There were lawyers.
Permits.
Fish-health testing.
Business plans.
Insurance.
Water-quality analysis.
Facility designs.
Biosecurity protocols.
We spent nearly three months simply determining what could legally remain in my pond.
Some fish were removed to state-approved quarantine facilities because the density was too high.
Some nonbreeding stock went to other licensed ponds.
The core registered broodstock stayed under a temporary management agreement.
The trust retained its underlying breeding records and genetic rights.
I supplied the site and operational management.
Any commercial production would be shared according to contract.
Nothing about it was a windfall.
That mattered.
I invested money.
A lot.
More than I expected.
The first upgrades cost almost thirty thousand dollars.
Aeration.
A backup generator.
Water-quality monitors.
Secure nursery tanks near the barn.
Containment screens at overflow structures.
A small quarantine system.
Later, dedicated spawning areas.
We did not turn a seven-acre pond into a fish factory.
Tom Reynolds made sure of that.
Tom was a commercial aquaculture consultant Martin recommended.
Fifty-two.
Former hatchery manager.
He had the patience of someone accustomed to explaining that fish are alive and therefore refuse to follow spreadsheets perfectly.
He inspected my property for three hours.
Then sat at the kitchen table.
“This could work.”
“How well?”
“That depends.”
“Everybody says that.”
“Because everybody competent hates promising revenue before fish reproduce.”
I liked him immediately.
He outlined several markets.
Certified juvenile stock for private fishing lakes.
Selected largemouth bass broodstock.
High-quality sport-fish fingerlings.
Limited trout production from the spring-fed cold-water section.
Breeding services.
Later, possibly direct restaurant products from separate production units.
Not from valuable broodstock.
That distinction was obvious once he explained it.
“You don’t eat the inheritance.”
Tom said.
My seventeen-year-old grandson Ethan heard that and laughed for two minutes.
Ethan was Susan’s favorite grandchild.
She denied having favorites.
Everybody knew she lied.
After Susan died, Ethan started spending summers with me.
He loved fishing.
I assumed that meant he liked catching fish.
When the aquaculture work started, I discovered he liked data even more.
He created spreadsheets.
Tag numbers.
Length.
Weight.
Growth rate.
Water temperature.
Dissolved oxygen.
Parentage.
Spawning dates.
Feed conversion for nursery cohorts.
One afternoon I found him sitting near the pond with a laptop.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning the records.”
“They’re fish.”
“They still deserve clean records.”
He showed me a graph.
Growth rates by pedigree.
One Riverstone line consistently outperformed another under the same pond conditions.
I stared.
“You made this?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Math.”
“I dislike that answer.”
Ethan grinned.
Within six months, he knew more about the business than I did in several areas.
Tom noticed.
“He serious?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You should encourage that.”
“I was hoping he’d become a lawyer.”
Daniel, standing nearby, said:
“Do not curse that child.”