Lobster Bait—It’s what’s for Dinner.

---11.25.1999---

Phillip and I went over to St. Mary’s today, he to run errands and me to try and transfer some money into my new English bank account. The teller said I wouldn’t be able to do that. So I called Wells Fargo and, luckily, they said they’d be able to help. All I needed to do was drop into the nearest branch... Ah... Yes, of course. No problem…‌‌

My international banking challenges are petty though. In the harbor the aftermath of real trial was on view. As The Spirit, St. Agnes’ local passenger ferry, rounded the quay at St. Mary’s, we could see a boat resting on its side almost completely out of the water. It was the Rachel Harvey, the fishing boat that went down near the other side of the island a few weeks ago. She was a sizable vessel, maybe 80 feet long, with squatty proportions and a rounded belly. She had been raised with the intent of salvaging her and now here she lay, healed over in very low water, exposing her injured starboard side. They were ugly wounds, two huge, blackened gashes six-feet long, torn through her thick, wooden skin. I stared at her exposed innards, broken ribs, and frayed decks, as if she had once been alive. Water poured from her drain holes and her deck vents spun. She looked very stricken indeed and drew a small crowd of men from the town all morning.

After doing some shopping, I walked up to the lifeboat station at the other side of the harbor. It’s a purposeful looking, old, granite hunk of a building equipped with emergency-red doors and a starter’s shed atop a long, stone boat ramp (similar to the old lifeboat shed on St. Agnes). It remains open to visitors all year as a kind of mini-museum, though it’s unstaffed. ‌‌

I went inside. It’s very quiet, except for the creaking floors and I had the sense, though the place was very unobtrusive, of the utmost importance and respect it commanded. Behind a gate I could see the tender used to ferry the crew out to the lifeboat in the harbor. There was a prepared expectancy to it, a high potential energy if you like, the whole room on the same angle as the ramp, the tender out of water, lashed to the wall, ready to plummet down the ramp with the yank of a line. I stood there like a kid seeing a firetruck for the first time. There were photos of all the old lifeboats that had been in service, photos of the coxswains that had manned them, a model of the most recent class of boats to be employed, and various other knick-knacks. A plaque commemorated the day the boat shed was visited by the Queen Mother. On the walls, on black tablets, in white strokes was hand-lettered every call the lifeboats had answered since the station opened in 1830.

“1878 Assisted the freight packet Thames. Rescued 5.”

“1972 assisted the M/V Blackthorn, USA, brought sick man ashore,” and so on. Near the door, a dry erase board recorded the most recent event. ‌‌

1–2/10/99 22:00–00:30‌‌

Fishing Boat: Rachel Harvey

Downed off Peninnis Head, 5 rescued‌‌

The ship was crewed by six, however. One crewman lost his life but the board makes no mention. I heard he was a young kid from Cornwall, out on his second trip.‌‌

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Now I’m home again. As I mentioned, big tides the last couple of days. If you’re not familiar with the ways of the sea, allow me to share with you what I’ve learned. There are spring tides and neap tides. “Spring tide” doesn’t refer to tides happening in spring. Rather it refers to tides that occur when the sun, moon, and earth are aligned (as they are during full and new moons). The combined gravities of this alignment produce a much higher tidal fluctuation. Neap tides occur when the moon is half full. This produces a much smaller tidal fluctuation. Two spring and two neap tides occur every month. ‌‌

During spring low tides large tracts of coastlines are exposed and shallow coves empty. Six hours later, during spring high tides, the water swallows everything up again, chewing on unreinforced coastline and claiming everything in its path. I’ve found excitement in this quiet drama unfolding twice a day, and reaching a climax every two weeks. It’s nice to go out and observe it, to be with it. To see it gives me a sense of boundary, a sense of the limits of sea and land, and a sense of place.

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I’m outside now, in the dark, at Periglis Cove, near the boat shed. The water is impossibly high, further up the ramp than I’ve ever seen it. It’s consumed everything: the rocks that were always there, the beach. It’s found its way right up to the sea wall, challenging it. I walk further down. It consumes the ramp with ease, rolling over it, and swallowing it whole. There’s water on both sides now where normally all is dry. I walk a little further down. It’s a black night tonight. All I can see is what’s in my beam. The sea roils, churns and breaks, looking angry in the light. The water flashes white, tearing in circles, all teeth and fangs. And then, out of nowhere, it surprises me, pouncing and crashing with a roar dead ahead of me, lunging towards me up the ramp. ‌‌

Shit. I back quickly up the concrete slope, keeping my light on the swirling sea—like that’s going to help—hoping not to trip on the massive, iron turnbuckles I saw embedded in the ramp on the way down. ‌‌

It’s the same thing down at the quay on the other side of the island. The sea is higher than I’ve ever seen it—just swollen. The seawall that forms the quayside normally acts as a wave break but it’s completely under water. The 10-foot tall marker perched atop the end of the quay is up to its neck. I can pick it out in the water with the flashlight and it reflects back at me like a submerged street sign. Piercing the beam into the water reveals a sea deep and clear, eyes gleaming. Then I hear a loud crack from over my left shoulder as a massive swell impacts the rocks. A moment later I’m surprised again as water floods down from the top of the quay and surges past me from behind. My senses take hold and I leave before being forced to swim, or worse. ‌‌

I’m over at the bar now. It’s completely immersed as water flows over it vigorously from both directions. Every receding wave revealing the top of its smooth crown. I walk along the crest, around a few scattered boulders, stand on a smooth, young slope of sand, and turn off my light, as the island reveals itself only in the dark. It’s nice to stand and blink, guessing at the flickering, fuzzy blackness and allowing it to play tricks. Wow... the surf plunges across a large swath of the bar and sweeps in, wrapping itself around my ankles. I force myself to breathe, steadily... as I relax and trust myself with the sea. Again it sweeps in, rising up to my calves, holding me in place, sucking the sand from around my boots in a steady rush, depositing flashing bits of phosphorescence as it draws away. ‌‌

Picking my way back up the hill, the sea disappears, though I can still hear its rumble. Heaven is dark and thick tonight, like wet wool, and the lighthouses, as always, are on watch. There are no flashes on the horizon this evening, however. Tonight the beams move slowly, illuminating immense volumes as they pull through the heavy air.  The cove by the quay, on the other hand, is lit by a single light from a window above of the pub, casting a warm glow in the balmy evening. I see the light source disappear behind the trees as I walk and the scene looks like a fairy tale I might have imagined childhood. It lights the landscape tenderly, soft on the steep old quay, soft on the picnic tables and grass, soft on the drowned rocks and water.‌‌

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Earlier, on the boat back from St. Mary’s, Phillip said, “I picked up a fish for dinner, the ugliest one they had.” Phillip has been coming up with some pretty good meals lately, but I had my doubts about his latest dinner-selecting strategy. ‌‌

As I got back from my walk this evening he was pulling the fish out of its plastic bag. It was truly grotesque, a Paleolithic-looking little monster: huge forehead, eyes set close together in an exoskeletal skull, and brow pinched up and together as if frozen in a state of surprise. It had less of a mouth and more of a wide, protruding, duck-billed snout. Feelers stuck out from either side of its flat, white belly. Looking at it, I couldn’t help but think “bottom feeder.” ‌‌

What’s more, Phillip reported that, on the tractor ride back from the quay, he’d asked Hans if he had ever cooked one of these things—gurnards they’re called. His response had been “No—we always use them for lobster bait.” ‌‌

I should have been dubious when Hans, whose local knowledge is as local as it comes, called our dinner lobster bait. I wasn’t super enthusiastic about a dinner of bait and two veg but adopted a wait-and-see attitude. I went off to write and left Phillip at the sink as he prepared to disembowel the thing, working gingerly to avoid the long row of spikes in its dorsal fin. A few minutes later I heard, “Uhhhgghhh...” ‌‌

“What?” I yelled. ‌‌

“No—you don’t want to see this...” Of course, I ran in immediately into the kitchen, just as Phillip pulled a skinny little worm out of our would-be dinner’s side. That’s when I opted out. Phillip persisted though. “Come on… It’s just one little worm.” ‌‌

Four worms later, all of them still wriggling on the counter, and he too threw in the towel. Well, that’s all for now. I’ve got to go check on the potatoes, our backup dinner.‌‌