一、 那場啼笑皆非的「偷船」往事
1974年8月，我被調離紙袋廠，去了漁業隊擔任出納。雖說坐辦公室不用出去幹體力活，但有時我喜歡跟他們一起去捕魚。尤其是走水路。
一大清早水面上晨霧飄渺，人還沒醒透。坐在船上，耳畔是電動船馬達突突聲。伴隨著河水拍打船幫的汩汩聲。出神地看著船駛過，帶出的兩條滾滾白浪。呈八字形迅速朝兩岸滾去，拍打在河堤上。清風拂面髮絲飛揚，那一刻彷彿置身於另一個世界。
隨塘河上很少有船隻，駕駛員小潘是個開朗的上海老三届知青。愛開快船，隊裡的這隻木頭機動船，被他開出了快艇的氣勢。偶爾遇到一隻小舢板，他總要惡作劇地，開足馬力疾馳而過。看著後者在浪花中東倒西歪，他便哈哈大笑。
一天我們去捕魚，下網的地方，正是我還在紙袋廠時與姐妹們「闖禍」的地方。那是幾個月前的，一個溫暖的午後。珍珠、芳芳、蓉蓉和我，四個姑娘想去看海。看著地圖以為大海近在咫尺，便一路南行。誰知小徑蜿蜒，還翻過一道防海大堤。
兩個多小時過去了，海腥味兒還沒聞到，卻被一條大河攔住了去路。河邊停著一隻小木船，仗著在長風公園划過幾次漿，我鼓動大家：「上！」於是我們小心翼翼地下了陡峭的河岸。可看著湍急的河水，誰心裡都發怵。她們仨都沒划過船，看來海灘是去不成了。
我異想天開建議將船抬到蘆葦蕩裡去划，那兒水淺。我們將船拖上岸，抬著走了約莫一里地。我們來到了那片迷人的蘆葦蕩邊。但是岸邊水很淺又有雜草淤泥，船走不暢，只好作罷。我們錯過了「驚起一灘鷗鷺」的浪漫。不懂事兒的我們放下了小船，甩了甩酸痛的胳膊回去了。
當我在現場跟大家說起這段往事時，話音未落本地漢子老斯便爽朗大笑：「啊哈！原來是你們幹的好事！害得我們找了好幾天呢！」眾人哄堂大笑。「啊呀呀，真對不起！對不起！」我連聲道歉。那高大黝黑的老斯笑起來兩個長酒窩盛滿了那個年代特有的純樸。
二、烈日下的綱舉目張
農場的河道都歸漁業隊管轄。在我們要捕魚的那段河道的一頭，一隻小木船橫在水中央，放下「攔頭網」斷魚的退路。大約兩三里地開外的另一頭，在水裡放下一張大「拖網」。水中央也橫著一隻小船，掛著重重的拖網的綱繩。綱繩上的白色浮子隨波湧動，水中網眼悉數張開。這便是真正的「綱舉目張」。
兩岸的人像黃河纖夫一般，背著纖板拖著這張網。木纖板斜擋在胸前，身子前傾，腳尖點地，一步一挪。纖板勒痛了胸口，就挪到腰臀部，倒退著走。那河床時寬時窄，河岸時坦時陡。有時為了繞過灌木叢，我們還需下到及腰深的冷水中艱難地行走。
驚慌的魚兒不時跳出水面，有的逃之夭夭。有的卻倒霉地躍入小船，與守船的小伙子展開「殊死搏鬥」。那憨厚的本地小伙子手忙腳亂，臉上常被魚尾巴甩得滿是鱗片與水花。惹得岸上的人捧腹大笑，甚至有人笑倒在地。姑娘們嬌嫩的皮膚怕被太陽曬黑，被海風吹粗。用毛巾蒙臉，把草帽沿往下壓，再熱也穿著長袖，在路人眼中，這群穿著補丁衣服汗漬斑斑的人，形象真不咋地，但當他們看清那毛巾下是一張張年輕的面龐，正頂著烈日艱難背纖時。目光中總會流露出一絲憐憫與惋惜。
大約一兩個小時後，兩張網合攏。在岸邊漁網不斷收攏，大魚小蝦一個勁兒地蹦出水面，本能地想要掙脫。那個在小船上曾被魚兒「打臉」的小夥子興致勃勃地教我們吃活蝦。就在那魚蝦歡蹦亂跳，水花四濺的收網現場，他抓起一隻蝦，在河水裡輕輕一涮，捏住掙扎中的蝦頭與蝦尾，將蝦背朝外送到嘴邊，雙唇輕輕一抿，鮮嫩的蝦肉便滑入口中，而手中的蝦殼依然完好無損。
我們嘗試了好多次，要麼肉沒吃乾淨，要麼蝦殼被咬斷了，始終沒法像他那樣吐出完整的殼。這下小夥子可覺得「長臉」了，得意又憨厚地瞇起眼睛直笑。那是我們第一次吃「生鮮」，當然 那時候的我們還根本不知道什麼叫 Sashimi（刺身）。
收網、撈魚、過磅、銷售。花鰱魚也叫胖頭魚、白鰱魚和鯉魚。當時賣￥0.21一斤。青魚、草魚、鳊魚、鱸魚、鯔魚還有大閘蟹都是￥0.42一斤。
我們在夕陽中返航，雖然渾身魚腥氣和汗水，但大家都是開開心心的。
三、工作完畢洗個澡
工作完畢總要洗個澡。當時回到隊里，大家就拿熱水瓶和臉盆，到廚房打點熱水，回宿舍洗洗。後來搬到漁業隊第二住處，附近有一家化工廠，我們女生收工後就去廠裡洗澡。每次端著臉盆走近大門值班室，心裡總是七上八下的，擔心被呵斥不讓進。
洗澡時順便把衣服也洗了。出門時又是惴惴不安，低著頭快步走。等過了門衛的視線才如釋重負，那樣子就像「漏網之魚」。好在門衛多數時候也是睜一隻眼閉一隻眼。
聽人說化工廠有毒，會影響女孩生育，廠里還給職工發牛奶。所以每次去那兒都有雙重的緊張：怕門衛，也不敢深呼吸。其實空氣中沒異味，純粹是心理緊張。
四、貧瘠年代的豐饒補償
小時候常餓肚子，餓了也不敢響，因為母親不愛聽，她也沒多餘的東西給我們吃。怎麼辦呢？餓了就喝口水，或者有氣無力地唱《大海航行靠舵手》。後來母親聽出意思來了，也不讓唱了。
六十年代吃飯要用秤稱分量。父親是一家之主是不限量的，哥哥們只有一二兩，我就更少了。整天餓得前胸貼後背。那時候糧食是定量的，小學生每月19斤，初中生27斤，高中生31斤。我們那代人普遍營養不良。參加工作第一年工資才18塊，能吃飽就不錯了，根本不知道長身體需要大量的營養。
或許是命運的補償，到了漁業隊後，飯食裡總少不了鮮魚。一毛錢就能買一大碗，半條一尺長的活魚。哪怕只是清水煮煮撒把鹽，也是極致的美味。剔除刺的魚肉和湯放置一晚上，第二天就凝成了晶瑩的魚凍。
好在當年知識匱乏，不知道食物在常溫下放兩小時就滋生細菌，否則哪能吃得那麼香？那時候可沒冰箱。當然，變質發臭了肯定得扔，那是都懂的生活常識。但我們的魚凍肉眼看不出變質，味道還好極了。
那帶著微弱土腥味的鮮美，填補了身體的虧空。最初老漁民看我愛吃魚背上的肉，就教我說：要吃魚頭、魚鰭、魚肚和魚尾巴，那才叫香。
如今想來，那段把臉都吃圓了的歲月，竟是那個貧困年代裡，河水給予我們最慷慨的饋贈。
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A Youthful Song by the Suitang River
Part I: That Absurd yet Romantic "Boat Stealing" Incident
In August of 1974, I was transferred from the paper bag factory to the fishery team to serve as their cashier. Although working in the office meant I didn't have to go out and do manual labor, I occasionally loved to join them out on the water to catch fish—especially when we took the waterways.
In the crisp early morning, a delicate mist would float lazily across the water's surface before anyone was fully awake. Sitting aboard, my ears would fill with the steady thut-thut-thut of the motorized boat's engine, accompanied by the gentle, gurgling slosh of the river lapping against the hull. I would lose myself in a trance, watching the boat glide forward, carving out two rolling white wakes that cascaded outward in a V-shape toward both banks, gently slapping against the river levees. With the cool breeze brushing against my face and my hair flying in the wind, I felt in those moments as though I had stepped into an entirely different world.
Boats were a rare sight along the Suitang River. Our driver, Xiao Pan, was a cheerful Shanghai Laosanjie sent-down youth. He absolutely loved speed, and he steered our team's wooden motorized boat with the fierce momentum of a speedboat. Whenever we chanced upon a tiny sampan, he couldn't resist a bit of mischief—revving the engine to full throttle to streak past them. Watching the little boat rock helplessly back and forth in our turbulent waves, he would burst into a roaring laugh.
One day, we went out to fish, and the spot where we cast our nets happened to be the exact location where my girlfriends and I had "caused trouble" just a few months earlier when I was still at the paper bag factory. It had been a warm afternoon. Zhenzhu, Fangfang, Rongrong, and I—four young girls—decided we wanted to go see the ocean. Looking at the map, we thought the sea was just a stone's throw away, so we headed straight south. Little did we know the path would wind relentlessly, eventually requiring us to scale a massive sea defense levee.
More than two hours passed, and without catching even a single whiff of the salty sea air, our path was completely cut off by a wide, rushing river. Tied up by the riverbank was a small wooden rowboat. Guided by the reckless confidence of having rowed a boat a handful of times on the lake in Shanghai's Changfeng Park, I urged everyone: "Get in!" And so, we gingerly made our way down the steep, muddy bank. Yet, looking out at the swift, turbulent currents, fear gripped everyone's hearts. None of the other three had ever rowed a boat before; it became clear that the beach was an impossible dream.
In a fit of wild imagination, I suggested that we lift the boat and carry it over to the reed marshes where the water was shallow. We dragged the boat ashore and carried it on our shoulders for about a li until we reached the edge of that enchanting reed marsh. However, the water at the bank was far too shallow, choked with weeds and thick silt, making it impossible for the boat to glide. We had no choice but to give up. Thus, we completely missed out on the poetic romance of "startling a shore full of herons and gulls." Foolish and ignorant as we were, we simply abandoned the little boat right there, shook out our aching arms, and headed home.
The moment I finished sharing this old memory with everyone on the fishing boat, the words had barely left my mouth when Lao Si, a local village man, let out a hearty, booming laugh: "Aha! So that was your doing! You made us look for that boat for days!" The entire boat erupted into a chorus of roaring laughter. "Oh my goodness, I am so terribly sorry! I'm so sorry!" I apologized repeatedly. As the tall, dark-skinned Lao Si smiled, his two deep dimples seemed brimful of the pure, innocent spirit unique to that bygone era.
Part II: "When the Main Line is Raised, All the Mesh Opens" — Hauling Nets Under the Scorching Sun
All the waterways on the farm fell under the jurisdiction of our fishery team. At one end of the river section where we intended to fish, a small wooden rowboat sat crosswise in the middle of the current, dropping a "blocking net" to cut off the fishes' retreat. About two or three li away at the opposite end, a massive "trawl net" was lowered into the water. Another small boat sat anchored in the center of the river, holding the heavy main haul lines of the trawl. The white floats along the line surged and bobbed with the waves, and every single mesh of the net fully opened within the current. This was the vivid, literal embodiment of the old phrase: "When the main line is raised, all the mesh opens."
On both riverbanks, people lined up like the famous boat-pullers of the Yellow River, dragging the immense net with wooden harness boards strapped across their chests. With the wooden boards pressing diagonally against our chests, our bodies leaned heavily forward, our toes dug into the earth, and we shuffled along, step by agonizing step. When the harness chafed our chests too painfully, we would shift it down to our hips and walk backward. The riverbed changed constantly, shifting from wide to narrow, and the banks alternated between flat, muddy slopes and steep, rugged inclines. Sometimes, to bypass thick clusters of wild brambles, we even had to plunge into the waist-deep, freezing water and trudge forward with great difficulty.
Panicked fish broke the surface of the water from time to time, some successfully making their escape. Others, less fortunate, leaped straight into the small rowboat, engaging in a "life-or-death struggle" with the young man guarding the vessel. That honest, clumsy local lad would get completely flustered, his face frequently whipped by frantic fish tails until he was covered in scales and muddy spray. This always threw the people on the banks into fits of roaring laughter, with some laughing so hard they literally collapsed onto the ground. The young girls, terrified that their delicate skin would be blackened by the relentless sun and coarsened by the sea breeze, wrapped their faces tightly in towels and pressed the brims of their straw hats low. No matter how stifling the heat, they insisted on wearing long sleeves. In the eyes of passing strangers, this sweat-stained crowd clad in patched clothing certainly didn't look like much. Yet, the moment those passersby caught sight of the youthful faces hidden beneath the towels, enduring such grueling labor under the scorching sun, a flicker of pity and bittersweet lament would always soften their gaze.
After about an hour or two, the two giant nets converged. As the netting was steadily hauled onto the bank, massive fish and tiny shrimp leaped frantically out of the water in a primal instinct to break free. The same local lad who had just been "slapped in the face" by the fish excitedly offered to teach us how to eat live shrimp right there on the spot. Right in the middle of that splashing, chaotic harvest, he scooped up a live shrimp, gave it a quick rinse in the river water, pinched the struggling head and tail, and brought the curved back of the shrimp to his lips. With a gentle, practiced press of his lips, the tender, translucent shrimp meat slid flawlessly into his mouth, while the shell in his hand remained perfectly intact.
We tried it countless times, but either the meat didn't come out clean or we ended up biting the shell to pieces; we simply couldn't master his trick of spitting out a whole, unbroken shell. This small triumph finally allowed the local lad to "save face." Beaming with a mix of pride and rustic innocence, he narrowed his eyes and couldn't stop smiling. That was the very first time in our lives we had ever eaten "live seafood"—though, at the time, none of us had ever even heard the word Sashimi.
Hauling the nets, scooping the catch, weighing the haul, and making sales—that was our routine. Bighead carp (also known as fat-head carp), silver carp, and common carp sold for a mere 0.21 yuan per jin. Black carp, grass carp, bream, sea bass, mullet, and even the prized hairy crabs all went for 0.42 yuan per jin.
By the time we charted our return course against the setting sun, we were completely drenched in sweat and reeking of fish—yet every single one of us was brimming with pure, unadulterated happiness.
Part III: Washing Up After the Day's Labor
After finishing our hard labor, we always needed a proper bath. Back then, upon returning to our sector, everyone would simply grab their thermoses and washbasins, fetch a bit of hot water from the kitchen, and wash up inside the dormitory. Later on, when we relocated to the fishery team's second living quarters, there happened to be a chemical plant nearby. From then on, we girls would head over to that factory to take our baths after knocking off work. Every single time we approached the guardroom at the main gate holding our washbasins, my heart would flutter with anxious uncertainty, terrified that we would be scolded and barred from entering.
While taking a bath, we would wash our clothes at the same time. Walking back out the gate was equally nerve-wracking; we would keep our heads bowed low and walk at a hurried pace. It was only when we finally passed beyond the line of sight of the guards that we could let out a sigh of relief, feeling very much like "fish that had successfully slipped through the net." Fortunately, most of the time, the guards chose to turn a blind eye and let us pass.
We had heard rumors that chemical plants were toxic and could severely affect a woman's fertility, which was why the factory distributed free milk to its workers. Consequently, every trip there filled me with a double layer of dread: I was terrified of the guards, and I didn't even dare to take a deep breath. In reality, there was absolutely no strange odor in the air; it was entirely a manifestation of my own psychological tension.
Part IV: A Lavish Compensation in an Age of Scarcity
When I was a child, I often had to endure an empty stomach. Even when I was starving, I never dared to make a sound, because my mother couldn't bear to hear it—she simply had no extra food to give us anyway. What was there to do? When hunger struck, I would swallow a mouthful of water, or use what little strength I had left to croon the revolutionary song, "Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman." Eventually, my mother caught on to the underlying meaning of my singing and forbade me from singing it altogether.
During the 1960s, meals had to be strictly weighed on a scale to measure the portions. My father, as the head of the household, was exempt from limits. My older brothers were allotted a mere one or two liang (approx. 50–100 grams) of grain, and my share was smaller still. I spent my days constantly starving, my stomach practically pinned to my backbone. In those years, grain was strictly rationed: elementary school students received 19 jin a month, junior high students got 27 jin, and high school students were allowed 31 jin. Our generation suffered from widespread malnutrition. During my first year of work, my monthly wage was a meager 18 yuan. Just being able to eat our fill was considered a luxury; we had absolutely no concept that a growing body required vast amounts of proper nutrition.
Perhaps as a form of cosmic compensation from destiny, after I arrived at the fishery team, fresh fish became an absolute staple of our daily meals. For just ten cents, one could purchase a massive bowl containing half of a live, foot-long fish. Even when it was simply boiled in plain water with nothing but a handful of salt thrown in, it tasted like the ultimate, exquisite delicacy. The leftover fish meat, meticulously cleared of bones, along with the broth, would sit out overnight. By the next morning, it would congeal into a beautiful, crystalline fish jelly.
Fortunately, we suffered from a profound lack of scientific knowledge back then and had no idea that food left at room temperature for two hours would swarm with bacteria—otherwise, how could we have ever eaten it with such relish? There were certainly no refrigerators in those days. Of course, if something went spoiled and turned rancid, we knew well enough to throw it out; that was basic common sense everyone possessed. But our fish jelly showed no visible signs of spoilage to the naked eye, and it tasted absolutely divine.
That fresh, savory flavor, laced with just a faint hint of earthy river mud, slowly built back up the deep deficiencies in our bodies. In the beginning, seeing how much I loved eating the meat along the fish's spine, the old veteran fishermen taught me their wisdom: "To truly experience the flavor, you must eat the head, the fins, the belly, and the tail. That is where the real savor lies."
Looking back today, that beautiful slice of time—when I ate so well that my face grew completely round—turned out to be the most generous, bountiful gift the river could have ever bestowed upon us during that impoverished era.
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第三百四十四篇
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