The smallest of the common tuna species. But what it lacks in size, it makes up for in attitude. A compact muscular torpedo. Dark purple-blue on the back. Silvery on the belly. Three to six distinctive dark horizontal stripes run along the lower sides. These stripes are the easiest way to tell a skipjack from its bigger cousins. The marking is diagnostic. The shape is efficient. The design is for speed. Speedsters of the surface school. Skipjack travel in huge fast-moving schools. They often cover kilometres of ocean in a single day. They feed on small fish, crustaceans and squid. They are not picky. When they find food, they erupt on the surface. A boiling splashing frenzy ensues. It can be seen from miles away. The disturbance signals the feast. The birds arrive. The boats follow. The chaos is productive. This is the tuna that most Kiwis have eaten without knowing it. The dark strong-flavoured tuna in the can. The one that goes into sandwiches and pasta bakes and cheap sushi rolls. It is ubiquitous. It is affordable. It is familiar. But fresh skipjack, bled and chilled immediately, is a revelation. Firm, bloody and absolutely delicious. The canned version hides the quality. The fresh cut reveals it. The contrast is stark. The potential is real. Most never see it. They only know the tin. To catch a skipjack is to catch the engine of the ocean. The small striped relentless tuna keeps the whole pelagic food web turning. It is the fish of the supermarket can. The one you eat without thinking about where it came from. How fast it swam. How far it travelled to get to your plate. The distance is vast. The effort is immense. The price is low. The value is disconnected. The consumer sees the product. Not the process. The fish pays the cost. In energy. In movement. In life. The school moves as one. The individuals are indistinguishable. The survival strategy is numbers. Predators take some. The rest survive. The cycle continues. The biomass is huge. The turnover is rapid. The species thrives on motion. Stasis is death. The current carries them. The instinct drives them. The hunger focuses them. They are always hunting. Always moving. Always present. In the warm water. In the blue. On the edge of the current. They define the zone. They occupy the niche. They fill the role. And they carry on.