Momma Cabezon Kin

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fishing.

Hopping into the tinny behind Grandpa, right after dinner and into the warm, summer rays of golden hour, we’d putt putt putt around the lake.  Wee me could cast with the best of them.  My jigs were enticing enough to land rainbow coloured sunfish and feisty walleye.  They were always a throwback, though, and never quite large enough for Gramma’s fish fry.  I’d watch in awe as Grandpa would reel in the monsters of the deep: massive pikes, with jaws of razor-sharp teeth, large enough to chomp off and swallow my pint-sized arms, if it so chose.

Years later, the ocean called, and Lund was the only place for me.  Settled in by the ever-changing salty waters, the “I heart Lund” bumper stickers no longer a cliché, the wee me inside my adult me wanted to get out fishing again.

Armed with a kayak, discount fishing rod, and an audacious “I got this” ‘tude, I began to set out on fishing adventures.  I quickly realized that wee me had her fishing confidence blindly bolstered by the men in my young life who had always done the icky, tricky bits: set the hook, scope location, wrestle the whoppers, release the snags, rip metal from entangled jaw, slice where needs slicing, and hit right between the eyes until they glaze over.

Now it was my turn.  Thank goodness I had an equally audacious pal alongside who could actually fish, and made adult me (mostly) do it all myself.

Licenses and fishing regs in hand, we were awed at what was reeled in from the deep.  We’d drop our lines, and they just kept dropping.  One hundred feet, two hundred, and more.  Silver metal tricksters sunk and danced down on the ocean floor to tempt what may bite.  Up we reeled bejeweled greenling, ling cod splashed with brown, and venomously spined rockfish.

Paddling the ocean waters in my trusty kayak, fishing rod at the ready.

Slowly, awkwardly, learning how to maneuver kayak, rod, tide, current and struggling fish, I began to know the feel of ocean floor, remove metal from jaw, hit hesitantly between the eyes, and frustratingly slice where needs slicing.  Mid-paddle and homeward bound, fish would violently flop between my legs with blatant reminder I had to be more confident with my blows.  To that end, a beautiful, brutally efficient “bonker” was fashioned from branch of fruit tree, salvaged from the wood pile.  It does the job, and I wonder about carving notches in the handle, just as the infamous Cougar Lady of Lund had done, down the road from where I live now.

As it would happen, a monster of the deep eventually took the bait. 

Struggle ensued.  The reel whirled furiously.  The rod curved down at a most dangerous angle.  Shouts and speculation exploded across the waters, until suddenly, she appeared. 

Great Momma Cabezon. 

With flesh of impossible turquoise blue greens, powerful stocky build, and massive jaws with sandpaper teeth to crush crustacean, Momma Cabezon made her way from tide to table. 

My pal and I sliced where needs slicing.  Cradling her head, and holding on tight, I stared into the glazed eyes of this magnificent creature as my practiced friend carefully peeled her skin off in one go.  Thrown immediately into the freezer, so I could later tan her fishy flesh into leather.  We removed a still pulsing, bulging sack of roe: Wee Baby Cabezons that Would Not Be.

Near feral after a day on the ocean and delirious over a delicious dinner of fresh caught fish and farmstand veg, I begin to cry for a long while.  The beauty, bounty and generosity the ocean and Momma Cabezon Kin is overwhelming, and I scoop the roe hungrily with oily fingers.  We clean up, and I set the pot up to start in on some stinky, life-giving broth.  Use it all, nothing to waste.

Hours later, a rumble.

My pal bolts to the porcelain throne, and begins to return what was once in the ocean, back to the waters.  “Gosh,” I think, “the poor guy.” 

Not soon after, I shout, “Me too!” and fly out, heaving, into the rhododendrons.

Unbeknownst to us, and most of those who drop a line these days, Momma Cabezon’s roe is laced with enough toxicity to send the unawares into the glaring lights of emergency rooms across the west coast.  Thankfully, we didn’t have to make the long trek to town, but by gosh, I wouldn’t have been surprised if many of the good folks of Lund overheard as I cried mercy to the salty ocean gods that night.

Somehow through my earlier tears, my body (the Wise One who always knows best) tried to tell me that Momma Cabezon would give me the gift of a violently thorough, and greatly needed, spring purge.

NOTE: This article was first published in the Lund Barnacle, available in print around qathet and online here.

Image description: *Process therapeutic art* Black Swan Woman, navigating the medicines and significant health hazards posed by the ocean. Collage by Sarah West.