Clinging Like Horseshoe Crabs

I was born in Tan Thanh, a coastal village that thrived on the bounty of the sea. But as the war uprooted our lives, my family sought refuge in Go Cong, a peaceful town just ten kilometres away. Before that fateful day of April 30, 1975, my parents received gifts of fresh fish, prawns, clams, mussels, etc. from friends and family who still fished the waters of Tan Thanh. This connection to the sea ignited a lifelong love for its treasures. However, after the fall of South, the once-bustling fishery in Tan Thanh dwindled due to fuel shortages and the desperate exodus of fishing boats. Seafood became a rare luxury, yet one simple dish remains etched in my memory.

One summer vacation during my university days, I returned to Tan Thanh to visit my elder brother’s family. He took me to Brother Tien’s house, a fascinating relative and a fisherman whose life was intertwined with the rhythms of the sea like The Old Man and the Sea, written by Ernest Hemingway. By fortune, he had caught a female horseshoe crab, heavy with eggs, just the day before. His wife transformed it, crafting a salad dish on a plate in front of us on the table that beckoned with its vibrant colours and rich flavours.

Seeing my puzzled expression, Brother Tien leaned in, his eyes twinkling with mirth:

‘The female was alone without a male clinging to her back. That was unusual. Perhaps she was tossed ashore by fierce waves, or maybe they argued about trivial things like couples tend to do, and parted their ways. You see, horseshoe crabs are meant to be together. The male is half her size, clinging to her like a child. That’s why one says, “sticking together like horseshoe crabs.”’

A smile crept across my face, recognising the wisdom in his words, even if I didn’t fully grasp their depth. It was a fleeting moment of joy amidst the struggles we faced.

With a playful grin, Brother Tien added:

"Thanks to that, the male escaped being dinner. Life has its fate, even among animals. Some people release a lone male horseshoe crab back into the sea, believing it is bad luck to eat it. They see the pair of clinging horseshoe crabs as “yin and yang”; both are needed for harmony."

I thought differently. The larger female was full of meat and nutritious eggs, while the smaller male, clinging to her all day, wouldn’t be worth eating. If fishermen caught a male, letting it go seemed practical.

In the rich tapestry of Chinese literature, fantasy tales like Pu Songling’s Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio blur the lines between the real and the surreal. In a typical story, a young scholar was seduced by a fox-turned-beautiful young girl, resulting in his decline. Or, in the popular contemporary martial arts novels of the late Hong Kong writer Jin Yong, the Mount Emei Sect, composed solely of young female disciples, required training with handsome swordsmen to reach their highest potential, as dictated by the secret of the Nine Yin Sutra.

Brother Tien broke my reverie, asking:

"Have you ever seen a female horseshoe crab?"

I frowned, memories rushing back to my childhood visit to the local fish market. The vendor had left a female horseshoe crab upside down in a plastic container, lifeless. Perhaps she was missing her mate, still lost at sea. To me, she resembled a grotesque creature with a dangerous, pointed tip like a stingray's tail. The round, spiked shell and eight legs made her seem unappealing. I pondered why love could flourish even among the unlikeliest of beings. On the contrary, for humans, “A match made in heaven” is a compliment for a well-matched couple, yet sometimes, they still “break up”.

"What an ugly creature with little meat!’, I remarked half-jokingly, ‘Yet your wife has turned it into an exquisite dish: a vibrant salad with countless yellowish tiny eggs. What is her secret?"

"Fishermen catch them from November to March of the lunar calendar, when the females are full of round eggs. They feast on jellyfish, making their liver and intestines poisonous. Care must be taken to avoid breaking them when preparing. We grill the female over a charcoal fire until golden brown on both sides, then mix shredded meat and eggs with carrots, cucumbers, herbs, peanuts, sugar, fish sauce, lemon, and other spices. That is my wife’s recipe."

His description made my mouth water. I recalled reading about specialty restaurants in Japan where skilled chefs prepared deadly fish, daring diners to indulge. I couldn’t help but tease Brother Tien:

"Brother Tien, you prepared this horseshoe crab carefully, right?"

He blinked, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, but said nothing. That day, we relished a meal that was both delicious and a testament to our survival.

Back at university, I researched the behaviour of horseshoe crabs and stumbled upon a tale from Vietnamese folklore. It told of a fishman whose boat sank in a storm. His devoted wife, believing he survived, searched the shore tirelessly. Exhausted, she fell asleep on the sand. A divine spirit appeared, offering her a magical stone that would reunite her with her husband, warning her to keep it in her mouth while flying across the sea.

When she found him, they embraced tightly, ready to soar back home. But in her excitement, she spoke, and the stone slipped from her mouth. They immediately fell into the sea, transformed into a pair of horseshoe crabs, forever clinging to each other.

Not long after that meal, I became one of “the boat people”, leaving my homeland. I resettled in Australia after spending almost a year in various refugee camps in Southeast Asia. In this vast, unfamiliar homeland, I have yet to taste the special dish again. Yet, life continues to echo the tale of the horseshoe crab.

When my children were young, I took the family on long road trips every summer. One journey stretched about two thousand kilometres, with an overnight stop at a small, remote town. Australians call such a town “in the middle of nowhere”. The town we stopped at had three distinct features: very hot, many local Aborigines, and natural hot springs. At the motel, the swimming pool was filled with hot water pumped from deep underground.

After a long day of driving, I relaxed by the pool. An Australian man across from me appeared tired and anxious. Looking at each other silently for a while, I initiated conversation:

"Where are you from?"

"Adelaide, South Australia,’ he replied

‘What brings you to this town?" I continued.

"I have a family business in Gold Coast, Queensland. I used to commute between the two cities monthly, but now I stay there permanently."

I sensed his reluctance to share more. We chatted about the weather, sports, and politics – the mundane threads of life. The quiet evening enveloped us, and soon we felt like old friends who had reunited after years apart. Eventually, he confided:

"I have a wife and two children in Adelaide. Today, I am driving home to celebrate my first son's university graduation. It's a long drive and I’m tired."

"Why not find a business closer to home?" I inquired.

"That's the tragedy that I have imposed on myself," he responded with a sigh.

His words hung heavy in the air. I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Because of the distance, he couldn't see it. He continued:

"Years ago, I had a crush on my young, attractive secretary. One thing led to another, and I married her. Now, we have a child in kindergarten. I have to pick him up every day and attend the parent-teacher interviews every quarter. After a long day at work, I just want to sit on a couch, sipping beer. At my age, those school chores feel exhausting. It’s like deja vu. I had 'been there, done that' with my first two children."

His story echoed a narrative I had heard about men who pursue younger partners. I asked:

"How old are you to feel so cynical?"

"Just over forty. Do I look older?" he sighed.

I remained silent, acknowledging the truth in his weariness.

"I’ve grown sceptical of my choices’," he admitted, "I wish I hadn't gone to Gold Coast for business and had stayed in Adelaide with my ex-wife."

In that moment, I glimpsed the essence of clinging horseshoe crabs in his despair. Searching for words, I hesitated to criticise him although his actions were morally murky.

Yet, as Oscar Wilde once said, a cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. Finally, I spoke from the heart:

"God has a plan for everyone. We make choices and must take responsibility. If you recognise a mistake, it’s never too late to correct it. I wish you the best!"

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In 1982, Van Pho arrived in Australia as a Vietnamese refugee and went on to build a distinguished career as a senior executive leading strategic transformations for multinational and Australian corporations. Beyond his professional life, he has long been active in community service, including serving as General Secretary for the Vietnamese community in Victoria and as a member of the Senior Victorian Advisory Committee. His first English-language book, A Bridge Too Far, is available on Amazon, alongside many of his short stories shared in both Vietnamese and English.

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