“Zzzzzzz”, was all I could hear from Mrs J’s tent. She was blissfully unaware of the significance of this day.
Today was THE day. The first day of the abalone fishing season. Omani men from all over Dhofar had waited for this day for a very long time. The population of the wild abalone had decreased drastically and the government had banned fishing of these valuable sea snails for several years. But, today the season finally started. It was a very short season - only 10 days. Anyone who wanted to fish for them during these ten days had had to obtain a license in advance. They had practiced for weeks holding their breath under water and dive down between the kelp and rocks. Some had already scouted the best places along the coast where wild abalones were clinging to the rocks, ready to be picked. Favorite places were guarded fiercely, but discretely, so as not to alert other hopeful abalone fishers to the location. Everyone was waiting for daybreak so they could get in the water and let the hunt begin.
I sat outside my tent drinking my cold tea, making a mental note that there was only so much one could ask of a thermos. Still, it tasted tea. The ashes from the night’s camp fire were cold and I was too lazy to try and revive whatever embers might be left. Cold tea was ok - especially with a view like the one in front of me.
As an avid and passionate sea shell collector, often driving my family to despair, picking up every single interesting shell on the beach, I couldn’t believe my luck when I spotted the most beautiful mother-of-pearl catching the sunlight not far from where I sat. I got up and walked over to the shining object, drawn to it like the magpie I was, and noticed a handful of similar smaller shells next to it. They were all the same oblong shape, almost like a large ear (also giving them the name ‘ear snail’), and at the very top along the edge was a row of small holes, delicate as an antique piece of lace. The inside was a little girl’s dream of pearly colors, in stark contrast to the outside, which looked somewhat moth eaten. These were abalone shells. Someone had quite obviously started the abalone fishing season a little early.
Over-fishing and poaching had seriously reduced the wild abalone population in Dhofar. It had long been a valuable food source, fresh or sundried, but most were for export to Japan or China, where abalone meat would often be part of special occasion luxury banquets alongside shark fin soup or boiled birds nests. Very little abalone meat was to be found in Oman.
Except, during these ten days.
It was only 10 in the morning, but I was already on my 3rd raw abalone. Mrs J had tried one and after that pretended she was allergic to shellfish, so as not to offend anyone by gagging on the raw sea snail.
No amount of polite refusals would stop the kind Dhofari abalone divers rolling down their car windows, reaching into their bucket on the passenger seat, whipping out a pocket knife to loosen the still shell chocked (no pun intended, honestly) abalone from its shell and offering it to me. They would watch expectantly while I took a bite of this prized sea snail and smiled back at them with tight lips.
“Lovely”, I would squeal.
“Finish it!” The proud fishermen would insist.
I had to. I couldn’t let down their generosity. The firm, salty, still alive jelly I was chewing was worth its weight in gold and a real treat. I knew it.
But between you, me and the gate post, I was never going to crave another one.
Ever.
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