Pearl Diving or Parenting: Which Job Sucks More?
The other day I took my son to a birthday party for one of his five-year old pals. You know the scene. Kids hyped up on frosting launching themselves off coffee tables and couches like flying squirrels while the parents try to make chit chat. It’s 1:30 in the afternoon. One of the helpful moms is putting candles in the cake while I ogle the liquor cabinet hoping the birthday boy’s mother is also jonesing for some grown up juice. She isn’t. As the conversation veers into the trials and tribulations of parenting, and with no sign of anyone carrying a tray of whiskey sours, our hostess declares: “Raising kids is the toughest job in the world.”
Really? Now, this is the type of statement that antagonizes a caustic and inflammatory conversationalist like me. Thankfully, my lovely wife of nearly a decade has done a swell job of training me so that, instead of calling bullshit, I can now adopt a bovine nonchalance and save the froth for my blog.
I don’t want to minimize how difficult it can be to raise kids. If I had to spend all day every day with my little hellions I’m quite certain I’d have long ago jabbed a meat thermometer into my hypothalamus. I know for a fact that if my wife were a stay-at-home mom her head would explode. Yes, parenting can be mind numbing, soul sucking, crap eating work. It can also be a laugh riot and very rewarding. So, the toughest job on earth? Come on.
Consider the life of the pearl diver. Before culturing techniques were developed at the start of the 20th century all pearls were natural pearls. For thousands of years pearls were harvested according to ancient custom. Hey, those Gulf states do like their traditions. This excerpt from Fred Ward’s magnificent book, Pearls, describes the age old process:
A pearler in the Persian Gulf wore only a loincloth and leather finger protectors. He had no mask and no breathing apparatus. After a few deep inhalations on the surface, he stepped into a loop in a rope tied to a 50 pound rock. When the attendant in the boat released his rope, the diver, rock, and a basket to hold oysters plunged to the bottom, 30-60 feet below. Then he raced against time. Holding his breath, he scrambled around in the sand and rocks with the haunting fear of shark attack. Saltwater stung his eyes and blurred his vision. He felt for oysters, lifted them free, and placed them in the basket as his lungs began to burn.
A sharp tug on the rope set the boat worker to pulling, bringing up diver, rock and basket. The diver’s ears must have popped and his sinuses ached. After a short rest topside, he cycled through another 40 or more daily dives. Pearling was a tough, dangerous, poor-paying business. A good bed might yield a dozen oysters a dive but often the diver came up empty handed. His pay was a negotiated percentage from the sale of pearls found. On the surface, workers opened shells. Sometimes they poked through hundreds to thousands of oysters to harvest a single quality pearl.
So, next time your back aches from loading cartoons into the BlueRay or the kids are whining because they don’t want to leave the playground, be glad a shark isn’t cruising in from behind for a snack. And for the love of Pete, mix up a pitcher of margaritas at the next birthday.