Oyster farming ain't sexy . . . . maybe

Oysters might be an aphrodisiac when you eat them by the dozen, but they don’t do much for sex appeal when you’re at the pointy end of production.

About three decades ago my husband’s father and uncle pioneered New Zealand’s Pacific oyster industry by seeding the Kaipara Harbour with oysters. Since then, however, it's become apparent that oysters mature best on the east coast, while the Kaipara Harbour remains ideal for catching spat - baby oysters.

Over the years they built oyster racks by drilling into the limestone seabed below the high tide mark, banging in posts then mounting planks.

Each year oyster farmers drive hundreds of miles, from Houhora in the north to Ohope Beach in the south, rolling up in trucks laden with thousands of oyster sticks which they mount on the racks. 

After the spat have attached to the sticks, they take them to their east coast farms where fat, succulent oysters grow for your dining pleasure.

Now, in the traditional of family businesses, Rex the beef farmer has morphed into an oyster farmer and this summer he and his helper Tony have repaired and rebuilt racks for the spat catch which is now underway.

It's a messy and decidedly unsexy business, even though there’s lots of sweat involved. 

Low tide - the only time they can work on the racks - isn’t always at dawn or after dinner, it just seems that way, while limestone is definitely as hard as hell and the seabed has to be muddier than hell. 

One evening the oyster farmer stood at the doorway of the dining room coated in Kaipara mud - it’s mauvy-grey/brown, if you’re interested - and said, “How long do you think I should keep this mud pack on?”

Sometimes, apparently thinking he's clean, he collapses with a beer onto the couch where he showers sand, grit and sawdust.

The sawdust, which sprays from the chainsaw when posts and planks are cut, also lands in his gumboots and clings to his socks.

When he removed his socks in the bedroom moments after I’d vacuumed, I pointed out that this was akin to me merrily leaving gates open all over the farm.The next day he kindly took of his socks on the back terrace just after its once-weekly sweep.   

Honestly!! 

We live at the end of a gravel road and the tide comes in by the front gate. One of these steamy, sultry summer days I’m going to suggest he rinses off in the sea. I’ll insist that he takes his gumboots off at the front gate, then his socks, then his shirt, then his . . .