NORTHERN CALIFORNIA'S abalone season runs for seven frenzied months, April through November (with a July respite to ease fishing pressures), and will see, on average, four diver deaths. Over the last two seasons, at least 11 divers have perished, out of some 30,000 licensed participants—a per capita death toll nearly three times that of skydivers and more than 30 times that of climbers.

By law, an ab diver is a freediver—to avoid having too many people show up, state regulations forbid the use of supplemental oxygen, so survival in the water depends on skill, a quarter-inch-thick wetsuit, and a hearty lung capacity. That isn't always enough.

Mark Messmer, a 31-year-old expert freediver from Sonoma County, became the sport's most recent fatality last September, when he drowned in less than 20 feet of water near the town of Jenner. In May 2005, 54-year-old Bay Area resident Sonny Lee also drowned, but as an autopsy revealed, he may have been knocked out after getting smashed against rocks by the surf. In November 2004, Dr. William Krupski, a San Francisco surgeon, was celebrating his 57th birthday with an ab dive near Mendocino when a rip current swept him out to sea. His body was found six weeks later, on a beach 200 miles to the north.

So what are people dying for? Aesthetically, an abalone isn't much to look at—it's a barnacle-ridden kelp eater. Gastronomically, it's one of the best meals you've probably never had.

Abalone holds a delicate, unique taste—not as chewy as calamari or as sweet as a scallop. "What does abalone taste like?" says Cliff Zimmerman. "It tastes like abalone." There's nothing fishy about it, and you can bake it, grill it, or eat it raw. The best method is also the simplest: slice it thin, dip it in flour, egg, and bread crumbs, and flash-fry it in olive oil with garlic. Fresh from the ocean, though, abalone is tough, like a new catcher's mitt, and tenderizing calls for creativity. One popular method sounds almost criminal: Take a two-by-four wrapped in a pillowcase and pound the slime out of it.

The red abalone, the largest of the world's 60-plus species, historically ranges from southern Oregon to Baja California. It was collected commercially in Southern California until 1997, when a combination of factors, notably gross overharvesting, forced the state to close the fishery. Against the counsel of state scientists, a limited commercial fishery may reopen at Southern California's San Miguel Island in the next two years, thanks to a controversial ruling issued last December by the California Fish and Game Commission.

Because the North Coast fishery has been solely recreational for decades, the red abalone is the healthiest of the state's seven species, though today its range is mostly limited to waters north of San Francisco Bay. The richest zone lies along the coastlines of Sonoma and Mendocino counties, where there's still an ample, if unquantified, population. Here, divers can stick their heads underwater in remote coves and see a bottom littered with abalone. Many poachers do the same and see a seafloor covered with cash.

Abalone bring in big money. The California Department of Fish and Game estimates that, every year, 264,000 abalone are taken legally by recreational divers, who inject more than $12 million into quaint North Coast communities like Jenner and Gualala. It's believed that an additional $250,000 worth of abalone is poached annually. With farm-raised abalone fetching $75 per pound, selling two pounds of wild abalone meat is as simple as walking into a San Francisco restaurant and offering up a snail.

The CDFG estimates that it catches only 5 percent of all poachers, but, even so, it has made some spectacular busts. In 1994, the agency broke up a poaching ring that had stolen 20 tons of abalone, shipping it as far away as China. In 1999, the CDFG's Special Operations Unit completed a six-month sting that led to 16 convictions. A group of Bay Area poachers had pulled up as many as 1,200 snails each, with some clearing $80,000 to $100,000 every season.

In May 2004, the agency nabbed sea urchin fishermen Kurt Ward, 45, and Joshua Holt, 36, with 468 red abalone—at least $23,000 worth—in the hold of Ward's boat in Mendocino County. The recreational abalone diving limit is 24 per season; these two had hauled out ten years' worth in an hour, and Holt admitted that "it wasn't the first time."

The bandits served a year in prison for felony conspiracy. Ward, a longtime commercial diver, maintains that he was only trying to feed his family and that the CDFG has greatly underestimated the health of the resource. "There are millions and millions of abalone on the North Coast," he says. "California is lying to the people about how many are out there."

Nancy Foley, 46, the CDFG's chief of enforcement, sees things differently. She calls Northern California "one of the last [red] abalone stands," adding that the CDFG is ill equipped to protect the population. The agency's jurisdiction includes California's entire 1,100-mile coastline and extends 200 miles out to sea, but it has only 21 game wardens dedicated to coastal surveillance.

"We need some help," says Foley. "It's a battle we're not winning."