I love the smell of the sea

Yes, I do. And I don’t mean just the stringent clipped scent of salty mist brushed off the crest of the waves by a brisk breeze. I love the smell of low tide, when the mud and the shells and the plankton forsaken by the indifference of a moonstruck medium get together and bang out a primitive olfactory beat: Two parts funk, one part rot, sulfur in the top note and a backbeat dating back to the first organism that decided to “be a man,” thus changing forever, well, everything.
I would have been in Florida this week, but I’m not. We’ll leave it at that.

The beach in Naples. Oh yeah.

But I found a substitute in the freezer, a vacuum-packed bag of jumbo white shrimp I brought back from a September trip to Oak Island, N.C. If I’d been in a hurry, I would have washed all the goodness away by thawing them under running water, the way most restaurants do. But I wasn’t, so I moved them to the refrigerator for a day and let them thaw on their own. When I opened the package, the scent was, well, other-worldly. I poured them into a big bowl and carried them out onto the deck, where the fresh air would do them good. I peeled them. I deveined them. And every couple of shrimp, I probably confused the neighbors by holding my head down to the bowl and breathing in deeply.

Smelling good, like fresh shrimp should.

Shelled, deveined, ready to wrap.
While the shrimp were being undressed, I soaked a handful of precooked bacon strips –– the only kind we generally buy anymore –– in a bowl of hot water to limber them up. I cut these in half and skewered each shrimp with a piece of the bacon.

A half slice of bacon, to seal the deal.
I’m not one of those purists who believes gas grills are for sissies and only real men use charcoal. But there are times when charcoal is called for. I mean the good kind, not the compressed pellets of petroleum residue and sawdust dyed black and smelling like Gary, Indiana. I’m talking hardwood chunks, with a few pieces of real wood tossed in for good measure. I’m blessed with hickory and wild cherry trees, so I can scrounge up enough to add a touch of smoke. If you’re not, you can always buy a bag of boutique wood chunks.

Don’t run off. There’s tending to do.
I’m not laughing at you. I’ve done it.
With the fire ready, I brush the wrapped shrimp with a mixture of Bulls Eye barbecue sauce thinned with cider vinegar. Why Bulls Eye? I bought it the first time because Cooks Illustrated rated it the best, and I haven’t been tempted to go back to KC Masterpiece since. Scientific, huh?

Turn often, basting with sauce each time.

Don’t grill the shrimp over the coals. Keep the coals on one side, the shrimp on the other. Turn them often. Baste them until they ask you to leave them alone.

They look like this when they’re done.
There’s nothing worse than ol’ dried-out, overcooked seafood. Or more profitable, if you go by the success of places like Red Lobster. But that’s beside the point.

Aren’t you glad you looked after them?