Diving for Dinner

Early starts.

Most people can't pull it off, those before-sunrise adventures, but those who do, know that before sunrise is priceless. Stolen time before the sun sets in motion the events of the day, either taking you with it, or laying down the path for the intrepid adventurer to push forward. 

I like to go where others won't. In the search for abalone, it's a numbers game; the more divers, the less abalone.  I know that the sea will give me all I can handle, so I'll take every chance I can to boost my odds. 

The cold water pushes me down, deeper into the darkness.  My mind sabotages me at each kick, reminding me that air is ruler over man, and without breath I can't go further.

Abalone divers keep kicking.

When I've arrived at the seafloor, it's not some postcard-worthy sandy bottom.  It's razors.  Thousands of razors ready to rip me apart; I'm at the mercy of the current slashing back and forth. It's taken almost all of my will to reach this place, and the hunt has only just begun. 

The conditions were rough today, nothing unexpected. Visibility was arm's length. Seals were on patrol, guarding the abalone as if it was their own private cove.  Some say it should be. For me though, I'm willing to share. Especially when I unexpectedly reach my limit of three 8-inch or larger mollusks. 

A cold beer whets my appetite. A second helps make these alien creatures of the sea look palatable. Butter seals the deal.