The Generous Sea

An Excerpt from ‘Edith Myra’

Written by T.W.S Armstrong

Before supermarkets and seafood counters, the ocean itself was the family’s pantry. In this passage from Maiden Webb, Edith Myra recalls the days when Wynnum’s tides provided both food and fortune — when children waded barefoot through the shallows, collecting oysters by the bucketful, unaware of the fragile ecosystem beneath their feet. What unfolds is a memory steeped in salt, sunlight, and the simple ingenuity of a community living close to nature. It’s a tender glimpse into a time when survival and joy were found in the same shimmering waters …

But in those days, the ocean was like a generous old friend, offering up its treasures as if it understood the tightness of our pockets and the rumbling hunger that lingered after each meal. We used to get oysters all the time, venturing down to the beds that lay just beyond the shoreline, where the air was thick with salt and seaweed, and the water lapped against the rocks with a steady, soothing rhythm. Back then, we didn’t think twice about our methods—we were too young, too eager, too unaware of the delicate balance of nature’s workings. We’d wade out, buckets in hand, and pull up the oysters, shell, and all, yanking them from their beds with little thought of the damage we were causing. Each oyster was a prize, a glistening, briny morsel hidden within a rough shell, and the thrill of gathering them outweighed any distant concerns about the future of those beds.

We didn’t understand then that by taking the whole shell, we were robbing the beds of their chance to renew themselves, breaking the cycle that allowed the oysters to flourish. What we ought to have done was shuck them right there, leave the empty shells behind as an offering, a promise of life to come. But we were reckless in our ignorance, carrying our buckets brimming with both meat and shell back home, feeling triumphant in our haul.

Pop Woolley, though, he knew better. He’d shuffle down to the beds with his battered old bottles, wise to the ways of the ocean. With a practiced hand, he’d open each oyster on the spot, slipping the meat into his bottles and leaving the shells behind, like planting seeds for the next harvest. Pop had a respect for the sea that the rest of us hadn’t yet learned; he understood the need to give something back, to leave a trace of life behind for the future. He’d sell his oysters, too, bottles filled to the brim with the precious meat, making a small profit from the knowledge he held, an old man in tune with the rhythms of the tides.

But we, wild and eager as we were, would haul our bounty back to the house, grinning and triumphant. We’d pop the oysters into the old wood stove, where they’d open under the heat, filling the kitchen with the warm, earthy smell of the sea. Launa would be the first to dig in, her eyes bright with anticipation, piling the hot, salty oysters onto slices of buttered bread, sprinkling them with a dash of pepper. She adored her seafood and watching her eat was like watching a child with a treat. She’d savour each one, the salt and sea and butter mingling on her tongue, her face lighting up with each bite. And sometimes, she wouldn’t even wait for the stove—she’d take the oysters raw, still slick, and cold, popping them into her mouth as though they were the finest delicacies, savouring that sharp taste of the ocean.

The sea offered us more than just oysters. You could walk down to the water any day of the week and fish right off the wall, a line dropped over the edge with the easy confidence of someone who knew the fish would come. We’d reel in whiting and garfish, their silver scales flashing in the sunlight, their bodies twisting in our hands. Sometimes, we’d catch crabs, too—Dad would set out pots, the metal cages dropping down into the depths, baited and waiting, and by morning, they’d be filled with crabs, snapping and scuttling, their hard shells like armour against the world.

Bait was never in short supply. We’d dig up worms ourselves, beautiful, fat things that wriggled in our hands, their bodies smooth and cool from the earth. We found so many that we’d bag them up, selling them to other fishermen in the area, small coins exchanging hands over the living, writhing creatures that promised a good catch. Even firewood, a staple for the hearth, became a commodity. We’d gather what we could, bundling the wood into stacks, tying it up with old rope, and selling it to neighbours who needed an extra supply to get them through the colder nights.

Before my time, they say, people would pitch their tents all along the water’s edge at Wynnum, a winding ribbon of canvas and campfires stretching down the shore. Families from all walks of life would come, their tents clustered close, lanterns glowing softly in the night as the waves whispered nearby. By the time I came along, those scenes had faded into memory, but I still remember the campers down at Lota, huddled by the water, their campfires flickering against the twilight. It was a simpler time, a quiet patchwork of makeshift shelters and laughter carried on the wind, their gatherings a relic of a past that even then felt a little distant.

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