Washing vegetables by the river today was almost eaten by a fish

@ilovezhejiang 今天河边洗菜，差点被一条鱼给吃了_#户外_#真实户外_#野生动物零距离__ ♬ 原聲 – China

Today was supposed to be simple: harvest some fresh greens from the garden, head down to the river, and give them a good rinse under the cool, clear current. Nothing fancy. Just one of those quiet, grounding rituals that make rural living feel like poetry. But as it turns out, even the most mundane tasks can take a dramatic turn—especially when you’re sharing river space with a fish with ambitions.

It started peacefully enough. I waded into the shallows near the bend of the old stone creek bed, basket of kale, carrots, and freshly pulled radishes in hand. The sun hung low in the morning sky, dappling the water with gold, and the air carried the scent of wet earth and wild mint. Perfect. I knelt on a flat rock, dipped the veggies into the slow-moving current, and began swishing them gently—scrubbing off the soil, watching tiny silt clouds drift downstream.

That’s when I saw it.

A shadow—larger than it should have been—gliding just beneath the surface. I thought it was a log. Or maybe a turtle. But then it moved. Fast. With purpose.

Before I could react, something—a fish, yes, but a fish of criminal intent—lunged out of the water like a scaled torpedo and snapped at my hand.

Not the vegetables.

My hand.

I yelped, dropped the basket, and scrambled backward so fast I nearly tipped into the deeper water. The fish—this monstrous, prehistoric-looking creature with jaws that could crack walnuts—splashed back down, clearly disappointed in its failed predation.

I stared. It stared back. Or at least, I assume it did. I don’t know if catfish have expressions, but this one gave off serious I meant to do that energy.

After catching my breath (and rescuing my slightly soggy radishes from floating away), I did what any rational person would do: I Googled “aggressive river fish that eat vegetables—or possibly fingers.”

Turns out, I likely encountered a redtail catfish—a beast commonly found in tropical rivers and, apparently, now in my local creek thanks to some very irresponsible pet owners. These fish can grow over four feet long and are known for their opportunistic feeding behavior. Translation: if it moves, they’ll try to eat it. Including, evidently, the hand holding a particularly shiny carrot.

Was I in actual danger? Probably not. The fish didn’t breach the surface fully, and I wasn’t injured. But the psychological trauma is real. I’ve washed vegetables in this river for years—never once did a zucchini get this kind of attention.

Still, in hindsight, I have to laugh. There’s something absurdly poetic about nature reminding you, quite literally, that you’re not at the top of the food chain—even while doing your groceries.

And honestly? It’s a story I’ll tell for years.

So, a few takeaways from my near-aquatic-assault:

1. Inspect your washing spot. That peaceful ripple might be a predator in disguise.
2. Don’t underestimate fish. Especially ones that look like they starred in a 1980s nature documentary about the apocalypse.
3. Always bring a towel. Not just for the veggies. Sometimes, you need one after a full-body jump-scare from a vegetable thief with teeth.

I’ll still wash my veggies by the river—there’s something too beautiful and primal to give up. But maybe I’ll wear gloves. Or keep a stick nearby. Or just yell, “BACK OFF, GILLMAN!” before I begin.

Because today, I learned: even in the calmest moments, nature is never truly tame.

And that’s exactly what makes it worth living close to.