MOREHEAD CITY, N.C. - The flounder skids to a stop on the pavement and the crowd gasps.
"Git 'er done," an onlooker cries.
It is the second round of the Flounder Fling. The pressure is on and emotions are running high.
The competitor, a skinny boy of about nine, looks squeamishly at the dead fish as it's handed back to him for another go. He turns it over slowly, wrinkling his nose as the slimy, blood-stained body jiggles in his hands.
In the back of the crowd, a woman hisses impatiently, "What is with these kids who don't like to touch dead fish?"
Before she can get an answer, the boy hurls the flounder toward the bucket several feet ahead of him. With a loud squelch, it lands square in its target.
Welcome to the 22nd annual North Carolina Seafood Festival.
Walking through the gates is like an entering an alternate universe-the South. Not the New Jersey South. The real, old, rural, authentic South.
Thousands have come before us, descending each October on this otherwise sleepy seaside town on the Crystal Coast to support the region's burgeoning seafood industry and the local nonprofits that set up shop to peddle all saltwater-related products and paraphernalia.
As we inched our way through the traffic coming into Morehead City Saturday, parking attendants from local churches-the Baptists, the Presbyterians, the Methodists-tried to entice us to their makeshift lots in the grass near the festival.
We take our chances with the Episcopalians, handing a crumpled $5 bill to an energetic elderly woman at the entrance.
A teenage volunteer directs the SUVs and Volvos to open spaces. "Reverend John says we can take one more over here!"
Past the gates, local vendors hawk culinary absurdities such as shark bites-a more leathery brand of the chicken nugget-and crab balls, with the old artery-clogging favorites on stand-by-funnel cake, stacks of flounder and, of course, hush puppies.
One booth devoted solely to hot sauce promises "100% PAIN" in bottled form, for those so inclined. The faint of heart can take their spice disguised as dessert at the hot sauce ice cream booth down the street. Yet another booth is a chapel constructed completely of tarp serving up made-to-order butterfly potatoes and sweet tea by the gallon, with proceeds going to the local Presbyterian church.
But the classiest culinary fare came from an inconspicuous booth bleeding Duke blue. There, a group of Blue Devils from the Duke chapter of the American Fisheries Society grilled kebabs of locally caught shrimp and veggies as an alternative to the festival's typical fried fare. Our cholesterol-filled arteries felt at ease.
At the Clam Jam stage, a trio of teenage girls in turquiose T-shirts serenaded festival-goers with hymns. But lo, the sun had begun its descent, and three hours of narrow country highways filled with stoplights awaited us on our way back to the Gothic Wonderland.
At the exit, a pair of Confederate flags flapped on the edge of a booth that sold "natural sea sponges"-scruffy orange scraps of the dried ocean plant. A tempting offer. But some things just don't make sense outside of Morehead City.
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