Since Phoenician times, octopi have been the main catch for the villagers of Salema, located on a still-sleepy patch of the Algarve, Portugal’s popular south coast. And the fishing process has changed little in several thousand years. At the crack of dawn, I wait at the beach for my local friend, Sebastian, who’s agreed to take me out to check the pots. As Sebastian pushes his boat into the sea, he helps me board. His hands are thickly calloused; mine are mostly used for a laptop. My white and tender feet are slathered with sunscreen; his are like hooves as they grab the crackled wooden surface of his garishly colored and well-worn boat. Vivid contrasts make vivid travel memories.
The barnacle-encrusted pottery jars stacked around town are much more than rustic souvenirs: they’re octopus traps. They’re tied about 15 feet apart in long lines and dropped offshore. (And ancient, unwritten tradition allocates different chunks of undersea territory to each Salema family.) Octopi, thinking these are a cozy place to set an ambush, climb in and get ambushed themselves. When the fishermen hoist them in, the stubborn octopi hang on – unaware they’ve made their final mistake.
