A Salty Sea Dog!

I learned what BFF meant recently, from my youngest son. His Best Friend Forever is little Collin in Woodbury.

Mine is the local Fishmonger. Fishmonger and I could have been sandbox friends.   This friendship will last as long as I have an address here. 

With very few words between us I know he expects a big fish to always be on the menu. I would love a big fish to be on my menu nightly. His market is a three-minute walk from our apartment, 30 seconds from the Atlantic Ocean. 

He proudly shows us his largest fish, recently caught, on this particular day—huge sharks! The children are usually oooohing and ahhaaaaing when I bring them along.  

The fishermen row their small wooden boats out into the early morning waters to “pull fish pots," they return with the day’s catch for market, plus their own breakfasts: shellfish flavored only with ocean water and smoke from driftwood fire over which they roast. These are eaten with johnnycakes from home and rum, coffee or bush tea. 

Avast! A desert rat might survive drinking the Sea Salt Water, but a thirsty sailor found downing the water won’t be so lucky—fatal concentrations of salt in the blood cause fits, seizures, and a grizzly death. A mouthful contains millions of bacteria and thousands of plankton. I love a mouthful now and then. It reminds me of my homeland, the awesome Oceans of the World and most of all, respect for the Seas. 

I'm one of those rats who will choose the fish with the natural flavors of ocean water and take my chances...

The saltiest closed sea: The Dead Sea. “Sea” for yourself!

Fishmonger’s digs are located alongside the beach where Salsa music blasts from various shindigs every weekend. It’s a festival atmosphere weekly where guys and gals dance, cruise through crowds. If not, they console themselves with Puerto Rican beer and mates and some tasty BBQ.

For me it is all about the fish. This time I split the red snappers down the middle, mixed the meat with onions, peppers, garlic, salt and pepper… but grilling a whole, unprepped fish somehow possesses an enormous appeal for me.

The flesh of my fish is pure white, mild, moist and pleasantly flaky. I’m exuberant and satiated. The way to a woman’s heart is her belly; as my husband has made it clear that food is NOT the way to his heart.

Ah, a fisherman’s fish in a fisherman’s town on a fisherman’s island. And, you know, after all that, I still do not know his real name.