By Paul Lebowitz

Abalone. One of the few saltwater diversions enjoyed exclusively by California’s northerners. Every season prospectors flock to the craggy Sonoma and Mendocino coasts.

On weekends you see them everywhere along scenic Highway 1, anywhere the shoulder has room to park a truck or two. The black-suited figures, loaded down with inner tubes, body boards, or kayaks, gather anywhere they can get into the water. On this day the abalone miners are out in force to take advantage of the negative tide that brings their booty a bit closer to reach. And one out of place Southern Californian is with them.

My guides are Sean White and Ron Benkert, a pair of accomplished north coast watermen. Also along for the fun is White’s eleven year old son Chris.

At first I suspect the youngster’s presence is a subtle challenge to prevent me from backing out of my first cold water dive. I’ll later watch in awe as the younger White effortlessly collects a limit of abalone before I even start to feel comfortable in the frigid water. But I’m getting ahead of myself.       

First we have to suit up like we’re visiting another world (which we are). It starts with a thick wetsuit. Next comes a hood that leaves only the mouth, nose, and eyes exposed. Booties go on the feet and gloves on the hands. Then 21 heavy pounds of lead laced onto a belt, necessary to sink all this rubber. Finally flippers, mask, and snorkel complete the outfit.

Encased in seven millimeters of neoprene, I can hardly move. Is this what it feels like to be the Michelin man?  The get-up is cumbersome and awkward on shore, but Benkert assures me it will be unnoticed in the weightlessness of the water.

Equipment check completed, we strip off all but the wetsuits and booties. Jumping onto sit-on-top kayaks, we paddle a mere couple hundred yards from a popular beach located somewhere along the Sonoma and Mendocino County coastline. Abalone divers are secretive when it comes to their spots, maybe unnecessarily. According to White, limits come quick except at a couple of the most popular and easy to reach dive spots such as Fort Ross Cove or parts of Van Damme State Park. Even there, abalone will be thick just a short trip down the shoreline. With their much greater range relative to swimming, kayaks are ideal abalone diving platforms, but for getting into the water in the tightest spots a paddleboard or inner tube might be better.

Of course, sometimes nothing beats the matchless range of a powerboat.

Now that we are at our dive site, a small cove within feet of the shoreline, White anchors in the shallow water. We gear back up. One by one we roll off the kayaks into twelve feet of cold water. How cold? The 50 degree water trickling into the wetsuit chills as it shudders its way down my spine. The sensation passes in seconds as the wetsuit does its job, warming the water against my skin. I float motionless on the surface, face down in the water, taking damp breaths through my snorkel, and hoping my racing heart will slow.

I’m uncomfortable. I can’t seem to suck enough air through my snorkel. I gasp, and saltwater leaks past my lips and into my mouth.

I reflexively swallow. Feeling a bit queasy, I fight for control. I remember White’s warning of the previous evening. “Abalone diving isn’t for everyone. Some people feel that cold water and say ‘enough,’” White was telling me as we watched David Laird’s film Blue: Freediving the Californias. “Stay calm, and you’ll be all right,” White said as we watched a diver peel an oblong disc off a rock.

The lesson continued with a warning of what could go wrong. As the flickering TV screen showed a hapless abalone diver battered by surf against painfully sharp rocks, White explained that the few people who get into trouble each year are usually out when they shouldn’t be, when the swell is up or the weather is poor. “The people who insist on going out are the people who insist on dying. Plan your abalone trip around the forecast, not the other way around. The snail bite is always wide open” he finished. Then for good measure White added that panic is often a contributing factor in abalone diving mishaps.

So I don’t panic. White swims over to check on me, flashes a jaunty thumbs-up, and points to the bottom. There are a lot of rocks down there, all covered with a fuzzy moss or a ribbon-like grass. Many of the rocks are studded with oval protrusions. Abalone! White shows me the procedure. Arch the back, kick down, glide up to the abalone. Holding out his abalone gauge (required by the DFG) White verifies that his abalone is over 7 inches long in its widest dimension. Sliding his iron underneath the abalone, he pushes the tip down against the rock, popping the abalone free, and then casually swims to the surface for a breath.

The entire process takes maybe fifteen seconds. Now it is time for the novice to try.

I swim down and clumsily try to push my iron underneath an abalone, but instead I poke it in the foot. When I try again, I can’t wedge the iron beneath it. The abalone is aware something bad (for it!) is going down. Now it clings to the rock with every muscle fiber. I can’t budge it.

ABALONE DIVER Sean White checks the crevices in the rocks where other divers might have overlooked the big one. White is carrying an abalone iron and measuring device.

SUCCESS –Success! Sean White and Ron Benkert with a brace of nice abalone.

HAPPY –Young Chris White, 11, proud of his first limit of snails.

THE TASTY REWARD –Lunch is served! The traditional preparation is fried in breadcrumbs, garnished with lemons and maybe hot sauce.

Out of air, I surface. Before I can dive again, White waves me over to a rock closer to shore. The rock is barely awash, yet a big abalone is perched right on top. This time the abalone iron glides smoothly between the rock and the snail. An easy push down on the tip of the iron levers the abalone right off the rock. I have my first abalone.       

With Benkert pointing the way, we survey an abundance of abalone. Now that I feel at ease in the water, the hardest part is holding out for the big ones. The inch between a 7 and 8 is good for three times the meat, explains Benkert. While I’m collecting my last two snails, I pay more attention to my surroundings.

Rockfish flit between the rocks or hunker in crevices. Sea stars and urchins litter the bottom. Now that I’m looking, I find there is a lot of interesting marine life to see.

Back on the beach White deftly pries out an abalone, leaving the shell and its beautiful mother of pearl unmarred. Using a knife honed to a razor’s edge, White trims off all the dark patches, and then slices the resulting thick and meaty filet into slabs. Each enjoys a massage from a tenderizing mallet. A quick dip in egg wash is followed by a dredge in Italian bread crumbs and it’s into the skillet. The golden brown abalone planks get a kiss of lemon juice, a dash of hot sauce. Ah, bliss. The tasty treasure explains why north coast outdoorsmen are drawn to the beaches like 49ers rushing to the gold fields.

Sean White runs Northern California's only kayak fishing-centric store. Visit him online at www.gwkc.com