the net to fill, then boom boom boom – a pleasure boat with full disco comes flashing round the corner. What you call a panic bullet ten seconds to get the net in, two poachers pulling like mad in slow motion strobe lights and one man, ****ed, leans over the side and says helloo? But if you’re lucky, at the last knockings it’s a salmon with his great hard bony nose- you hit him with a napper and he goes on twitching in the boat asking for more, more to come, more salmon to come. But there aren’t many more these days. They get caught off Greenland in the monofilaments. That’s why we’re cut-throats on weekdays. We have been known to get a bit fisitcuffs- boat have been sunk, nets set fire. Once I waited half an hour and hey what’s happening, some tosser’s poaching the stretch below me, so I leg it downriver and make a bailiff noise in the bushes and if you find a poacher’s net, you just get out your pocket knife and shred it like you were ripping his guts whose side are you on? I’ve grown up on this river, I look after this river, what’s your business?