A Dangerous Salty Life

Spawned in the wild, between the ebb and flow of endless waves, I thrive in your Antarctic southern waters. A merciless abyss that bears life and takes it with no remorse. Raging torrents, treacherous waves, tidal drifts-lunge, churn and collide. It’s a foaming sea of madness. Life is a game of Russian roulette amongst the wild beasts whose cavernous mouths take large and small alike. I am nothing against their hungry jaws and the wrath of the sea. Will it be today, tomorrow or will I celebrate many passing seasons and live my mortal coil? Yet, as the thunderous surf tumbles me at will, it feeds me, makes me strong and a new life unfolds.

Armour appears. Porcelain white, graced with the silvery pink of sirens’ tears. No longer seducing sailors with their hypnotic songs, they languish, lost souls in the ocean’s tempest. Caressed by delicate tentacles that explore the underworld, they sweep across my shell to lavish more colour upon me. A swathe of sea-moss green, burnished gold, brass, bronze, and bisque all blended on Neptune’s palette of paints. Shining like a mermaid’s minaudiere, my shell protects the sweet flesh that swells within. Too soon, I’ll be cast from the sea to live an anchored life amongst the lacy waves. My loyal oceanus handmaidens frolic in the tide, fetch precious gifts from afar and nourish me with their affections. A salty delicacy, an easy shoreline harvest, I hide in the sand from probing feet, sharp shovels and rakes, colourful buckets and child-like hands. In search of food or play, it matters not: do not forsake me.

Ancient middens, hidden in the sand dunes and marram grass, tell the tale of kuti feasts. Cooked on hot coals or in mud ovens I’ve proudly nourished the Ngarrindjeri people for thousands of years. They only take what they can eat. Fishermen, seeking bait, to catch a larger prize, quarry and rake the sand. As their helper, an unwilling seducer, I’ll tempt others to feed upon me! Small hands, wide eyes, mischievous smiles, and sun hats playfully trawl the shoreline. Their shrieks of joy lost as they meld with the restless sea. The bare foots, with curled toes, search the sands to feel my armour tickle their soles. Their dance, the cockle shuffle, heralds my demise. With a little twist to the right, a twist to the left and a twist to the right again they sway to the ocean’s rhythm.

If you discover my sanctuary, don’t toss me in a bucket of sea water for I will die a suffocating death. Let me live a worthy life. Toss me in a hot pan with foaming butter and olive oil, garlic, chili, a good pinch of sea salt, a few grinds of pepper and fresh cooked pasta. Or into a searing wok and flavour me up with ginger, garlic, chili, some hoisin and soy, a dash of cooking wine and a sprinkling of fermented black beans. Either way, cook me before the night is lost. Don’t abandon me in that bucket to die a futile death.

There is no time for praise or rejoicing. There is no time for sorrow or mourning. Always on the fringe, I’ll live in the light of the sun, the moon and the stars and the great Southern Ocean’s symphony shall be my lullaby and requiem.