Death by Misadventure

by Nika C. (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown New Zealand

‘Just get a rock or something, and give it a good, solid bash!’ he advised cheerfully. I weighed it in my hand, wondering what the consequences would be for under- or over-bludgeoning it. I flicked a glance over his shoulder, taking in the cliffs that loomed over the beach, and the wide lagoon beside it. ‘It must be lovely in summer,’ I had thought when I’d arrived. But this was early winter, and the cliffs, lagoon, and sea were as grey as milky tea gone cold. It was my third straight day of steady rain, and it was starting to feel personal. The road down to this isolated beach on New Zealand’s South Island had been long, muddy, and sparsely populated, and there were no other campers in sight. Four men, paua divers, were changing out of their wetsuits by the toilets, impervious to the drizzle. They watched with amusement as my van and I minced and fishtailed around on the boggy grass. I eventually parked on the concrete for safety. ‘No 4-wheel? Aw, right! You drive it real good then, eh!’ They showed me their catch of paua, or abalone - several crates full of dull-shelled sea snails hiding dazzling, unearthly interiors. ‘You want one?’ I grew up by the sea, in a place where abalone was food for the well-heeled - not for the likes of us. My mother and I considered ourselves fancy if we bought shrimp. ‘Uh.... sure! ... How do I cook it?’ It was then that the jolliest of the divers taught me to assertively whack it. As he did so, he selected a paua, shucked it open, and cleanly separated the meat from the shell, handing the whole thing over to me. ‘Just fry up a little olive oil, a little garlic, slice up the abalone and chuck it in. That’s it!’ I don’t like to vindicate men if they think women are less smart-brave-capable, so I returned their jovial energy, tossed a casual ‘No worries!’ into the air, and waved as they drove off. But in the back of my mind I realised that I didn’t know exactly how or why improperly cooking shellfish can kill you. I walked back to my van, with my potential murderer in my hand. Just me, on this grey beach, alone with my assassin. I’m not someone who frets about death, but this was not how I wanted to go. I wanted the cause of death on my certificate to be something like: ‘Death by Misadventure [Raving Like a Legend]’ and not ‘Death by Misadventure [Mollusc].’ Time to focus. I didn’t have the sort of hygienic set-up one would want for seafood prep, but I would have to make do. I put the meat in a plastic bag. I thwacked it. And again for good measure. Next: oil, garlic, heat. I swigged some wine, pulled the abalone out of the bag, and sliced it up. Into the pan. ... WHY DIDN’T I ASK HOW LONG TO COOK IT FOR? ... I stood over the pan, staring down my paua like a gunslinger at high noon. How undercooked could be lethal? If I overcooked it, it would be rubbery, I supposed. Would that be so bad? At least I would be alive. I took it out of the pan, and served it on some freshly cooked rice. I tossed on some of my favourite hot sauce (Tapatio, for those of you in the club.) I ate. It was DELICIOUS. I punched the air in victory - YES! Take THAT! I spent the evening riding high on waves of pride. As I went to bed, the waves crashed. ‘If my cooking and hubris kill me, they will do it in the night. And no one is here to save me. I am not safe yet.’ Outside, Southern Ocean waves crashed against the shore, and rain pelted the van. I slept, nervously. In the morning, I woke up. I woke up feeling fine. YES! Take THAT! I looked at the shell that remained, its interior a muscular blue as deep and unknown as the sea. I will treasure it for a long time.