Between the Pincers

I went fishing with Santa Klaus on Wednesday.

During my first week at Good Shepherd, Verne made his way up to me and stuck out his hand.  I shook it and enjoyed the eerie visage that greeted me.  Verne peered at me behind bifocaled spectacles that made his eyes look bigger than they really were, and as he spoke, the hairs of his moustache blew out in little puffs, like cotton balls being tossed in a light, spring breeze, and his beard hung raggedly white on the chest of his shirt.

"Do you like to fish?" he said, his voice gravelly but mirthful. 

I stared up at him, to the top of his head which looked like the snow encrusted peak, El Capitan, in Yosemite National Park.  Verne is about six feet four inches tall and I would have guessed from his appearance that he would more likely fit in by handing out presents with elves than holding a fishing rod. 

"Do I like to fish?" I repeated as if this was the silliest question in the world.  "Don't all disciples like to fish?"  Weird Christian jokes fail sometimes and I think Verne was already wanting to rescind the question.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'."  He was still smiling, which was a good sign.  "How about we go out fishing on Wednesday and I'll show you how to catch blueys, which is the local lingo for blue crabs." 



I rolled out of bed at five a.m. after a restless night's sleep.  Because I was excited to get out on the ocean for the first time, I woke up before my alarm, dressed in my fishing clothes, grabbed my hat, a few morsels for lunch and headed out the door.  Surprisingly, there were quite a few people on the road at 5:30 a.m., but I made it to Verne's house in fifteen minutes where he was already outside his house waiting for me.  As I approached and his form filled the headlights, I noticed he was looking at his watch.  He looked like St. Nicholas stamping his foot for the last of the toys to be loaded into the sleigh.

I got into his pickup truck and we started off down the road.  After a little small talk, he told me about some of his fishing adventures and what made him tick.

"So, you see," he started, his voice echoing above the classical music station in the background, which surprised me also (I expected Waylon Jennings or Johnny Cash), "I don't wear my teeth when I go fishing anymore.  One time I went, I got sea sick, and I burleyed the water (which means 'chumming' where I come from) and my choppers ended up with some shark, I'm sure."  In other words, he puked his teeth out.  I bet that was an amazing visual experience for the other fishermen in the boat?

"Wait, so you get sea sick?"

"Yup," he responded proudly, "But I take the tablets and I wear a little wrist thing."  I thought this was one of those jokes Australians play on me sometimes, that I would believe a little wrist band would miraculously cure seasickness, but he swore by it.  "I don't know how it does it, but this little band does something to steady me."  I was doubtful - I think most doctors would call them 'placebos.'  I wish I would have had one of those on the trip out onto the reef.

"And, here's the other funny thing - I'm allergic to shellfish.  Can't eat them.  Make me sick.  Allergies and things."  I looked over at him to see if he was serious, but his eyes were staring straight ahead into the road.  I had to formulate my thoughts:

I'm going fishing with a shellfish intolerant, toothless, seasick fisherman.  This is so AWESOME!

"What do you do with the blue crabs when you catch them?"  I asked.

"I give them away.  They're worth about $35 per kilogram.  There are always people who are willing to take them and eat them.  Giving them away makes me very happy."

Fantastic.

The sun burned the sky a crimson blood red on the way out to the crabbing grounds.  As the boat skimmed the surface, I watched out over the back and the heavens looked like a lava lamp bubbling and roiling and changing colors.  It was spectacular.  After half an hour of motoring across the relatively calm surface of the salt water, Verne pulled up over a place that his GPS tracking brought him too.  Telling me that he'd always caught blue crabs there, we then proceeded to take three crab nets each, stuff a dead fish into a little mesh pouch, clip it down and chuck it overboard.  As the sun was still coming up and over the Adelaide hills in the east, Verne sat on the edge of the starboard side(right side - it sounds like I'm a real sea salt, but I had to look it up) silhouetted.  Imagine Santa casting his toys over the edge of the sleigh into chimneys far and wide.  He explained to me that the crabs, as they were scavengers, would crawl over the net and attempt to pick apart the dead fish in the mesh at the bottom.  After waiting a certain amount of time, we were supposed to pull up sharply on the rope connecting the crab net to the boat and then haul it up as fast as possible.  Verne said that you can usually tell by the weight if, or how many, crabs were in the net on the way up.  Invariably, he was right.

After a few minutes, he pulled his net up and sure enough, the brilliant blue crustacean with eight inch legs and two inch claws was in the middle of the net.  I think Verne was trying to impress me, but he grabbed the crab by the pincers and threw it into the ubiquitous white bucket that once held some kind of industrial putty but now held seafood. 

"I wouldn't recommend you doing that on your first go," he said.  I wasn't sure if it was wisdom or a dare. 

"We'll see what happens," I responded intent on showing Jolly Old St. Verne that I wasn't just some Midwestern Yankee who couldn't handle his fishing.

Within minutes I was hauling up a net.  Nothing.  Then two more.  Nothing.  Meanwhile, Father Christmas was pulling in blue Yuletide gifts up and over the side peeking over his glasses to see if I was watching.

"Maybe that side of the boat was better?"  Certainly it wasn't me, the inexperienced crabberman.  Verne shrugged.

Finally, though, I pulled up one of the nets and sure enough, there was a nice big, blue crab hanging on for dear life as he was pulled from his aquatic home.  And, there was another one on the bottom.  "Hey!  I've got two!"  Unfortunately, I only got one in the boat which I anticlimactically dumped into the bucket rather than risking my fingers between the pincers.

"The most I've ever got in one net was five," Verne said as he chucked two more into the bucket. 

Why is fishing such a competitive sport?  Why did I feel as if I have to avenge my honor with Father Christmas?  Just enduring questions that may never be answered.

We caught our forty crabs, one squid a few whiting and trumpet fish which Santa called 'shitties' (and one small shark which tangled all of the lines.  Santa wasn't happy about that one.) and then headed back in to shore where on the way, a dolphin was practicing for the show, leaping high into the air.  Spectacular fifteen feet into the air, the jumps took my breath away.  Just seeing that was worth the trip out.

It was a good day, and as we journeyed back in off the great briny sea, I recognized a true sense of contentment in Verne's eyes.  He was happy to be sharing his boat, but especially his time, with someone new.  It was a great gift that he gave me.

And that was what I was to find out about Verne.  He is one of the kindest, most giving people I've met in a while.  Even after we finished our crabbing experience, he brought me back to his house, gave me a tour of his garden from which he produced some beautiful zucchinis and then a shoot of basil, volunteered to clean the squid and whiting that we caught and then smiled all the way as I drove off. 

He truly is Santa Klaus. 

Or should I say, Santa Claws.

Ouch.  Sorry, I couldn't help that one.