Day Fifty-One: An Endless Haul of Fish (Night)

Today’s catch was by far the most bountiful since I arrived on the island.

After dragging the fishing net ashore, I realized I had overlooked a crucial detail—I hadn’t brought a plastic basket! Without one, there was no way to carry the fish, so I had no choice but to lug the entire net back. On my way out, the empty net had been easy enough to carry, but now, loaded with dozens of pounds of fish, by the time I made it back to the treehouse my back was nearly broken.

But once I dumped my entire haul out in the yard, my exhaustion vanished, replaced by pure delight.

The variety was astonishing—dozens of different species at a glance. Not only fish, but shrimp and crabs as well!

Just then, one of the crabs scuttled rapidly out of the pile—it was attempting to escape. This time, Blackie didn’t volunteer to rush over. Instead, he retreated a few steps, clearly traumatized by his previous encounter with a crab. He must have developed a crab phobia by now.

But escaping wouldn’t be so easy. I lunged forward and caught up with it. The crab, seeing me approach, raised its massive claws in defiance. Of course, I wasn’t about to grab it with my hands—I pinned it with my foot, then used my hatchet to lift it and toss it into the plastic basket.

There were three crabs in total, all captured in this fashion. They weren’t swimming crabs, but a species I had never seen before, with claws so large they made up a third of their bodies. If one of those pincers got hold of a finger, it would probably snap the bone.

The bigger the claw, the more dangerous the crab, but it also promises more delicacy. The meat inside those claws is a true gourmet treat—after boiling, a quick crack reveals snowy white flesh in thick, tender flakes. A single drop of soy sauce brings out its chewy, aromatic, and uniquely briny flavor, melting on the tongue. That touch of soy sauce is the finishing stroke, elevating both aroma and taste to a level of intoxication.

I was still daydreaming about this when I noticed the crabs already climbing the basket’s edge, trying to escape again. I hurriedly fetched the net and bundled the restless crabs back in. How could I let such a delicacy slip right under my nose?

It’s crucial not to kill crabs before cooking; otherwise, the flavor is diminished, and with freshwater crabs, bacteria can quickly develop after death. I’m quite skilled at preparing crab—if you toss them into boiling water alive, the taste and texture are at their peak.

Next, I picked out the shrimp. Each one was about the length of my pinky, not uncommon, but I knew they would shrink by half once cooked.

The fish were simply too many—at a rough guess, there were at least twenty pounds left, a shimmering, multicolored heap, with all sorts of strange shapes and hues. Apart from a few with the familiar yellow-and-white coloring, the rest were an assortment of unfamiliar species, none of which I recognized.

While sorting, one fish gave me quite a fright—it looked eerily like a pufferfish. There was no way I’d risk eating it, but I was afraid that if I tossed it carelessly, Blackie might eat it by accident. So I dug a pit with my hatchet, buried the suspect deeply, and covered it with stones.

These unknown fish left me troubled. This place is riddled with danger; if any turned out to be poisonous and I ate them, the result would be unthinkable.

My thoughts were interrupted by the squeals of the two little wild boars—they must be hungry again, which was hardly surprising since I’d been out all day.

Just as I was about to fetch them some food, an idea flashed through my mind—let the boar piglets test for poison!

I had little alternative. I couldn’t risk testing the fish myself, nor could I ask Blackie to do it, and I wasn’t about to discard all this food. Moreover, I intended to rely on these fish as a long-term food source.

So, having the boar piglets serve as taste-testers seemed, for now, a worthy plan.

I didn’t intend to feed them raw fish. I wasn’t sure if they would eat it, and as far as I knew, pigs don’t eat raw fish. Instead, I would give them cooked fish soup and meat.

I made sure not to mix different species together, so I could identify any that might be poisonous. I cooked them separately, ending up with eight different soups in eight bowls.

I carried the bowls over, one by one. The piglets, famished after a day without food, devoured every drop and scrap of fish. I waited a long while, but nothing happened.

Relief washed over me—these fish must be safe to eat.

A busy spell followed. I gutted and cleaned all the sea fish with my knife, scooping water to rinse them well. Then I threaded each fish onto a vine, through the mouth and out the gills, making two long strings.

I carried them to the firepit and hung them above the flames. Night was falling, and fish spoil quickly at these temperatures. Without sun to dry them, I couldn’t be sure they’d keep until morning.

This experience taught me to adjust my schedule: I must collect the nets at dawn, clean the catch immediately, and hang any surplus in the sun to dry. A full day’s sunlight would greatly reduce the risk of spoilage.

I could only hope that slow-roasting them over the fire would suffice. As for smoked fish, I had no idea what it would taste like.

Tonight, there were only three dishes, not a feast, but Blackie whined with longing more than once. I’d never met a dog so enamored with fish soup.

A wild fish stew, boiled crab, and pan-fried shrimp comprised the meal. The “fried” shrimp was a stretch—I’d simply smeared a little oil on the pan and kept stirring the shrimp as they cooked.

I must admit, the flavor of sea fish is always more aromatic than river fish. Even before it was fully cooked, the rising steam was thick with savory fragrance.

Even I found my mouth watering uncontrollably, let alone Blackie.

I divided the big pot of fish stew into three portions—it was simply too much. Two parts went to Blackie, and I kept one for myself.

As for the crab meat, Blackie surprisingly refused it, so I enjoyed it alone. He loved the shrimp though, eating them—shell and all—with relish. Seeing his enthusiasm, I let him have two-thirds.

Only after sharing everything did I finally get to taste my own share.

The crab roe filled the entire shell, even more abundant than that of a bread crab, forcing the shell up as it cooked. The roe was not greasy, a little dry, but exceptionally fragrant, with a powdery texture, no trace of fishiness, and while not quite as delicate as a mitten crab, it was nearly as good.

Of course, the choicest part of this crab was its hard, oversized claw, with its snowy white chunks of meat that moved me nearly to tears.

The fish stew was even richer than chicken soup. I suspected that after drinking it, I might be left thirsty from its savory intensity.

The shrimp, however, were less delicious than I’d imagined. When I ate the first one, I hadn’t removed the digestive tract, so I bit into a mouthful of sand. It seemed the vein must be removed from these sea shrimp—how Blackie could eat them I had no idea.

Late into the night, full and content, I sat in the yard, lit a cigarette, sipped my drink, and listened to the chorus of insects and birds.

It seemed the wind was picking up...