You ever think squid fishing sounds peaceful? Little moonlit harbour, gentle rocking of the boat, maybe a flask of tea…

Aye. That’s what I thought too.

Turns out it’s more like paintball with seafood that hates you personally.

The Call

I get this call from Salty Sam. Now, Sam’s voice sounds like an old diesel engine trying to start on a frosty January dawn.

“Ye fuh fuh fuh fancy goin’ squid fishin’ Friday?”

His speech has this lovely stutter to it — every sentence does a wee dance before landing. Like a gull in a crosswind.

And I think, why not?

Bit of fresh air, a laugh… maybe a pint. Or, more likely, an opportunity to humiliate myself in front of wildlife.

Mistake Number One: I Dressed Nice Vineyard Vines polo, freshly pressed, faint whiff of laundry soap and misplaced optimism. Deck shoes buffed till they looked smug.

It’s Friday night — I might bump into neighbours — so I wanted “casually nautical” instead of “dragged through a net backwards.”

Mistake Number Two: Trying to Park in Edgartown

It’s like musical chairs, but all the chairs are already taken by Range Rovers driven by people in pastel jumpers calling each other “Babe.”

Parallel parking here is like threading a sewing needle while holding a live haddock. At one point I tried to parallel park behind a Vespa. A Vespa. I thought, “Is this my life now? Measuring success in inches and despair?”

Fifteen minutes of muttering like a sea captain with gout, and I wedge the car into a gap on the far side of town — a place that smells of low tide, diesel fumes, and something that gave up living on Tuesday.

Enter Sam

Beard like a barnacle crusted shipwreck, blue hat welded to his skull, clothes frayed like they’d been chewed by a bored shark.

He squints at me.

“Ye look awf… awful fancy, Jon. Squid’ll bluh… bluh… bloody love ye.”

I think it’s a joke. It isn’t.

The Ritual

We’re setting up the lines when Sam pulls a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from his tackle box, takes a swig big enough to sterilise a whale, wipes his mouth, and hands it to me.

I ask, “You don’t have a glass?”

He bursts out laughing. “Glass? Fishermen drink from the neck of the bottle, same as God intended.”

I take a swig. It goes down like liquid fire, settles somewhere between courage and regret.

The Tangent

Without warning, he says, “Ye know, one time, I was marooned three days… on a buoy.”

I blink. “A buoy?”

“Aye, a big red one. Fell overboard haulin’ traps, tide took me, ended up clingin’ to it like a cat on a hot tin roof. Every couple hours, a seagull lands on me hat… and just… stares.”

“Not peckin’. Not squawkin’. Just judgin’ me.”

Eventually a ferry rescues him, and the captain says, “I thought ye were a statue.”

A statue! Like a memorial to the daftest bastard at sea.

Then — another swerve:

“Once, I was nearly sunk by a mattress. Well — a waterbed. Still had the sheets on. Hit it head on, jammed the prop, had to tow it back in. Looked like a floatin’ crime scene.”

And another:

“I had a waterbed meself once. Bloody awful. Sit down, the cat gets launched into the air. Leak, and you wake up thinkin’ you’ve wet the bed — warm on one side, cold on the other. Gave me vertigo.”

Just like that — back to business:

“Right — ye’ve got one. Pull!”

The Inking

First haul — up comes this alien wee devil, shimmering violet and silver under the harbour lights, eyes big enough to judge my soul.

Before I can admire it — PFFFFT! — right in the chest.

Warm at first… then cold… then sticky. Like a tax bill in liquid form.

Sam’s doubled over, wheezing like a harmonica in a hurricane.

“We we we… welcome to the cluh… club!”

Second squid — I’m ready now. Defensive stance, shirt shielded.

PFFFFT! Face shot.

It tastes like licking a rusted teaspoon left in a February puddle. And it gets in your teeth, like it’s considering moving in.

Third squid — full riot gear posture.

PFFFFT! Straight into my shoe. Through the laces. My socks now smell like Poseidon’s armpit.

We fill the bucket — thud, squirm, gulls shrieking like they’re spreading gossip. And for a second, it’s… beautiful. The lights dancing on the water, the salt air, the diesel, the Jack Daniel’s burn.

Then another squid inks my elbow.

The Neighbours

I trudge to the car, dripping brine, reeking like the laundry pile at a fish market… and bump into the Hendersons.

“Evening!” I say.

They step back like I’ve just tried to sell them a haunted lobster.

The Mirror

At home, I throw everything in the wash. Every stitch comes out dyed a dignified shade of cheap caviar.

In the morning, I look in the mirror and realise I’ve missed a bit — right under the nose.

I’ve spent the morning looking like a French mime in mourning.

My boxers, in particular, look like they’ve been booked as evidence in a homicide.

Somewhere in Edgartown harbour… a squid is still laughing about me.

And if Sam calls next Friday? I’ll still say yes.

Might even bring the boxers. They’ve seen worse. And frankly… I think they still owe the squid money.

Full Recipe:https://www.jonashton.com/post/crispy-fried-calamari