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Gold and white carp in the slate-rimmed pool of my Dad's formal garden - how lazily they fanned their frills, not like New York taxis, darting fin-shaped mini-billboards through the huddled night, or black leather sail betraying shark offshore, or

shift of ailerons on a 747, or those campy chrome wings on a '50s Buick. Whatever the surf, fins fend.

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