© 2012 Margaret Sands

Lobster Diving, Sort Of

Our yacht, complete with a cinder block anchor. There are no mooring buoys on or off the reserve, which makes reefs vulnerable to things like falling cinder blocks if the boaters aren’t careful.

On Wednesday we were supposed to go snorkeling with a school group visiting the Tobacco Caye Marine Station but the boat was full so instead we tagged along with two local guys, Eric and Chop to go lobster diving.  We took out some canoes and paddled over a mile North so we would be outside of the marine reserve and therefore free to take any lobster we found.

Chop confidently manning our canoe.

We (ok Eric) got three lobsters that day, some friends we passed diving within the reserve and carefully avoiding the fisheries police found fifteen.  This could be an indicator of many things:  1. That the gringas really need to step up their lobster hunting skills 2. That unfortunately it does pay to cheat sometimes 3.  That despite the violations of the rules, there is a noticeable difference between the numbers of lobsters inside and outside the reserve implying that it might be having a positive impact after all.

We made it back to Tobacco Caye, but I’m afraid my contribution was pretty minimal.

 

When we got back to the caye, we took the lobsters and the grouper to Reef’s End to clean our spoils.  I can’t be trusted with knives so the fish cleaning was pretty much left to Eric, but I did help clean the shit and guts out of the lobsters, a task the boys were happy to hand over.

After all the gory stuff was over we headed to “Cisse’s Kitchen.”   Cisse is Chop’s brother who cooks all of his meals outside our little cabin at a little table under the pier next to a pile of smoldering coconut husks.  Eric stuffed the fish and lobsters with garlic, onions, pepper and butter then set them to grill and smoke over the burning coconut husks.  We contributed Mac and Cheese and our sparkling personalities. The finished product was incredibly delicious, and probably enhanced by the fact that we consumed it on a pier over the very ocean where just hours before we had collected the ingredients.  For us the experience was something of a romantically rustic novelty and a fabulous way to pass an afternoon, but if we had been paddling out there out of necessity, for a living, for a meal, or every day for an indefinite period, I could understand how that extra mile would seem so long, and how appealing breaking the rules might be.

Cooking in Cisse’s kitchen.

 

The finished feast, served on a stolen “Bar” sign with a side of Mac and Cheese.

 

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