Free Salt Story by Sarah Drummond Page A

sand. I watched the octopus heave his way up the side of the boat. He got one tentacle over the side.
    Salt was going over the side too. He saw the octopus plop into the water under the fluorescent light, fly past his feet, heading for the open sea.
    â€˜Didya see that occy? Bastard got away.’
    â€˜Yep.’
    â€˜You were watching the whole time.’
    â€˜Yep.’

STINGRAY STEAK
    Standing waist-high in the turquoise waters of Whalers Cove I saw the stingrays come a’hunting, their shadowy pirate sails varnished and black. It was a nervous moment but they swept around me in wide arcs, looking for herring and whitebait along the seashore.
    I’ve loved stingrays since that encounter. I feed them mullet frames from the beach and try to keep the dog from retrieving them. We’ve pulled up a few in the nets too. Most of the time I let them go, much to Salt’s annoyance. When they have munched on every other fish in the net, I take them home and eat them.
    At the Sunday markets I have an English customer who relishes stingray. She poaches it and serves it up with butter and capers. I use my own antipodean’s recipe.
    Hopefully you’ve got a Salt or a fisherwoman in the neighbourhood who can deal with the killing and cutting of a stingray because landing it involves lots of blood and wriggling and squabbles, especially in a little boat.
    The flesh is a strange, grainy texture with a sheet of cartilage through the wing holding the whole thing together. Cut the wings straight down, into one-inch steaks. A sharp, flexible knife will deal with the skin and the cartilage. Make up a mix of soy sauce, olive oil and freshly grated ginger. Marinate the stingray steaks in this mix for a few hours. Then cook the stingray steaks quick and hot on a barbeque.

HOW TO FEED A FISHERMAN
    Apart from sea mullet and salmon cooked in huge slabs in a frypan, Salt’s idea of culinary delight is mustard pickles or corn relish on white bread with cold meat, or boiled potatoes and lamb chops. He also likes Spam.
    I told Salt I may be late getting to the fishing camp. Just not how late. Originally I was intent on getting to Pallinup in time to set nets but I got stuck up the mountain I’d been climbing. As soon I was within range, I sent him a message to say that I’d be there before dawn.
    Salt and I have had plenty of conversations about me being late.
    Sandy was standing by the fire a week later and laughing about the debacle. ‘Oh yeah, Salt, I had one of those deckies who could never turn up on time come Saturday morning.’
    Salt looked at me. ‘We’ve always had a problem with Saturday mornings, haven’t we Sarah?’
    Sandy said, ‘I’d ask him on Fridays, You going to the pub tonight? Nah, nah, he’d say. The next day I’d be waiting at the jetty for him. By seven thirty I’d have to drive around to his house and wake him up.’
    â€˜Seven?’ I said. ‘Seven is a completely respectable hour. Who can’t make it to a boat ramp by seven? Now, four thirty on a Saturday morning is a different matter.’
    Salt groaned and rolled his eyes at me.
    â€˜Well. Four thirty. C’mon Salt. It’s not always achievable. It means three forty-five out of bed after sitting with my friends around a fire, playing guitars till one in the morning.’
    â€˜Yeah, I always hate the summer crab season around you social butterflies,’ he said.
    On this occasion, I didn’t make it by dawn. After sleeping under a rock in the dirt, it took me till lunchtime the next day to trek across the north face of the mountain to the car park. Hungry, scratched and bruised, with an eye suffering from a misanthropic spider, I got a message from Salt once I’d arrived back at my car: ‘Eight boxes.’
    Damn. The last time he caught that much I was camping on Breaksea Island. He’s never caught that many fish when I’m around. At this point I