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| I love the challenge Moose |
‘Relax’, I tell myself as I force out the last bit of air at
the very bottom of my lungs. I take my last gulp of precious gas, then using a slender
strand of kelp I pull myself downwards, ever downwards... ‘Slow and precise
movements’, I assure myself. I have spotted two very long red feelers, their
tips waving with the surges. It’s a monster, maybe my biggest ever. The bag
limit is four, I just need one more. I choose my moment and go for it, but I
miss. Now I won’t get air as soon as I hoped. By feel alone I chase the lively
brute a full arm’s length to the back of its cave. It’s trapped. I have the base
of a feeler pinched between my fingers and thumb. I’m afraid a swell might wash
me from my delicate purchase. I don’t have enough grip to allow me to tug, so I
have to jiggle it out, which takes time. I want air so badly that it hurts. I
think of abandoning… but then a good jiggle allows me to go for a better hold,
I’m quick to establish firmer clasp and things become easier, but there is
still work to do. I feel lightheaded and my whole body shudders with each
heartbeat as I thrash towards the surface, ignoring any notion of slow precise
movements. It’s big, too big for my goodie-bag. I turn on my back, which allows
me both hands to secure the gyrating giant, while I slowly fin my way though
the turbulent waters towards the shore, knowing that we will feast like kings…
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| Lacerated fingers normally accompanies one of these. Never nice when it's lemon squeezing time. UHG |
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| 'Just the one then', thought Stef; a frown furrowed into his brow. UHG |
So my mother was right after all. It seems I do suffer from
delusions of grandeur.
What really happened was that after an hour of coughing and
spluttering in the cold water I managed to emerge with a single crayfish. I
sneaked discreetly around the back of a large boulder to avoid the divers on
the other-side, who were of manly cheer and rightly so, because their bags were
hanging. I still had to face my expectant friend Stef and I know he really likes
to cook a crayfish.
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| They are fantastic creatures, 'All hail the Jasus Lalandii'. UHG |
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| Keep the shells for a bisque or stock UHG |
About 6 years ago the West Coast Rock Lobster (crayfish)
season extended from November until after the Easter weekend, making a total of
more than 150 fishing days. This season, we had a measly 21 days. Surely the
radical depletion of stocks is not due to excessive hauls by weekend fisherman,
but by the commercial companies. All you have to do is go down to your local
fish outlet and see what see what the commercial size limit is: not much bigger
than a shrimp, I tell you. This indicates that commercial quotas have probably
been increased at the expense of small-scale fishing. But the ones who feel it
the most are the artisanal fishermen who have relied on so-called ‘sustainable
quotas’ to feed their family through generations. They are now forced to poach
so their communities can eat, while the corporates rape our shores and line their
pockets. This is not right.
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| Pop- in-your-mouth-in-one-go-crayfish-cocktail with foraged fennel UHG |
On the warm and lazy drive home Stef and I decided it would
be rather fun to see how far one West Coast Rock Lobster could stretch. Lo and
behold it made four good portions of bisque and four generous starters of
crayfish cocktail. We dined like dignified princes as apposed to feasting like
kings, but we were well pleased with that.
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| Stef's scrumptious crayfish bisque. 'More please?' UHG |
A big thanks to my mischievous friend Stef for all the
laughs on a fine day out.
Only about 20 minutes ago I hoovered up the last of his delicious bisque. I am smiling right now :D
