30-05-01
A crab makes his way across a shoreline rock and the sight of him
brings me slight naseau. In Sines, my days with Jose the fisherman, I
ate crabs as though the queen of a tiny thriving island. On the way
back home, hot air coming in through the sides of my helmet, we pulled
down to the Porto Covo fishing harbour where he kept his boat, Punto
Final. Towing across the risen tide he untied a black cage of crabs
from the fishing boat and removed them one by one, each drop causing
the entering crab and the companions is landed on to scurry their legs
together and make a startling, fast scrape in the bucket. Dead crabs he
tossed into the sea, "muerto," and I watched their pulled in legs and
toy-like eyes sink away. Returning to Sines we made two more stops, one
for fresh "pon" to spread with butter as an accompaniment, and the
other at a restaurant where he was paid several thousand escudos by a
short, dark-haired chef who selected individually a crate full of
crabs. At home he prepared the crabs, "Quieres mirari?" He took a
fingerful of cubed seasalt and threw it into the pot of crabs he had
placed on the stove...
MAP