The moment my spear goes through a fish is an exclamation point at the end of a long-crafted story.

Multiple dives and drops, minutes of waiting, stalking, hunting, and holding my breath—it all concludes when my spear finally drives through. It’s closure and victory all at once.

I pull the fish towards me, hand over hand, on my shooting line as I kick up. I keep pulling to keep tension on my fish and get it away from the bottom so it doesn’t tangle on any structure below. Soon I break the surface and breathe—one big deep breath—and put my face back in the water. Holding my fish by its gills in my left hand, I slide my knife from my arm sheath and ready myself for the final moment. I grip the fish tightly, look it in its eye, and insert my knife straight into its brain to dispatch it. This is my moment of gratitude, specifically to my prey, gratitude for the life taken and the lives it will nurture. It’s more than just a “thanks,” though; as I feel the quiver of life leave the body between my own two hands, I know I’ve made a promise. And now, I have work to do.

When my spear goes through a fish, my brain starts racing towards the ingredients needed, the time prep, and the plans I might cancel to honor the meal, which is already in the making.

Harvesting and hunting can be a big burden. The greater I succeed, the more work I must do. Whenever I’m asked what my daily routine is like, I always try to explain that every single day my life and schedule are dictated by my food inventory. I don’t run a restaurant or sell any food goods, so many don’t understand this answer. But I live a life of harvesting straight from the source, and a heavy weight of responsibility comes with the territory.

The day I watched my then-boyfriend clean fish in the rain, I knew I’d marry him. I had just taught him to spearfish and watched him from afar, fumbling through our full cooler, scaling and gutting for over an hour. And when the sunny sky turned grey and big raindrops dumped down on him, he still sat on the grass with his head down.

I don’t mean to choose my friends in the same manner. It just happens. Certain people will notice when you’re constantly keeping a promise to your prey or harvest. They’ll get it. Justin Lee is someone who gets it. He is a natural-born hunter. It’s embedded in every bone of his body. We’ve traveled the world together chasing fish and often get together in our own backyards in Hawaii. No matter what we are doing or where we are, he always seems to find other opportunities to test his skills in hunting. “Look at this bird I caught!” he’ll exclaim while jumping down from the roof of a boat at sea. “I caught a wild piglet!” he’ll announce with a grin while running out of the bushes at a backyard BBQ. His excitement about the hunt is unlike any other, and so is his work stamina when it comes to the follow-through. He puts the same joy and passion into treating his harvest right and turning it into a delicious meal. Doing this kind of work together takes our whole adventure and our whole friendship on a journey that feels both primal and family-oriented at the same time.

I love that nature has chosen my friends and closest circle. I love that we don’t just hunt or harvest together; we clean, peel, chop, and cook together. Something sacred happens whenever we gather—our dirty hands work together. Stories are shared, recipes are passed down, and a collective lifetime of unspoken promises are kept.