Country Living – Digging deep into oyster mythology

Oysters
He ordered oysters and she champagne
Crisp white tablecloths and lust they shall refrain
Plump and glistening against the silverware
Romantic anticipation filled the air.
Julie Cotton

Below the gentle massaging waters of the Mahurangi estuary sits the silent seduction of the humble oyster. Gifts of joyous wonderment lovingly nurtured along in their beds by marine ecologist and owner of Mahurangi Oysters, Mr James Aitken. In the warmth of a still autumn afternoon, I set about to find if the man truly maketh the myth. I met James at Scotts Landing where his oyster barge is kept and kindly borrowed some waders. The waders, built to keep its occupants dry, were the heaviest attire I had ever adorned my body with, and so I awkwardly waddled like a tin man down the ramp and onto the barge.

Against the backdrop of the afternoon sun and anchored sail boats, the compulsion was building for me to blurt out the question I had on my lips since my coming of age. So, is it true? Are oysters really an aphrodisiac? James sat silent for a second and then with a cheeky smile on his face, politely replied, “Oh, that. Well, they are whatever you want to believe they are.” Perfect!

So, with the friskiness level of oyster farmers having been ascertained and the world’s passionate beliefs still intact, we headed out to the baby oyster beds. The stormy weather of the preceding days had ruffled the beds of the little sleeping babies. James jumped in the water and gently rearranged some of the containers that housed the tiny oysters. They sparkled in the sun, like the diamonds atop of a thousand ‘Will you marry me’s?’. Back on the barge we headed east along the estuary to the growing beds, and it was here that I was about to be reminded that behind the success of every idyllic love story comes the hard graft. James needed to feed out some new longlines so he could attach his “tumblers” (industry speak for a capsule that contains the baby oysters or spat that allows them to grow in).

I was super-keen to participate in any ordinary working routine that formed part of the welling emotions and taste sensations created from oysters. With waders on, I slipped off the barge and into the muddy waters. Shin deep in mud and waist high in water, I was amazed at the amount of pressure on my body. James handed me a black line and asked me to walk around the outside perimeter of the tumbler bed back to him. At first this seemed an easy ask, however, that was before I took my first step and realised, I was practically glued in the mud with the weight of the waders and downward pressure. I had to try and heave one leg in front of the other in slow motion like Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. It was the heartiest 45 metres I had ever walked, the whole time freaking that I would fall headfirst into the water and not be able to get up. Patiently waiting at the starting point, James directed me back onto the barge for the next part of the process.

The ladder-less flat barge was sitting about shoulder height and, unfortunately, there is no pretty way to describe the scene of hauling myself out the water and onto it, except to say if James had mused about an awkwardly obese seal trying to clamber onto a rock I wouldn’t have held it against him. Next, very specific instructions ensued, we were to thread (four) metre-long tubes onto the wire then (one) short spacer tube and repeat. A simple enough instruction it seems, unless of course you’re an easily distracted ditz with basic arithmetic flaws. I hung my head in shame when, after threading the whole longline, James discovered I had threaded (three) instead of (four) near the start. We had to unthread them all and start again. I slid back in the water with James and as the sun got lower and the air got cooler we chatted and laughed as we repeated the process.

That day I discovered that those sweet oysters that glide down the back of our throats with their loving connotations are only outshone by the hard working and resilient men and women like James who farm them. A gift created by them from being immersed in the water through driving rain in the pits of winter cold, and the soaking beaded sweat inside their waders during months of glaring summer. So, I find it is true, these men and women do maketh the myth. They are busy creating a million little love poems for us all. And as for James? Well, I saved a line from him and I read it to you, “The stingrays are like my puppy dogs.” Now don’t that just melt your heart!