Fish, for me, has long been associated with outdoor eating and the smoky tang of burning wood, overlaid by the smell of the sea. Growing up near the ocean certainly has its advantages. I have crystal clear memories of being collected from school and going home, not to do homework, but to change into beach clothes before driving down to the Cape Point Nature Reserve, where we had a season pass.

This wildly beautiful spot is at the southernmost tip of Africa, (actually there is a point that is more southerly – but this is the all important psychological tip which Bartholomew Dias & Co were so desperate to find and which they rounded unknowingly back in 1488) , and it is where two ferocious currents go head to head. The warm Agulhas Current (named after Cape Agulhas,the actual southernmost tip of Africa) which flows down the East coast of Southern Africa, past such exotic names as Mozambique and Madagascar bangs up against the icy cold Benguela current which flows up the West Coast past Namibia to the equator. When two such giants meet and mingle there can be no doubt in anyone’s mind that the relationship will be stormy at best. In fact, The Cape of Good Hope was originally dubbed The Cape of Storms. But this turbulent union bequeaths on the southernmost African shores a rich reward. A productive and diverse ecosystem, much of which falls within the reserve.

It is in this special place that we used to spend many happy hours beach combing for ‘greenies‘ – the delicate green dried out shells of sea urchins, as well as pansy shells, ‘ice cream’ shells and anything else of interest. My mother, meanwhile would sit scanning the ocean with binoculars while my dad dived for arikriekel (abalone), perlemoen and crayfish, relaxing only when, after an afternoon spent snorkelling amidst the murky kelp forests, my dad would emerge, cold and shivering, with his net full (or not). Warming himself up with several judicious slugs of the divers’ requisite OB’s (Old Brown Sherry) he would strip his wetsuit down to his waist and stroll the beach with us collecting dried seaweed for a fire. As the crackle and hiss of our small campfire sang out against the background of the setting sun, he would hunker down with us and check his haul. Anything undersized was thrown back in and crayfish in berry (carrying eggs under their tails like so many juicy little berries) were also released. Licences were strictly monitored and occasionally a ranger would stop by to check on our catch. This method of sustainable fishing has always seemed to make sense to me.

Having sorted out our supper, my sister and I would have the task of filling an old battered pot with seawater from one of the rock pools, which would be set to boil on our seaweed fire. The gnarled and snarling maroony brown crustaceans, bigger than the length of our forearms, would be popped, amidst much shrieking (ours and theirs) into the sacrificial cauldron, only to emerge as scarlet as the fireball sinking into the ocean, and equally silent. Crayfish were a prized treat, but not for us the sanitized comfort of pre-cooked, frozen tails bought in the local delicatessen. If we wanted to eat, we had to be aware of what we were eating and give thanks. Another life credo that I think has stood me in good stead.

Like the happy little carnivores we were, we would gleefully dismember the legs, cracking them open to noisily suck out the sweet sea-tasting treasure within. The tail offered up perfect medallions which would be eaten with nought but a squeeze of lemon juice, and perhaps some fresh rolls that my mom had brought along. Ariekrieks and Perlemoen would be taken home, boiled, minced and served with fresh squeezed lemon juice and fresh chopped herbs. When seafood is food that has so recently actually been in the sea, you hardly need anything else, bar a little fresh cracked black pepper.

On weekends we would stop off at the Kalk Bay harbour, un-touristy, unassuming, and home of the local fishing fleet, perhaps buying some fresh snoek or yellowtail straight off the returning fishing boats. We would carry our bounty back home where it would be gutted, cleaned and butterflied in preparation for the barbecue. My uncle was always the fishbraai specialist, and to this day I am unsure of exactly what went into his special blend of herbs and spices that was lovingly rubbed into the fish before it went on to the sizzling grill hovering inches above the ashen coals. That smoky, fresh sea taste still haunts me, and every summer I do my bit to try and recapture the elusive combination. I fear that even should I get the exact recipe, the secret ingredient (those golden hazy childhood days) is now forever beyond my reach, except for in my dreams. Half the fun is in trying though, and perhaps that ingredient is still there for the tasting, for my daughter.

Recipes

barbecued sea trout with lemon, mint and parsley
how to… …cook crayfish
how to… …butterfly fish

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