License… Check. Rod… Check. Gear… Check. Ahh, waiting at the 22nd St. Pier in San Pedro California for the boat to set sail, yet strangely enough, heading out to catch some fresh seafood off the southern California coast, the waft of fried bacon lures me into the galley to order up a breakfast burrito. As the boat putts out of the harbor, grease dripping out of the burritos paper wrapping onto the well worn nautical chart table, I believe we are heading for some lipid based destination. But a simple wipe of the hand makes me realize that I really have no idea where the hell we are heading. Bryan, the unassuming, yet forward deck-hand, claims that our rigs are totally set up wrong and that we need X, Y and Z to score the big fish. I pass on his recomendations as I am taking my queues from the salty old guy who is missing a finger and sporting the well worn hat of a fella who has been sinking hooks for 50…60… maybe 70 years.
The boats engine slows and the cattle-like rush to the rail is a good sign that we are here. I casually watch the regulars select their slices of squid and bait their hooks, pretending to be checking my knots. Being a fly fisherman, knots are the only thing I seem to be comfortable with today. The quarry is deep and only familiar to me through my dive mask or 6 inches of acrylic at he aquarium where I work. So I bait up and cast into the dark blue ocean below, not knowing what to expext. BANG, I am onto something. As I crank it up, unsure of what may be at the end, I yank a beautiful sanddab from the sea and onto the deck. Within seconds, the attentive deck-hand is by my side. The hook, deep inside the fishes throat is giving me pause. “you gonna keep it?”… “can I?”… “yes”… “sure”, and the hook is ripped from its body and the fish is slung into sack #11. The deck-hand is quickly off to the next guy . I am left standing there, a little overwhelmed by the efficiency of the whole thing. All I wanted to do was reach into the bag and give the fish a look. Maybe pay homage to the life I just made my own. But no, I am strait back to the rail with the primeval juices flowing. An hour later I am four fatty sanddabs and two keeper scorpionfish the better, with a solid 10 fish returned to the sea as they did not meet California DF&G size requirements. This is something that not everyone on the boat seemed to give much thought… or action.
Cigaret butts over the side, an empty can of soda cast into the waves. “What the fuck is he doing?” I asked Brenton, my buddy to my right. We figured that even though we were defenders of the ocean, now is not the time to piss off the 300+lb black man with gold chains that weigh more than me, who just committed the environmental infraction. After all, we are on a boat in the middle of an ocean that would of suited Jimmy Hoffa for his late night “drops”. But the reason we were here was to try our luck at getting a piece of some of the last wild food our planet has to offer. I was struck by the diversity of the fisherpeople, not in terms of skin color, but of the types of people on deck. Crusty old timers, an asian couple, young women, well dressed homeboys, guys inked all over… and us. All trying to get a bit of wild earth in our bellies that night. Cool… except for the can and the butts.
As I raced back up the Harbor Freeway with a bag of fresh fish, I strained my brain for things I could do with my catch. What was on hand at home? It was a long day and I was in no mood to stroll the aisles of some store for the one or two things that may of been needed for a recipe i concocted. So home I went. Feet up and chilling. Then dinner time hit, and I had to do something with the fish. After all I did just extract a slice of life from the very ocean I devote my life to, and I should eat some that night. So I prepped the sanddabs and cranked out a beurre blanc. Yay for butter!!
Whooooooo, That was good. The fish was alive just hours ago. I was the one that made its life abruptly end, and as I slipped the flesh from the fine bones and ate, I realized something wonderful. As mush as I preach sustainable seafood, people were on that boat, not for fun, but for sustenance. There was fresh fish on a number of tables tonight, mine one of them. As we take things from our planet we must always realize where it comes from. That is what makes us appreciate it and give it respect. Tonight, the sanddab that tugged at the end of my line, was now giving my wife and I a beautiful dinner. So for that… THANKYOU!
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