My Journal

By Harriman Nelson

14

I was in my lab, having just determined that the clams were toxic. I dreaded telling Chip, still outside with Lee. The monitors were following them, now behind us and illuminated by exterior lights we’d dropped from the belly hatch to help light their way. They also had lights atop their diving helmets.

While the depth was by no means abysmal, it was still too dark to see much without help.

So far, they’d captured one Flatfish and one Gargoyle Fish with their hand held nets and placed them into the drag net behind them, a lot of good those two fish would do the galley.

I was about to tell them to give up when Lee stopped and pointed.

“Crabs!”

“You sure about them, Lee?” Chip asked. “They’re furry.”

“Harry?”

I punched the intercom and ordered Sparks to magnify the belly cam’s image.

“Relatives of King Crabs by the look of them,” I said after a moment of study. “That fur’s actually algae.”

“I thought King Crabs only lived in the Arctic,” Chip said.

“A popular misconception,” Lad. “There’s a sub species of King Crabs that are harvested by Japanese fishing boats. Some other sub species have even been caught in the Great Barrier Reef. Usually not this big, though.”

“Safe to eat?”

“Depends on the pollutants. I’m afraid the clams are highly toxic. So, don’t be too surprised if these crabs are too.”

It wasn’t long before Lee and Chip were back aboard and I met them in the Missile Room, along with Cookie and some of the mess specialists who’d brought a dolly to take the catch to the galley. But before they could, I picked one out for my tests and had Chief Sharkey, armed with a large bucket, take it and the two fish to the lab.

“Well, if we can eat them,” Chip was saying, and pointed to a struggling crab inside the huge drag net on the dolly, “I want that one, there.”

I couldn’t blame him. Its huge legs were protruding at least three feet from the net and was very active. Certainly a good sign of a healthy creature. Sort of. Maybe.

Lee grabbed a Sharpie pen from one of the missile room crew and scrawled a big CM on one of the crab’s legs, then nodded to the men to take the haul to the waiting (and large) water filled buckets in the galley.

I’d promised Cookie I’d hurry my tests, but some things couldn’t be hurried. I’d only just concluded the tests on the two fish when Lee arrived, freshly showered and changed, eyepatch in place, a concession to some of the crew’s dislike seeing the shiny metal emptiness.

 “I don’t know about the crabs yet,” I said, “and I’m afraid the tests are taking longer than expected. Probably won’t be concluded until after 2300. But the fish aren’t toxic. However, I’d advise keeping them as specimens instead of using them as protein supplement.”

“They taste that bad?”

“I know the Flatfish are consumed in some Asian dishes, as for the Gargoyle Fish, I just don’t know. I have Sparks trying to find out.”

“Well, even if we end up having to disappoint the crew about a seafood supper any time soon, at least we’re nearing Aussie waters. Then we can proceed to the fake sub’s trench and start making enough noise to satisfy anyone topside.”

Lee then sat on the stool next to me and clicked the intercom.

“Attention all hands. This is the captain. The tests are taking longer than anticipated. Cookie? You’d better prepare what you had originally planned. But think about a possible late night snack for all hands if our catch proves to be edible. After all, our fishing trip was meant to augment our emergency foodstuffs, not replace them.”

“Aye sir,” Cookie replied. “Keeping em’ crossed.”

Supper was  a miserable affair. Though I had to admit that the imitation quiche was at least filling, in spite of tasting like cardboard, or what one thinks cardboard should taste like. This time, however, the crew hadn’t followed my or their skipper’s lead in a show of loyalty to Cookie’s creation. 

It was past my estimated 2300 and the chemical test on the crab hadn’t concluded yet. I thought about heading to the nose. Nothing like drowning your sorrows with a fellow by the name of Johnny Walker.  But, no, I told myself, I’d better save that in case the crabs proved to be inedible.

Before I could grab my cane, however, the printer began to click, and I began to read the report with some trepidation.

I clicked the intercom.

“Attention all hands. This is the admiral. The crabs are safe to consume. Repeat, the crabs are safe to consume.”

I needn’t have repeated myself. I could hear the whoops of joy throughout the boat. 

It’s nearly 1205 and a new day has dawned, well, not technically as it’s only a teensy bit past midnight and dawn’s a long way off. The Wardroom and the Crew’s Mess are very crowded. Lee relaxed the ‘no second’s rule as we had enough boiled crab and crab casserole for seconds and thirds. And maybe even leftovers for tomorrow.

Chip’s tummy, and most everyone’s tummies are happy. All that is, except mine. A clear case of over indulgence.

Now, where’s that bicarb?