Butter fish. Cubs Fans.
Living the UnkNOWn. The Uncomfortable.
Never in my wildest imaginings would I have thought I’d spend part of today cleaning fish. There is no recollection of me putting cleaning fish into my awareness, but figuring out why there are so many New York Yankee hats in New Zealand, this weirdness, this strange pervasively unique bow to US sports, intrigues me.
They were struggling getting their boat out of the water because of the wind. But they managed, clearly not their first time. My observation that the rules of the waterway were contrary to the driving rules in this drive on the left side of the road from the right side of the car territory of New Zealand. They joked about the confusion and mind gymnastics they had to do on the water to remember which side was right and which side was correct. I reflected that they best avoid me on the roadways as I learn my way about.
One of the mates had a New York Yankee hat on.
There are few. Very few US/western sports symbols being worn here, but the one I see over and over again are NYY hats. This seemed a great opportunity to inquire as to the reason for this.
My good nature and the friendliness and humanity of the moment led to me having 2 freshly caught Butter Fish in my hand. And one Abalone. Through more curiosity and inquiry, I discovered that the fish were caught by spear fishing. Another 15 minutes downloading the intricacies of spear fishing so when we’re sailing and jump into the grand ocean in search of a meal, there is some pointers to be at least begin the adventure.
Eventually they offered some shared instructions about cleaning and cooking butter fish, many laughs and observations likely based on their clear acknowledgement of my novice handling of the sea fare. Then they were off, back to their Sunday lives.
All that was left between us and our dinner was the adventure of cleaning and filleting a fish - a completely new experience for me. With tools from a rented 1976 camper van, a refrigerator that doesn’t work, a small amount of clean water that we need for drinking, and more that is questionably clean…and not hot, dish soap that is overly enthusiastic and requesting hot water for any removal, a dull knife, and an bit of squeamishness about the sliminess of fish.
My hesitation and resistance to the task at hand was ended by the squirming of the Albalone - at least the fish were dead. This black mollusk in it’s beautiful shell began squirming.
Fuck. I thought it was dead also. But my discomfort and uncertainty about how exactly to proceed, my working through which bad tools to use and how to limit the contamination of our space (and my hands)coupled with this Southern Hemisphere sun, cause this slimey black creature to express it’s displeasure with the situation.
Our compassionate empathic natures now engaged, we had to decide, were we going to euthanize this creature and figure out how to eat it (I had been given enthusiastic instructions by the Yankee hat). The gift was deeply appreciated and our “Yes to what life offers” attitude asked that we honor this living being, but we just couldn’t find out way towards eating this beautiful being.
But, would just placing it back in the ocean do anything towards saving it? What conditions does it need to survive?
I approached 2 fishermen on the beach, with the intention of passing along the gift and providing them with a meal. The first guy had a priceless look on his face and muttered, “Abalone is, lets say, and acquired taste. And not for me.” I took a step towards his friend, and heard, clear as day, “He doesn’t like it either.” He suggested the Mauri man sitting up with his family as a likely successful gifting space. I proceeded up the beach where this gift was enthusiastically received in the way that made my heart happy.
I was not thrilled for the current and upcoming experience of this living being that I was gifting to someone who clearly was grateful, but I was satisfied with our intention and care.
Mission accomplished, I returned to our van to remember that mission was only partially accomplished. The Butter fish.
My decision was to honor the fish, act quickly, use as few tools as necessary, make the ornery seagulls happy, and have fun. I figured that I’d learn something cleaning the first fish and then learn more cleaning the second.
I chuckled at the moment they handed me the second fish with a “might as well make it a meal”, almost anticipating the upcoming experiential learning moment.
By the time I got the head off - wow, would a sharp knife make this easier - and determined that the seagulls are more patient that I’d anticipated, I was past the “oh my god this is gross…fish blood, guts, and goo” and into the fascination of nature. The design of creatures. And the puzzle of how to make this as elegant and bone free as possible.
Turns out I quite enjoyed the game. I’ll even admit that I want more chances to learn the beautiful artfulness I’ve witnessed in Fish Mongers. I imagine that more opportunities are on, or actually below, the horizon.
My own Sunday adventure in this Southern Hemisphere where the boats and cars play by different rules. Where friendliness and observation lead to exactly what they lead to.
Mostly however, what an interesting way I created to discover that the Yankee hat had been gifted by a nephew. So, it seems, my answer to why so many people have Yankee hats in New Zealand is that there are a lot of generous nephews here, who are apparently don’t like Yankee hats because, of course, they are Cubs fans.
Post Script Realization:
During my editing/adding/cleaning up “Butter Fish. Cubs Fan.” Several moments jumped in to my rememberings. While Sailing on Island Dreams. At the Fish Market in La Cruz, Mexico. While we watched that sailing movie where they sailed into a Category 5 hurricane, I thought about spear fishing. Could I do that? How would that work? If I caught - or bought - a fish, would I know how to clean it? Would I be willing to deal with the fish goop? Poop? How much of a mess would I make? How slimey are fish?
I guess I had planted this fish monger experience in my awareness…
Need to introduce you to Gary the Barber, Sox fan but professional fisherman!