LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: |
by Fay Jacobs |
The Case of the Maltese Salmon
Like detective Kinsey Milhone says, F is for Fish. Frozen fish. Oy Gefilte. Over the past several weeks, I've been enmeshed in the Search for the Missing Salmon. Of course, to me, fishing is selecting an entre. Not surprisingly, to my spouse, it's a sport. Which is why, on our August Alaska trip, I spent my morning in Ketchikan on a land tour while Bonnie sought to catch and can salmon. As it turned out, she spent what sounded to me like a disgusting morning playing with chum, catching a trio of mighty salmon. The Middle Aged Woman and the Sea. Hemingway would have been proud. But you know how the commercial goes by now: Sport fishing excursion: $170. Smoking and flash freezing fish: $120. Hosting a salmon bake at home with fish you caught yourself in Alaska: priceless. Only it wasn't that easy. First, we worried that the flash frozen salmon would be home before we were, to lounge on our doorstep, in the August sun, decomposing. Talk about a Clear and Present Danger. Assured that the catch would not arrive before us, we moved on to wondering how we'd be sure to get the actual fish Bonnie struggled to landwhich, I might add, she did to the envy of the four fishermen also on the boat. I mean, how would we know that our FedExed salmon steaks were from the bug-eyed monster my wife caught? Hercule Poirot, Miss Marpel, or Pat Cornwell's coroner, Kay Scarpetta, not being available for hire, we had to take it on faith. Although, it's mighty tough to take anything on faith these days, what with California voters failing to notice that Ahhhnold had no platform and holier than everybody Rush Limbaugh turning up as a druggie. Recent CNN stories notwithstanding, we put aside skepticism, hoped for the best and continued our cruise without worrying. At least about the fish. White-knuckled, we soared over glaciers in a float plane, survived our tour bus driver shouting, "Moose in the road!!!," witnessed fornicating sea otters (you go girl!), saw clouds part to reveal an awesome Mt. McKinley, and tromped through the woods following a guide who was, literally, loaded for bear. Taking note of the rifle slung over his shoulder I asked, "Ever had to use that thing?" "No," he said, "you tourists are pretty well behaved." I guess he got the question a lot. We had a great time rafting, despite fretting we'd fall out of our rubber boat into the whitewater, if you'll excuse the expression. Dressed in every article of clothing we'd packed, we looked like South Park kids. In addition, they made us wear rubber suits over all those clothes. We have seen the Abominable Snowman and he is us. The raft trip proved exciting and very, very chilly. Occasionally we got what the guide described as a glacial facial from the ice cold water, but fortunately nobody fell in. We'd have sunk like the Bismarck. So, having toured both the great Alaska wilderness and every cocktail lounge on the ship, we headed home knowing several new truths. First, in Alaska there should be a two-pair minimum on socks. Second, if a big chunk of ice falls off a glacier and Leo DeCaprio is not there to hear it, it is still an iceberg. And finally, bears actually do poop in the woods. I'm still amused by airport SARS security. To prevent the disease from entering Philadelphia, they asked each incoming traveler, just after they'd hiked eight miles through the airport with their carry-on crap, up two escalators, down one long hallway, across the river and through the woods to baggage claim, to sign a paper attesting to the fact that they did not have shortness of breath. Puleeeze. Jet lagged, wheezing and recovering from hypothermia, we arrived home to await our souvenir seafood. Every day, from September 2, Bonnie or I arranged to check the home front between noon and 3 p.m. People whispered about a possible affair between one of us and the FedEx girl. Often, we'd post a "dear FedEx" note on the door, so every burglar in Sussex knew exactly when to strike. Fortunately, we had a Schnauzer alarm. Weeks passed, and the mystery of the Ten Little Filets deepened. P is for Pissed. My God, millions of fish could have gone through a whole spawning cycle since we last heard from Moby Salmon. Finally, we called Ketchikan (not that easy in itself) to learn that our flash frozen fish was safe in an Alaskan Sub Zero, while parts of the catch went through the smoking process.They said our order would be shipped September 29 to arrive October 1. Frankly, by this time neither of us gave a damn whose fish it was as long as it arrived postmarked Alaska to prove to increasing numbers of skeptics that Bonnie really caught something and wasn't just blowing smoked salmon. So now it was the Hunt for Red (Salmon in) October. Once again we did the FedEx vigil, so three hundred bucks of fish sticks didn't thaw on the stoop. Days passed and it was Agatha Christie's Murder on the Federal Express. By October 6 we scoped out Food Lion for frozen filets to pass off as the trophy fish. "Hello, Ketchikan? Where the heck is our fish?" "Oh, sorry, we've been closed down with heavy fog all week. Nothin goin' in or outta here. "Our Sockeye Salmon is socked in?" "Yes, but don't worry, your fish is in a freezer at the airport. It should be able to fly out tomorrow." Great, my fish is flying stand-by. I came home today to find Bonnie feverishly stuffing vacuum packed baggies filled with salmon into every crevasse in the freezer. "So whaddya think? Is it yours?" "I dunno." I suggested matching the fish scales on the largest filet with photos of Bonnie holding up her fish for the camera. She chucked a salmon brick at me. Tonight as an appetizer we had a smoked salmon spread. We followed with fetuccini alfredo and smoked salmon. And tomorrow, it might be Salmon Stroganoff, Salmon Wellington, or Szechuan Salmon. Fish Bake, here we come. We're glad the mystery of The Runaway Salmon is solved. As John Grisham might say, now it's A Time to Grill... Fay Jacobs may be reached at mvnoozy@aol.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 13, No.14 October 17, 2003 |