Traditions
By Faith Wallace
Originally appearing in Slackwater, Volume 7
Every Thanksgiving, my dad and papa go out on the boat and try to catch some rockfish. It is a tradition for them, just as much as it is for my grandmother and me to prepare the mashed potatoes, the yams, the stuffing. The men wake up before the sun rises, bundle up in their warmest clothes, drive down to the St. George Island boat ramp, and set off on a small adventure—one which they’ve experienced together many times, yet is never the same. Sometimes the weather is unbearably cold and rainy, or the fish simply aren’t biting, and they are forced back into the pumpkin-spice-scented warmth of our home to await dinner. The Thanksgiving fishing trip of 2016 was not one of these days.
Troy & Oren Wallace – Thanksgiving Day 2016, St. George Island
The day was crisp, cool and lovely under a sun unobscured by the typical clouds of fall. “The boys,” as my mother would have called them, had so quickly caught their limit—two per person—that they were pulling back into the driveway with triumphant smiles on their faces before we had even set out the cheese and crackers, the first course of our standard Thanksgiving feast—turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, and so on. Family tradition has it that the fish are saved for another day.
Seeing them this way was a rare moment, a glimpse into the boyishness still lingering in my father and even in his father. The pleasant laughs that escaped their smiling lips as we joined them outside to watch them unload their catch were blissful and expressed the peace and joy that they found together out on the water. As I grew older, I began to recognize the strenuous relationship, the unspoken tension, which had always existed between my grandfather and his only son. For a while on this day, though, that tension dissipated, and in this photograph, they are united in their success and shared passion for catching rockfish.
The unspoken deal my mom and dad had was that he would catch and clean the fish and she would cook them. My dad would cut the meat into chunks and my mom would batter and fry them; we would often eat the crispy nuggets with tartar sauce, potato salad, and a Bud Light out on our patio in the summer. Other times my mom would throw the whole filet into a pan and sear it with olive oil and garlic. We would squeeze a lemon over the white flaky fish (my dad having skillfully removed the dark parts of the meat with his 20 year-old filet knife to lessen the gamey taste, just as my mother liked it) and eat it at the dinner table with my dad’s favorite dry red wine.
For my family, seafood is a meal which brings us together. The process of acquiring it, waking up early and sharing coffee in the cold, casting our lines out in anticipation for the thrill of a tug on the end of the line. Looking through recipes, with the mind to discover yet another way to prepare the meat which my father worked so hard to bring home for us. Consuming the meal together, and sharing in the success of the dish as we catch up on a Saturday afternoon.
