My first squid

I have a dead squid in my refrigerator.

It was given to me by a guy named Mike at Tagachang beach.

He waded across the shallow reef with a spear slung over his back and dozen squishy dead squids hanging down to his knees.

It was sort of hard to avoid conversation.

I was the only one on the beach, sitting in a few inches of warm water, with my dogs frolicking in the sand and my soaking dress billowing around me.

He had squids.

He made his way over to me -- squids and all -- and told me about how he hunted the cephalopods by poking his spear into tiny holes in the ocean floor.

Apparently it's better hunting in high tide -- but the tide was low.

Being a vegetarian, I felt very bad for the squids. Although I eat fish, I have avoided squid since I mistakenly ate calamari on a school trip to a French restaurant during my year abroad.

They have little heads, and eyes, and are smart -- relatively, for sea creatures.

But when someone offers you a squid, it's sort of hard to say no.

So Mike, the squid hunter, disentangled a medium-sized squid from his hook, cleaned the ink sac, and gave me directions on how to cook it (put in boiling water for a few minutes on each side, cut off the head, don't eat the teeth).

It seemed easy enough, and for a moment, I thought -- maybe I'll try squid.

Today, seeing it float around in a bowl of ice water in my fridge, staring up at me with glazed eyes and frozen tentacles, I am not so sure.