Abalones, by Evelyn Cole

[Editor’s Note: In February 2021, Evelyn’s story was in a writing contest sponsored by Leading Age.]

We were scrambling amongst the rocks where the sea waves were coming in, splashy and cold. Our bare feet slipped on seaweed, our rolled-up trousers getting wet.

Stuck tightly to some of the rocks, just where the wavelets came in, were abalones. We wanted to take some home to our kitchens to cook, abalones were pricey items in some restaurants, but we had never come close to eating one, they were supposed to be a delicacy.

“There’s one”, Carol yelled, we scrambled over to look at our prey, nudged it with our toes. It just lay there, no movement. “Take my knife” called Scotty, reaching it over. Carol stuck the knife under the abalone, it didn’t even react.

Abalones are sea animals that cling to rocks that lie along some ocean shores They are made of one big muscle that suctions itself tightly to its rock. A shell covers them that can be as big a 6 to 7 inches across, the inside of the shell looks like mother-of pearl, quite lovely to see. But getting one of these creatures off its rock, and out of its shell, takes a lot of determination and strength, and a good tool to pry if off. Well, we were determined!

There were five of us, we were high school friends of 15 and 16 years of age and our muscles were not as developed as these abalones were. We had some kitchen knives but no crowbars, or pick axes. Two more abalones were discovered and we set to work on these, as our feet grew cold and our backs tired, and the sun was slowly finishing its journey across the sea to the west, we struggled.
Finally, we pried three abalones lose, not very big ones. We were triumphant! We gathered up our knives and trowels in a pail, rolled down our pants, and climbed up to the road to the car.
“ Who wants an abalone?” Carol, Scotty and my sister and I took one home to deal with. Anne, who had mostly sat on a near-by rock, declined. And so we drove home.
We knew these wrestlers of the sea, our sad opponents, had to be somehow cut out of their shells, and then pounded with a hammer or the like to soften them up. We hammered mightily onto the poor thing, lying helplessly on our bread board. It was night by the time we were able to put the frying pan on the stove, melt some butter, and cook our abalone. We dusted it with flour, lay it in the pan, lit a match for the gas flame and let it cook.

“When will it be done?” I queried Peggy, my sister.

“When it gets tender”, Peg said, poking doubtfully at it. “Not yet.”

So we waited nervously until the edges of the abalone were turning brown.

“It must be done by now,” Peg whispered, and we lifted it onto a plate, then cut it in pieces, sawing away until we could pick one onto a fork.

Then we chewed, and chewed, and chewed.

“I’m not sure it’s done”, I said, “it’s so tough!”

Peg looked at me and sighed. “It doesn’t even taste good.” And she spit out a well-masticated morsel.
We looked at each other and then started laughing, as we threw it all into the garbage.
“Oh well,” I said, “we can at least say we have eaten abalone.”