Trouble With Tuna
Most people are not aware of the protocol for scattering human ashes at sea. For starters, you must be accompanied by a licensed captain. Your boat must be located at least three nautical miles from shore and any other vessel. Once you’ve arrived at the desired location, the captain should position the boat into the wind and, if possible, drop an anchor to keep the boat turned in the proper direction. You’ll want to perform the scattering from the back of the boat. It is here one can conduct a ceremony, say a few words, read a poem and the like. If you’re planning on pouring ashes directly into the sea, it is advisable to use a scattering tube to prevent the cremains from being blown back into the faces of mourners. Scattering tubes come in many designs and are available on Amazon for about $59. Just hold the tube as low to the water as possible and pour.
Ashes don’t sink right away, so if the idea of your loved one floating about on the surface (think fish food) doesn’t appeal to you, an urn can be purchased any place funeral supplies are sold. For a more personal touch, try Etsy. Keep in mind the Environmental Protection Agency requires that anything thrown into the ocean must be biodegradable. Consider something like the “Peaceful Pillow,” created specifically for water burial. The “pillow” is made of stiff paper and folded in such a way as to hold the contents in place. The blue and silver cover may be printed with your loved one’s name, birth and death dates and anything else you’d like to say for just $10 per line. A nautical rope holds the pillow closed. Once in the water, the pillow will slip under quickly, depending on the weight of the cremains; an average adult takes approximately three minutes. “Taller loved ones, since they are bigger boned, may slip under more swiftly,” according to the In the Light Urns website.
By the time my stepmother notified me, via text message, of my father’s death, the Neptune Society had already come to retrieve his body. The Neptune Society is a prepaid cremation service. They scatter cremains at sea on a weekly basis. These common dispersals are not open to family members. So, in the case of my father, there was nothing to arrange. There would be no captain, no urn to select, no words spoken. There would be no standing around to see how quickly he would sink. One had to conclude — this is how he wanted it. He wasn’t one for fanfare.
A passionate fisherman who sported the license plate FSHNBUF on his BMW, my father was a 35-year member of the Los Angeles Rod and Reel Club. For ten years he was editor of their newsletter, called The Chum Line. The newsletter printed a 650-word obituary when my father died. It mentions his “Charter Master” status and that he was chair of the Environmental Committee. The obit describes how he had caught two 300-pound fish during his career, and that he still holds the club record for the largest yellowfin tuna — 334 lbs. 8 oz. It notes his blue-ribbon winning Bonsai trees and his love of symphony music. My sister and I, however, were not mentioned.
When I read the obit, I wondered if the taxidermy yellowfin on the wall of my dad’s office was the cited record holder. I never asked if it was a real fish mount or a fiberglass reproduction. There is a catch and release movement, encouraging people to release monster fish and buy replicas to use as trophies. This seems like a good idea, especially for the fish. Why not take it one step further and skip fishing all together?
At your next family gathering, just tell Aunt Louise, “Why, yes, I was in Bermuda when I caught the marlin hanging over the sofa,” and go back to the cheese platter. Make sure your receipt from Fish Faux Taxidermy is stashed away and no one will be the wiser.
I have never understood trophies, particularly of things you’ve killed. I suppose there is a primitive instinct or some kind of survival prowess that wants to be expressed. Some pride or proof of dominance that causes one to stand proudly beside a majestic creature you’ve just murdered. It makes me wonder if, as a species, we’ve evolved at all.
Having spent time on Match.com, I can tell you, we have not.
When I first signed up, I was surprised to find the majority of the men who requested my attention had at least one photo of themselves holding up something dead. Mostly fish, but sometimes deer, and one man posed with a bear he had killed. This particular “wink” motivated the termination of my Match account along with the awareness that being single offers a less violent lifestyle than dating.
I doubt my father exercised the catch and release option. After a big fishing trip there were always packs of tuna cans stacked in his garage. They were not commercial cans, like Chicken of the Sea. They were plainly wrapped and packaged six to a sleeve. On the sleeves it said, This fish was caught by and then there was a blank space where you could write in someone’s name. I used to think these cans held the actual fish my father had caught. I later learned he traded his fresh catch for the already processed cans. This discovery changed the overall feel of the tuna for me. I mean, who’s tuna was this?
In my early 20’s, I attended art school in Valencia, California, about 40 minutes from where my father lived. He disapproved of my career choice and refused to pay for college, but I would visit him regularly, trying to stay in his good graces. If he had it, he would give me a sleeve of tuna to take home. For an art student with little money, this was very valuable, as a six-pack of tuna was nearly a week’s worth of food. During one visit, when it came time for lunch, my stepmother offered to make me a tuna salad sandwich, which I accepted. I had placed my six-pack on a chair with my bag and jacket, but I saw my stepmother walk over to it, take one can from the pack and use it to make my sandwich. It was okay, but I found myself calculating how the tuna might now last only 4-5 days.
In my second year, I met a graduate student named Walter who was the teaching assistant for my painting seminar. One afternoon our class visited Walter’s studio and I noticed he mixed his paint in tuna cans. There were cans scattered on tables and a stack of empty cans under his desk. It was obvious Walter ate a lot of tuna. I liked him and wanted to impress him, so the weekend after the studio visit, I took a few cans of tuna from the pantry of the people I babysat for. They had five kids and bought a lot of tuna. I know it was wrong, but there must have been some kind of unconscious tuna force at work. Anyway, when Monday came, I knocked on the door to Walter’s studio. “I thought you might be able to use these,” I said, holding out my tuna offering. He looked confused. “You don’t have to bring me food,” he said, “I’m on a meal plan.”
While writing this I googled Walter. His LinkedIn profile shows he is now a VP for the Rockefeller Real Estate group in New York City. There is a YouTube interview in which he is featured, looking as handsome as ever. I imagine he has a killer apartment with wrap around views of the city, or maybe something in the West Village with exposed brick and a terrace.
Boy, I sure wish I hadn’t led with the tuna.
