Riddle

Come find me in a crease sea-squalls cannot reach

Waves are my shelter, I’m not far off off-shore

Close to the land, I open my maw

to the ocean:  I have no feet.  There’ll be time to meet—

now my flesh becomes fare:

meat for man.  He’ll greet my coat with the least of concern,

once the knife scores the surface, finds a snag, and then turns—

shearing me.  Clearing me myself from hide.  Hide?

No plaice.  He’ll gobble me up instead with haste

An uncooked morsel.

How do I taste?