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Posts Tagged ‘Navesink River’

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The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea. – Isak Dinesen

She left out coconut water, but nailed the other three, so I’ll let it slide.

On a 2008 trip to French Polynesia, everyone on our day trip to a nearby motu (uninhabited island) was treated to a lesson in the Tahitian way to crack open a coconut. That’s my ex above at left, giving it a solid try over stakes propped in the sand.*

I was born, raised, and to this day live very close to water. No exaggeration, it runs through my veins via skin and lungs. Where I sit right now, water is on three sides of me: lake in front and side, and the Atlantic Ocean at my back.

Tonight’s post is like running water—what I think of, and remember, when I think of water.

Dripping water is such a welcome sight in late winter; a sign spring isn’t far away. This was shot in March 2011.

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That summer, and a family at the ocean’s edge. Everyone hitched their pant legs and skirts up to their knees and splashed around and laughed. They were really charming.

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Peony petals, sunk to the bottom of a thick crystal vase. The crystal and water changed the shape and color and blurred the edges of the petals. When I go into water, any water—from ocean to pool to bathtub—my perceptions change. Light refracts memories, edges soften around thoughts. I remember looking down at my hands and feet through the glassy salt water where I spent every single summer, and remember how reality shifted and blurred, in a half-sleepy way, the way it feels after massage or yoga. When I finally came out of the water and the sun dried the salt water on my skin, it left a sparkling shadow. It always washed off in fresh water, but the psychic imprint remained.

Does spending so much time in and around water explain my penchant for daydreaming, for going deep? For tangents…?

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The more chances water has to touch something, the softer the edges of that something become. This is lagoon sand, encircled by boulders placed there nearly 100 years ago. When ocean water comes in, it tosses and tumbles the sand against the rocks. It is delicate as baby powder, and the loveliest stuff I have ever had under my feet.

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The below was taken from the bow of a little crabbing boat I was in last summer on the Navesink River, which feeds from the nearby ocean. When the clouds went across the sun, the wind picked up, and the choppy water became a luscious deep blue-green, like an enormous, expansive, malleable semi-precious stone.

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Water that surprises: I was riding my bike into Asbury Park last summer to meet my friend Lauren for lunch, and I bumped along the boardwalk as I rode. The old boards were dark and damp after strong rains, with just enough footfall in them to create puddles, and I caught the sun yawning and opening its eyes in the reflections.

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Another surprise last winter, when I was watching my step across the icy apron of my building’s driveway, I spotted this big trapped snowflake. Fantastic surprise.

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Last April I blogged about fog.** Couldn’t help it. This is my road looking east, about three blocks to the ocean—a dreamy 360-degree universe of tiny salt- and fresh water particles hanging mid-air, brushing my cheeks and hair and clinging to everything I wore. I could not stay away from the beach that day, craving the paradoxical comfort of being enveloped by icy water, of not being able to see beyond a few feet, let alone of the horizon. It was nourishment for a very weary soul.

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Autumn leaves floating by on my lake, in 2010, and the contrast of black water on a dark afternoon against shocking color. I look at it and smell the lake water, full of rain and salt (from the ocean, again), and the intoxicating fragrance of decaying leaves. The lake is another flavor of peace.

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When I was little and playing at the beach, sometimes I would get a cut. And when I’d run up to my mom and show her, she’d always say the same thing: ‘Go stick it in the water.’ That was the rule; other kids were told the same. No Band-Aids for the minor stuff. They’d fall off in the sand and water, anyway.

There’s not a lot the ocean can’t heal.

Here it is a few summers ago, early in the morning and early in the season, a mess of sparkles and chill as the sun rises.

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Tonight, at the end of August, it was warm and pink-lit. I just rode back a few hours ago, and am typing this with my sandy feet stretched out in front of me, nourished outside and in.

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*Since I dehydrate easily and have gotten myself sick during August heat waves, I’ve taken to drinking coconut water liberally. Luckily I love it. Gatorade was my first effort in getting back electrolytes, and was sweet enough to embarrass New Coke.

**Fog blogged? Flogged? No, that would hurt.

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The early morning sunlight scattered across the Navesink River and a cool breeze made me grateful we had picked this day to go blue-claw crabbing. It’s a 40-ish year tradition of my brother-in-law’s family, and as much as I like Frank, I’m especially grateful Amanda chose him just so I could tag along on crabbing expeditions. (Now, dude, you know I kid. But it IS a bonus 🙂 Last year’s trip was a wild success—we pretty much emptied the river—and were hopeful this year we’d do as well.

I arrived at 7:30a at the Oceanic Marina in Rumson. A family pulled in beside me, and I overheard their young son asking if he should bring his ipod. Oy. But after only about 5 minutes I heard him chattering excitedly with his brothers about what he’d do if they encountered a shark while crabbing. Now THAT’S boys being boys. Relief.

Once our group arrived, we gathered up bags of ice and coolers (for the crabs we’d catch) and assorted munchkins (nephews, mostly), distributed brownies (just for the caffeine, you know), and piled into three well-worn motorized boats. We had chicken parts to use as bait, and some of Frank’s family had brought along droplines from which to suspend them. They’re triangular, notched metal frames outfitted with smooth pebbles that serve as weights. Thin cords some 20 or more feet long are tied onto the ends.

Once unraveled and baited, the cords are tied onto screws and handles affixed around the periphery of the boat, and the droplines are flung out into the river.

Yo ho ho.

Now on to the important stuff: naming our team. Frank came up with Team Awesome (comprised of himself, Amanda, me, and his 7-year-old nephew Andrew, a crabbing veteran who taught me how to skewer and wasn’t shy about raising the iron anchor—no small task). Admittedly, it took Team Awesome about an hour to live up to our name. We learned to drop anchor where the seagulls hung out. Once we found them, we were kicking crab, as the expression went that day.

Andrew backlit in the morning sun.

We waited two minutes and thirty seconds before checking the lines (a somewhat arbitrary time frame, but it worked), done by pulling them out of the water slowly, hand over hand, to raise up the chicken part (and with any luck, a blue claw crab) at the other end. Do this often enough and you become quite sensitive as to whether a crab is clinging to the chicken at the other end; you feel a subtle, erratic tugging.

And when a crab was revealed at the surface of the water, we all had different ways of letting the others know to get the net so we could whisk him out, everything from ‘I got one!’ to my ‘Mayday’ or ‘I got a lock on blue!’ to ‘Crab on!’

But while we waited, we soaked up that day. It was almost hypnotic—the very gentle rocking of the boat, the sun, wind, salt, and sky.

Disclaimer: it wasn’t all sweetness and light. There was plenty of healthy competition going on between our boats. Every now and again one would float by us and someone would call out, ‘How many do you have?’ ‘Something like 50 by now.’ (Truth!) ‘We have 70!’ (LIE!) No matter what number we gave, they’d say they had 20 more.

But no biggie—back at the dock we pooled every last crustacean. Frank’s family was heading back north to have a feast of crabs sauteed with wine and marinara sauce. I was invited but was too zonked, so I said I’d just take a half-dozen or so home and cook mine there. Frank used tongs to drop a few into my cooler while his father stood on hand saying, ‘Oh, come on! Give her more! Give her a couple more! That’s nothing!’

The biggest one we caught.

Back home I IMed my friend Casey, who’s Japanese, a culture that knows from seafood. He also has a mom who’s a consummate cook and a brother who’s a chef.

‘How long do I boil them?’

‘Blue claws are so delicate. 8 to 10 minutes. And add salt and spices to the water. It’ll create a quick brine.’

I put a few gallons of water into my most colossal stockpot (it’s the one I use to make stock from my 13+ lb. Thanksgiving turkey, if that gives you an idea of its size. Probably would have been quicker to have my fire department hose in the water.) and added salt, whole black peppercorns, ground white and pink peppercorns, 8 whole, peeled, smashed garlic cloves (done by pressing the blade of a knife flat onto the cloves), some Old Bay, and 5 bay leaves.

The brew.

While that came to a boil, I set to work on the crabs, which had been rattling around in my cooler all this time. I opened the top and they were making a constant sound that was a cross between a buzz and bubbles popping, like in soda.

Okay.

I shook them into my blessedly-deep sink and washed them off with the faucet. True to their nature, they had a little problem with this. The crab in the upper left hand corner below showed his own personal brand of antagonism by clawing and swatting at the stream of water. (Note: if you keep them on ice better than I did, they’ll be too mellow yellow to give you a hard time.)

The brew boiled, I dropped them in in batches, one, two, three.

So, so not amused.

I’d like to say the next few hours were spent placidly shelling, cooking, eating, and resting. They were instead spent shelling. And not placidly. And it took so long that I didn’t have any crab cakes that night. Thought to myself that when I finally tasted them, I’d better see God.

When I was done shelling, my fingers were numb in some places and nicked in others, the counter was drenched, and itty-bitty pieces of red shell were strewn around my red-tiled kitchen floor. At least I think they were. I couldn’t see them to pick them all up, so I just vacuumed.

Click click clack clack clack click click. Yeah, thought so.

I’m a patient person, but man. Next year I’ll go have dinner with Frank’s family and not have to deal with this. I took the scant 2 cups I got from those 14 crabs, mixed them with mayonnaise, black pepper, chopped organic leeks from Silverton Farms in Toms River, and my homemade bread crumbs. 6 cakes. 6 microscopic cakes. Thinking: FAIL.

Cooked them at 400 degrees until crisp, shoveled a couple into a folded piece of pizza bread made by a Roman baker in north Jersey, sprinkled them with Mazi piri-piri-smoked-habanero sauce, closed up the sandwich, took a bite. And started dreaming about next August on the river.

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