Part Two

Lesley, a southern UK native, has been in this country for about as long as I have. We are similar in age and she reminds me so much of a my college roommate. Like Kaycee, Lesley lives for the moment. With little more than a vague suggestion at the possibility of mussels she grasped onto the idea that it could be done, and when I mentioned kayaking she knew we would have to give it a try. As we paddled out I thought back on my first time kayaking. Rarely have I kayaked when I don’t remember that eventful day, a day that should have put me off of one of my favorite outings, forever.

When I was younger many weekend days were spent at Morro Bay on the central coast of California. A natural bay, improved upon and intruded upon by humans it is also an estuary. A great sand spit reaches out into it, protecting the bay from the ocean’s waves and the wind. In most places it is so shallow that you can actually see to the bottom, through the murky cool waters of the pacific. We’d rent canoes and head out to the sand spit for a highly challenging game of hide and seek where we would try and track each other through ice plant, crushed sea shells and all other types of terrain commonly found on the dunes.

One such day we switched to a kayak. My father and I, glad to be free of the bulk and cumbersome actions of rowing, hoisted our paddles and laughed as the tide and the wind pulled us towards our most frequent destination. Years spent on these adventures should have wizened us to the realization that the return journey wouldn’t be so easy. As I think back I am certain that my father must have known, an ex-coast guard he had spent hours upon weeks on the sea, but he must of also figured it could be handled. Nothing, could have prepared him for what we were about to face.

In our many times exploring the estuaries and coves of Morro Bay we had, on countless occasions, encountered adverse current, tidal and wind conditions. The difference here was, and I can truly and without guile say, it was our equipment. Kayaks are shallow vessels. Your legs lie low and rest, more than post off a couple of small plastic foot rests. They are at best insufficient in a time of need. What compensates for this is the backrest. Attached with straps each rest can be adjusted to fit the needs and body shape of the user. But when the rest is missing there is nothing to hold you up and your stomach and your legs take a brutal beating.

Never, in all those excursions, has my father had to stop and rest at any point, let alone desperately grasping at a moored boat’s buoy. We were exhausted in our uphill battle to fight the current. Stomach, arms and shoulders screamed. Our calves and quads folded in on themselves in excruciating cramps sending us into reams of agonizing pain. What fools we must have seemed, on our way out gaily waving our paddles above our heads, as if propelled by sails. The ocean had shamed us for our mocking ways.

Years later and thousands of miles away Lesley and I had to pull hard against wind and current as we battled our way out to one of the many islands in the aptly named, Bay of Islands. From the coast it appears to be the largest. A gentle shoreline hugging its front side is the only reprieve from our struggle. Just as quickly as we enter the calm waters we are back out in the chop and fighting our way past rocks, rocks that harbor at their bases a collection of mussels so large that but one will fit in the palm of our hands. Lesley is unsure if this is the spot. Her friend, who told her of the harvest, had mentioned a small beach. And then we see it. Around a rock outcrop a small sandy beach. Tall trees and bushes rise up sharply on the steep slopes above and around it. It is a formidable landing with sharp rocks jutting on all sides.

Lesley is quite at home on and in the sea. She powers ahead of me in the kayaks and as soon as we have beached she grabs her goggles and swims out into the rough waters. I too am at home with the sea but there is something daunting about the way the waves break on, and the current pulls at the rocks. Unsure of my safety I follow her wake.

There are a series of rocks that jut out of the water just north of the island. They are sharp and cut our feet as we try to balance ourselves against them. Lesley and I learn the hard way that trying to swim with our feet results in bloody toes and little movement. She is moving about the area diving under the chop and searching the rock bases for shellfish trimmed in green. We feel we are out of luck when time and time again she surfaces with out sighting a single mussel over a centimeter in length. Then what we think is the jackpot. Lesley starts to dive down frantically. As she surfaces her hand rises out in a triumphant salute. Held tightly in it a mussel, a New Zealand Green Lipped mussel measuring three inches in length. She dives and surfaces and dives and surfaces. After a couple failed attempts her technique is honed and she surfaces each time with a mussel in hand. Once she holds up a mussel so big we break out into laughter. We are amazed at our luck. Just this one is enough to make us more than ecstatic.

It is tiring work and we trade places. She stands guard over our growing sack of mussels and I take to the sea. Still unsure about the strong current I wade into the deeper waters. She points into the foreboding darkness. There, the mussels are there, she says. Then I dive and my fears are but silly childish apprehensions. Beneath the waves and white wash the current gently flows and the sea grass waves to and fro. Near their roots the mussels have taken hold and grown. They cut my hands as I grasp at them. I am indiscriminate as I grab and pull and I come away with two or three or at a time. Our smiles grow broader and our eyes shine with joy and the stings of salt water.

Lesley again points into the water. Over there is where I found the big one, she says. I begin to dive for the new destination. The rust colored sea grasses cast shadows over the mussel beds, but I can still see that they are big. I come up laughing and Lesley joins in. In each grasp are mussels so big they fill my hands. We are ignorant to the cuts and scrapes on our hands and feet. Later that will smart when exposed to hot water and soap but for now there is only the joy of the harvest and the thoughts of our dinner to come.

We know it is time to stop when our greedy eyes see four-inch mussels as small.

(2 of 2)
January 26, 2007