Heat on the Half-Shell

On Friday, September 28th, my brother, sis-in-love, and I ventured out for the evening to the Carlsbad Aquafarm for a tour/wine-tasting/mussel-tasting.  My brother is a member of the Agua Hedionda Lagoon Foundation, and he RSVPed to the event the previous week for the three of us.  We arrived at the farm just after 5:30, believing that with all of the Homeland Security criteria we would be turned away for being late, but the volunteer greeters and other members were friendly and eager for us to be there, so we gladly walked the short trek from parking at the NRG hydro-power plant to the farm on the lagoon.

If you’ve never explored a lagoon before, the scenery can change with a simple circling of the shore.  On our residential side of the lagoon the water is littered with juiced-up powerboats, stand-up paddleboarders, Jetskis, and all sorts of gasoline- and sunscreen-powered flotsam.  On the aquafarm side of the lagoon you cannot see any recreational watercraft: just mussel-floats, pelicans, and, if you turn your back on the lagoon, the Great Highway.  We arrived at the farm on foot and I tried my level best to tune out the traffic.  I didn’t succeed, but that didn’t stop me from trying.

When we first entered the tiny man-made shoreline we were greeted by a table from a local group eager to sponsor wildlife conservation through reptiles--in one cage, a lizard with scary spikes that no amount of cajoling would get me to pet or pick up, and in another glass case a small silver snake, indigenous to the desert of San Diego.  The snake was two pencil-lengths, silver, and soft to the touch.  I was encouraged to pick him up as well, and weirdly fell in love with him, his body wrapped around my hands like a baby’s fist and his small, forked tongue sniffing me out.  I was asked to shield him from the setting sun, a proposal I had no trouble sympathizing with--I hate the never-ending sunlight here as well, so I pivoted to provide him shade.  He cooled off and thought about making a cave of my shirt cuffs, me turning my hands to keep him visible.  I was constantly afraid of dropping him--neurologically I can be a bit clumsy--but he was insistent, and the greater challenge was letting him go, both emotionally and physically.

Something up my sleeve...

After making friends with the snake, we made our way to the wine, all Napa Valley.  What, no Temecula? I thought too readily, but didn’t share the snarky comment--more and more I’m trying to understand some of the completely un-understandable reasoning behind actions in this part of the world.  Besides, the wine was rich and delicious, and free in the wild.  I took the cup and savored my sips.  

Since another batch of mussels was mid-steam, we were encouraged to tour the farm with one of the marine biologists who manages it, a man whom I will call Jack because a) that sounds like his name, and b) that’s the best that I can remember his name.  As the sun set on the other side of the Great Highway, he gave us a tour of abalone pools, storage tanks for oysters awaiting orders, and manufactured algae beds.  He patiently and passionately answered the questions of a group of twenty or so people: “Can you farm the oysters to have a certain flavor?” (No...unless you can limit their environment to Tabasco water or something, but we don’t do that.) “How long do you hold the product awaiting shipment?” (Shellfish can stay fresh in holding for up to three weeks; they don’t eat much.)  “Do you have seasons?” (Not really.)

My questions and interest were more environmental.  According to our guide, the only thing that isn’t really natural about the farm is its proximity to the Great Highway, but the Great Highway put a strain on the lagoon before the farm was even a twinkle in the founders’ eyes.  When it came to addressing the issue of “seasons” for the shellfish, the biologist stated that the Department of Fish and Game is pretty diligent in showing up periodically and testing the shellfish for bacteria, pollutants, etc (so my brother’s idea that the mussels and oysters that we would sample would be dodgy due to ptomaine poisoning were debunked right then and there).  My brother asked if there was a way that you could tell, fresh from the water, if the oyster was a bad idea to eat, and the guide helpfully handed him one to hold.  “Feel how that’s weighted and feels like there’s something swimming inside?” he asked my brother.  My brother nodded.  “That means it’s probably good.  If it feels light, you’re in trouble.”  My brother handed the oyster back, happy to be armed with the knowledge.

According to Jack, the farm is in contact with other farms in the state for comparison product growth, and the northern shellfish from similar farms in the Bay Area, etc, have a longer growing time, with diminished results, because the water stays colder in the northern climates.  I asked him if our “unusually hot” summer here in San Diego County meant less time to grow HUGE shellfish this year, and he shook his head.  “It’s a matter of optimal water temperature,” he answered.  “They need a constant temp around 65 degrees Fahrenheit.”  “So what of the extended hot weather?” I asked. “We find it creates higher levels of mortality,” he answered.

Oh.

I’m leery of aquafarms--particularly when there was discussion later in the tour about bringing in shellfish from Asia and other parts of the world--because it seems like cloning or breeding or hot-house flower-growing.  I’m concerned that aquafarms not only create an inferior product versus their “wild” counterparts, but that they could be introducing particles into the environment that in years to come may do something like kill all of the mullets or sea lions or something.  (You may snicker about that last one, but when fur traders from Europe finally made it to what is now Southern California and stripped the coastline of a good measure of sea lions and seals, the shellfish population boomed, and only “recently” has started to recede back to "normal" levels due to consumers having gone from wearing seal to eating raw oysters.)  My opinion of the “manufactured natural setting” softened somewhat, however, when I learned of the heat killing the shellfish (curse you, global warming) and that the only thing that had to be maintained in the environment was manually cleaning out the aqua-duct under the Great Highway (if the highway wasn’t there, and if I-5 wasn’t there, the lagoon would be in its original setting).  It wasn’t the farm changing things.  It was transportation, tourism, and fossil fuels.  I failed at ignoring the Great Highway over my shoulder again.

When it became too dark to see much, my family and I walked back to the steamed mussels and oyster-shucking station.  I did not partake (I prefer mussels in dishes, and oysters with sauces and such, the lightweight that I am), but my brother and sis-in-love each had two oysters.  They remarked on how salty they were, how almost brine-y.  Then we walked, escorted, back to our parking lot, the tower of the power plant shedding the only light in the world.