Free Write

Living in this landlocked, useless state, I am often allotted a large amount of time to reminisce about my previous residences in far grander places. When I was about eight years old my father was enlisted in the Navy and we were all stationed in Anacortes, Washington, a city near the San Juan and Orcas Islands in Puget Sound. We lived not far from several piers and docks, which allowed my father and me to discover several interesting hobbies, one of which was shrimping. The salt air and abundance of fresh, locally-caught salmon and crustaceans instilled a lifelong love for seafood in me, and when my father and I found a way to get free seafood, I assumed I had died and gone to fish heaven, if God would allow such a place to exist.

One day while we were walking along the wharfs to see what the fishermen had caught that day, a grizzled, portly man stinking of fish pulled up a curious looking contraption attached to a rope from below the pier, full of plump shrimp. Next to him was a bucket brimming with the same type of shrimp. As we got closer I realized what the astute fisherman had done to catch these delectable sea-treats. He was using an empty, one gallon milk jug. He cut a large hole in the top of the container, but was careful not to cut too close to the handle because that was where the rope was to be attached. He then cut numerous slits around the entire container, small enough that the shrimp could not escape. We were told that under the particular pier we were standing on was a common feeding ground for the shrimp. The trick was to lower the trap right next to the pier piling, which was where the shrimp congregated. The hole in the top of the milk jug allowed the shrimp to swim into the container to, but as you pulled the trap up from underneath the water, the holes allowed the water to leave, but not the shrimp. It was simple, inexpensive and quite ingenious. The only missing piece was the bait. What would possible tantalize shrimp enough to swim into a milk jug? As I asked the question, the fisherman seized me with his filthy, rough hands and pulled me close to his parched, cracked lips. I could smell his foul breath laced with rum and jerky. In a spit-filled hiss I received my answer. Canned cat food. I looked at him with bewildered eyes as a maniacal laugh erupted from his sunburned face.

My father and I speedily left the pier, not only to get away from the lunatic, but to also go home to make the shrimp trap and try it for ourselves. We took a trip to the pier the next day and sure enough the trap worked. The canned cat food proved to be irresistible and the cat was eager to give up her canned dinner in exchange for fresh shrimp.