Abalone Bed

The channel islands off the coast of California were my home on weekends sailing with my dad on glassy seas, on froth and foam. On Fridays after work he’d head to Catalina on the wind. Sometimes, the trips were fast and rough; sometimes, you thought they’d never end. I’d go below when it got dark; he’d often sail late in the night, drop anchor in a quiet cove, and hear the gulls at dawn’s first light. My father would go snorkeling and abalone were the game: delectable when cooked just right, breaded, sauted on a flame. The prize, not easy, on the rocks some twenty feet below or more. A suit and weights to take him down to pry them off the ocean floor. I stayed up top and manned the oars and kept the dinghy close at hand, collect the catch and be right there when things did not go quite as planned. Though this was fifty years ago, I picture it as clear as day. My father found a hunting spot. The waters, calm; the skies were gray. He’d found an abalone bed with numbers plenty to be found, and so he’d bring them to the boat, inhale, and take the next trip down. But then, he came up rather quick and backed up slowly with his fins. His snorkel made the strangest moans, and then he dived back down again. Again, he came up fast and tossed the catch into the boat and said a large black manta ray down there was quite protective of the beds. ’Twas near ten feet across in size, and though they shouldn’t cause one harm, when they are coming after you, it sets off all the fire alarms. On one last trip, he headed down, and next I know, he’s like an otter. The ray had come straight up at him; he might as well have walked on water! He managed to get in the boat in one smooth motion, in a blink. Normally, it was a struggle, requiring help and lots of strength. He laughed and said we’re done today; whatever’s here, we’ll call it good. No arguments from me, for sure; I’d never been, and never would!