With the Sound of the Waves in the Distance

On my last night on the island of Eleuthera we were busy in Mojo's surf shack. Mojo and Joey were re-routing the pumps for his fresh water system to get the plumbing working again. While they worked, I cooked on the screened-in porch with a breeze blowing gently through.

I fried a pan of thinly sliced potatoes seasoned with lemon pepper and a dash of dark rum. In another pot I had lot of chunks of lionfish and spiny lobster going. We had all speared them together in the water hours earlier. It was a warm place. Filled with the smells of fish and potatoes and spices. Behind me was a table holding a centerpiece sculpture of a surfer named Ratdog, fashioned from driftwood and beach debris.

Mojo had a song on his stereo. Something with a scratchy voice singing about mothers being good to their daughters.

It was a good moment. I cooked there on the porch and sipped a glass of grog.

I carry that moment with me and think about it often. One of those rare moments that has never really ended or left me. The smell of the lionfish and the lobsters and the warm light of the surf shack. These were the pieces of 'Eating Aliens' that mattered the most to me and I hope that some that is evident in the edited version of the book.