Sebastian grabs his bleach bottle, gives each pot a little squirt and a maced octopus flops angrily into the boat. Water splashes everywhere, but there's no sign of an octopus. Sebastian hauls in the line as the old pots are noisily welcomed aboard. When the fishermen hoist them in, the stubborn octopuses hang on - unaware they've made their final mistake. (And ancient, unwritten tradition allocates different chunks of undersea territory to each Salema family.) Octopuses, thinking these are a cozy place to set an ambush, climb in and get ambushed themselves. They're tied about 15 feet apart in long lines and dropped offshore. The barnacle-encrusted pottery jars stacked all over town are much more than rustic souvenirs: They're octopus traps. Vivid contrasts make vivid travel memories. 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. His hands are thickly calloused…mine are mostly used for a laptop. As Sebastian pushes his boat into the sea, he helps me board. 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. And the fishing process has changed little in several thousand years. Since Phoenician times, octopuses have been the main catch for the villagers of Salema, located on the sunny south coast of Portugal.
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