By Susie Raymond, 2/21/2006
From south-most Baja Calfornia to Point Conception,
long before Beach Blanket Bingo
or Gidget Goes Hawaiian,
there was the sexy ritual known as the Grunion Run.
The Grunion is a dainty little fish.
It has no legs to run
and makes no grunting noise,
but is renowned for orgies extravagant.
My kin and I are the voyeurs.
We could catch the fish in bare hands,
but that would not seem fair,
to interfere while they are copulating.
We arrive early for the show,
sun ourselves and splash ‘round in the surf,
(You can call it foreplay I suppose)
hours to go before the moonrise and the highest tide,
the opportunity all too brief,
when the moon and wave pull and push,
in unison to spill
a curling ribbon of salty sea
past the wet wave mark
spilling, pooling into warm dry sand.
Driftwood gathered, fires lit,
as wind picks up, blowing sand,
sweatshirts donned, kids race in and out
of shadows cast by firelight,
still hours to go, bedtimes forgotten.
For pretend forts, bamboo scavenged.
One by one the grown-ups stir,
some stand with buckets at attention.
One then two then four or eight,
the grunion wash upon the shore.
Wait! Stay back, these are scouts
sent on ahead soon followed by the horde.
Free love at last! The orgy has begun!
The slimy bodies squirm and thrash
in the sandy slurry.
The females arch and excavate
with whipping tails a sloppy nest.
They twist their bodies until deep,
deposit eggs,
while in a masculine embrace.
On cue, the man-fish lets go his milt.
We voyeurs watch ribbons
of phosphorescent foam.
Grunion churn in the salty brew,
as each breaker peters out,
delivers a new throng on each wave,
for hours more,
‘til the moon fades.