Raymond Gilyard mans the buckets of fish at the Fulton Fish Market

Dawn is imminent, and the air is brisk and saturated with the unsavory smell of fish at the start of an autumn day at the Fulton Fish Market. The longstanding, trademark stench of this outdoor venue will soon fade away when the 170-year-old market moves to the Bronx's Hunts Point in 2005.

An early Wednesday in October is typically a slow day for the wholesale vendors -- unlike the rush of Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Even so, the morning air is filled with the sound of whizzing mini-forklifts, known as hi-lows. The beep, beep, beep they make as they reverse reverberates in the dimly lit cobblestone streets, where all other vehicles are restricted during fish-market hours. The rugged guys working at the Fulton Fish Market -- and it is a male dominated scene -- are bundled in hooded sweatshirts and polar-fleece headgear.

Johnny, a 32-year fish-market veteran, drives by in a hi-low, thankful that the vehicle relieves him of the tough job of lifting heavy boxes of edible aquatic creatures. "It does the work of two people and can lift up to 3,000 pounds," he says, shouting over the sounds of another hi-low passing nearby. Its driver doesn't hesitate to make a comical remark to Johnny  as he passes by. The playful, good-hearted comments between the guys here are tossed around the market with a frequency that almost matches that of the fish being chucked into weighing scales and Styrofoam tubs.

Johnny, who chooses not to reveal his true surname, says that he would rather be referred to as Johnny Valentine. "Valentine" wears a blue-and-white dish towel around his neck, trapping the sweat and providing better insulation against the chilly weather. He admits to not being particularly happy about his forced, imminent departure from the East River grounds, but, he concedes, "You gotta go where the job takes you."

Hi-lows drive through the fish market at dawn

Across the market, along the northern side of South Street, Raymond Gilyard is pushing an upright handcart stacked with a few boxes of salmon. He's headed for a van belonging to one of the many food retailers and restaurateurs who handpick their fish as opposed to having it delivered without pre-screening. Gilyard, 64, is one of the few workers relegated to the backbreaking toil of wheeling the fish in the pushcart and heaving it into vans -- all because he doesn't have his driver's license, which would allow him to operate a hi-low. "Maybe I'll get it next year, when I retire," he says.

Despite the physically challenging work, Gilyard's positive spirit keeps him buoyant. "Even though my back is no good, this is still good exercise for me. It keeps me young," he says as he makes his way down South Street toward one of the areas where vans and trucks are allowed to park.

Gilyard, who grew up in South Carolina, is searching for the van with the label to match the one on the box he carries. There is a market-wide system of identification: boxes of fish selected by each retailer get marked with a number, letter, or combination of the two, corresponding to a similar symbol on each buyer's vehicle.

"Hey Skip, you seen 'FW'?" Gilyard calls out, looking for the right van. Skip shakes his head. On realizing that he's passed the van he needs, Gilyard, who wears a bright yellow rubber apron to protect him from splattered fish gunk, is not discouraged.

"I love to eat fish -- steamed or fried," he says with a southern twang. "And my sign is fish. I'm a Pisces." Even as he returns down the path he has traveled many, many times this morning, there's a bounce in his stride. Finally, he spots a blue van with its back door slightly ajar, an "FW" sticker on its window.

Gilyard has worked for M. Slavin & Sons, Ltd. for 21 years. The large fish wholesale company, which also runs a major processing plant, grew out of a family-owned fish store in Brooklyn nearly 100 years ago. The Slavin family owns the three red brick buildings which house their New York City wholesale operation, buildings designated as city landmarks. The fish stations on the southern side of South Street, in contrast, are city-owned properties, leased by the individual wholesalers who inhabit them. At the new Hunts Point fish market location, wholesalers will only be given the option of renting their space from the city.

Many retailers are loyal to certain wholesalers, but that doesn't mean that they aren't also interested in shopping around for the best deal and, of course, the best looking fish. As a result, constant sales pitches add to the market's din. "Hey, Shmuli," calls out Glenn Kagger to a man walking by. "When you get done, I gotta show you something," he says. "We got some good snapper."

Sal DiMaggio weighs fluke

Shmuli, who doesn't seem to be interested in Kagger's pitch, walks past him toward a vendor across the street. Kagger gives his shtick another shot, this time addressing a potential buyer perusing the freshwater fish at the neighboring vendor. "A few 40-pound lobsters for two bucks," Kagger says, trying to lure the customer. "You can't beat that," he adds. Again, he is ignored, but he seems impervious to the uninterested customers and undeterred in his fervent salesmanship.

It is ten past seven o'clock, and after six hours of darkness, these guys are beginning to see the light, natural light that is. The view of the Brooklyn Bridge high above the East River, illuminated by the sun's brilliant rays, is spectacular. The fish market workday is almost over -- probably another hour, hour and a half. Then, the workers will store the unsold fish in freezers, close up shop, and deal with one of the biggest challenges of the day: getting rid of the fish stench that lingers even after they have changed their clothes.

"Sometimes when I go home, my wife tells me, 'Sal, get outta here! You smell.' Or when I go on the subway, everyone runs away from me," says Sal DiMaggio, giggling as he confesses to his stink crime. DiMaggio's connection to the fish market goes back to the 1800s, when his grandfather worked there, followed by his father. But he says if he'd had a son instead of two daughters, he wouldn't want him to work in this business. "It's too hard," he says, lifting a container of ice and pouring it over a bunch of fluke.

Though a move of any kind can be painful, the vibrant energy of the historic Fulton Street Fish Market will carry these guys safely to the shores of Hunts Point, where they are expected to see a better operating system for their businesses, equipped with bigger parking facilities, easier access for trucks to unload, the option to extend business hours, and more job opportunities.