A Fishy Revelation

Growing up on the Great Lakes, you'd think I'd know a thing or two about fish. I know the big ones, the little ones, the ones that slither past and make me jump out of my skin. Then there are the fun ones that put up a fight. But eating it? No thanks. Hold the surf, I'll just have some turf instead. Not that I hated fish, I'd just grown tired of it. And it didn't help that we rarely caught anything in the overfished inland lakes anymore. Returning to the campfire with nothing but a frozen brick of pollock fillets. I'd rather eat my shoe.

Fish in Fiji was a revelation. A religious fish experience, if you will. As a traveler, I will try anything once, probably twice, just for good measure. I'd tried the soups, the mystery foods, the ones they said I'd hate, the ones they said I'd love. One night after a particularly handy spear fisherman came back to camp, I knew it was time to face my particular food enemy. The fishy beast he caught would easily feed all 10 or so of us. As this hot, dirty camp was no place to get fancy, it was wrapped unceremoniously in foil and doomed to the coals. Not until after it was cooked did I get to see the beauty up close; its scales still retained the pearlescent reddish-pink glow that I noted in the split second before it was wrapped. I'll admit, I was pensive. The last time I'd had fish that wasn't fried within an inch of its life wasn't a nice experience. I took a portion and sat down around the table. The smell hit me first, ocean fresh but somehow rich and meaty at the same time. Looking around the table, no one bothering with forks, instead digging their fingers into the oily innards. Really, who was I to do anything different? I pulled off a piece, plopped it on my tongue and expected the worst. Right then and there, I was ready to settle down on this little island for the long haul. These guys knew the secret to a good life: good music, good hammock, good kava and good fish!