Apart from them, the rest were a blur of movements. You could sense who was out there desperate to make a meal, the leisurely waders humming as they went, the competitive divers who without any gear swam farther into the open sea, you could also make out the teenagers by the light of their handphone flashlights and then there was me, a solitary figure from the city with no muscle memory groping for invisible tethers while navigating the moss-covered shallows, taking every slow step as a practice in restraint and reflection.
The retreating tides added further texture to the already busy surface, and the darkening sky rendered my untrained eyes almost dysfunctional. At this point, I made my retreat into dry land and left the foraging festival to the innately talented professionals and their young novices who, in their tender years, were already so adept at “swim-and-spot.”
The wharf transformed into a melee of sounds and odors. Where there was little light left, suddenly you could smell happiness and taste the sunset. The kids scampered about excited for a meal, waiting for their parents to pick a spot to bivouac. On the other end of the port walk, a kindling breathed a slow and steady fire where oysters lay toasting, cooking in the last bit of the sea bubbling inside their shells. Passing by the gathering, I was invited to share the instant feast. I fished out some of my crabs in exchange for the freshly roasted bivalves. There’s a particular way these mollusks are eaten on the islands. Once the two halves are pried open, revealing the sizzling concoction of cooked flesh inside, we squeeze fresh calamansi (miniature limes packed with a punch) and drizzle spicy coconut vinegar on the soupy concoction before slurping down the oyster from the wide end – it’s more aerodynamic done this way. The lukewarm brine leaves a trail of citrusy, smoked saltiness followed by the tangy note of the fermented coconut sap. We then wash this down with a shot of the local sugar cane rum, sweet and scented with a heady anise aftertaste. The group thins down as everyone makes their way to their own kitchens for the main meals. The hangers-on continue the roast until the last of the empty oyster shells are thrown back into the sea with a loud thunk.