Back at the house the buckets were left on the beach for some unlucky soul to cart
upstairs and I would grab a hold of my cast net. Shrimp could be caught all day.
Throwing off the pier is where I usually cast, but on a jubilee I seemed to pull in more if I
threw in waist high water, so that's what I did. I could see the delicate, telltale flicks on
top of the water that indicated shrimp were in the vicinity. I felt the satisfying weight of
the cast net in my hands, not too heavy, not too light. I cast my net and the shrimp started
jumping wildly. I loved pulling in the net and seeing what I had caught each time. I had
to be careful taking the shrimp out. Shrimp are crustaceans, and though small they have
body armor, a short spear coming from their forehead and a spine at the end of their tail.
They use these defenses by spearing any predator that comes too close or, more often,
flicking their tail spastically. I always picked the shrimp up by their heads and squeezed
to avoid this. I always imagined that I was squashing their oxygen supply to the brain so
they couldn't think straight. Picked up right or not, I always ended up getting stuck by at
least one shrimp. I would haul in my seven-foot cast net until my arms ached, and then it
was time to go seining with my sister.
Our seine net is twenty feet long and there's always a mummified aquatic corpse and
dried seaweed stuck in the mesh. The battered buoys floated on top of the water and the
lead weights dragged on the sand as my sister and I pulled the net towards the shore. I
tried not to concentrate on the feel of the gooey mud oozing through my toes as I pivoted,
turning the net slowly and at the same time keeping my end down so the bottom wouldn't
be lifted. We pulled the net to the beach, never knowing what we were going to find.
What I liked catching best were the puffer fish. The puffer fish takes in water and distends
himself to about 3 times normal size to scare away predators. When it's picked up the
puffer fish, aka the blowfish, will spit all the water out and deflate like a tiny balloon.
Watching this spectacle was a thrill every time.
At the end of the hard day's work on the beach I helped clean and cook the catch.
This lasted until supper time. Everyone took turns swapping jubilee stories as we worked.
Fish scales flew and crab juice squirted everywhere. The boiling pots overflowed
numerous times, sending my grandmother scurrying around the kitchen. Finally, it was
time to eat! I can almost taste the fresh fried flounder, cooked in cornmeal and then
doused in lemon juice; the creamy white grits, not too grainy or runny, that were
drenched in butter; fried soft shell crabs that were eaten shell and all, stuffed crabs, baked
crabs, crab cakes, and crab claws that were boiled to a lustrous red-orange; hundreds of
shrimp, boiled, broiled, fried, some used for alfredo, others for gumbo. Then there's the
gumbo itself, filled with shrimp, crab, okra, tomatoes, bay leaves and plenty of seasoning
and spices. It's a taste of heaven on earth!
After thoroughly enjoying my feast, I would amble down to the beach just as the sun
was setting. The sun's rays reflected off the water, turning the bay different shades of
red, orange, yellow, and silver. The early morning low tide had risen to engulf another
four feet of beach. Walking along the water's edge, I could see that most traces of the
jubilee were gone. The only evidence of the aquatic event was the discarded shells of
crabs and shrimp, swirling at the tide line. As the first stars began to appear, tranquility
reigned again after the excitement of the day.
I headed back to the house to stretch out on
one of my grandmother's many couches. With a bone-weary exhaustion settling on my
body and a surfeit of seafood resting in my stomach, I settled into the soft cushions,
snapshots from the day still running through my head. I was completely worn out and
smelled like a fish yet there was a complete inner contentment in my soul. God had
smiled on me and all was right with the world.
