Before starting to dig, I look east. The sky over the marsh is bright red with the morning sun warning of rain later that day, a good day for clam chowder or fried clam fritters. The old duck blind, dismantled by years of neglect, seems to hum stories of friends drinking coffee while watching a similar sunrise, perhaps over a large stool of decoys with a flock of canvasbacks starting an approach. The osprey nest silhouetted by the rising sun sits atop the blind; a mom is screaming at the fishing father, two starving chicks at her side. I chuckle at what I imagine she is telling him. This smorgasbord of visual feasting goes on and on as far as I can see. That’s why Kathy has a good camera. I, however, am here to clam. Tightly embracing the rake, I start to back up, pulling her tines behind me in the sand and knee-deep water at low tide. For over 100 years, this rake has plied clams from the Chesapeake Bay floor. Usually a member of the Callis clan is at the controls, but good friends Gene and Peg Callis let me borrow her to guide my efforts at clamming. This rake and I talk openly, with her doing most of the talking, my listening and thanking her when we have success. There, a “clunk” comes up the handle. Knowing that it is likely a dead oyster or clam since the sound isn’t quite right, I still stop and start to dig. The rake is always right but I need a while to tune in. I stop, back the rake up a bit, then dig her tines in deeper, yielding a swishing sound as she cuts through the sand. I lift the rake and up comes a large old oyster shell. I swear the rake says “I told you so.” I smile, toss the shell, and settle back into raking. It feels good to be home again. The next time, the rake screams “clam” as it sends an unmistakable “screakkk” through the handle. Starting low, the sound climbs through a couple of octaves before ending (to me) in an unmistakable “k” sound. Feeling a little guilty at the excitement and glee that settles into my body, I back the rake up, dig the tines in deeper, feel the reassuring heft of a clam, and raise the handle. This lift lets the tines gently cradle the clam and hold it. I continue lifting until up comes the first clam of the season. I hold it and even talk to it a bit; then I toss it into the basket. The basket is an old bushel basket floating in an old life preserver ring that resembles what must have been on the Titanic. The basket sits in about 12 inches of water but stays off the bottom so it drags nicely. A tether rope tied to the ring and to my belt lets the basket obediently trail along behind me. What is it about the smells around saltwater? I feel like my olfactory nerves are being assaulted with pleasurable scents. First, I notice the heavy salt-laden humidity in the air; then the wetland smells move in with marsh flowers, decaying organic matter, and yes, even dead fish. After all, death is a part of life, even that part which makes life so valuable, so I don’t mind the smell at a distance. Enough of that—a cold chardonnay awaits us and the basket of clams. Back to “work.” A few more clams go to the basket and I see three stingrays effortlessly gliding toward me, much like bald eagles soaring on a cliff over a river. They seem to exert no effort yet their speed is impressive. Fighting the urge to attempt a walk across the water to escape, I realize a stingray would barb me only if he felt threatened. Thus, I hold my ground and wait. Last year, Kathy and I both got into a small school and they brushed our legs as they swam by. We and they did not panic and we did not get barbed; it was quite a learning experience for me. Sure enough, these three see me and quickly swim out of sight, making all four of us happy. Amongst all these ruminations, I am catching clams and the basket is slowly filling. The big ones will be fritter or chowder ingredients while the smaller ones will never make it off the cleaning table. Raw, unwashed clams have an intense and satisfying salty flavor in a tender, easily swallowed body. They are really good with a cold beer. I look up. Sure enough, Kathy’s rake is stuck in the sand and her basket is tied to the rake. Her camera has kidnapped her, and she is busily turning electrons into memory generating images. She will show me those pictures tonight over the chardonnay and clams. We make a good team. Right behind where she has tied up her basket is the bank that she and I fished this past summer for redfish, speckled trout, and bluefish from our kayaks. The first redfish or red drum hit her “zara spook” lure as she “walked” it across some very shallow water. A loud splash, lots of disturbed water, and giggles coming from her kayak were the show I got to experience. Later that summer evening, about 50 yards away, I saw a redfish bumping into the grasses, grass shrimp jumping, and the fin of the fish feeding on them. I paddled the kayak a bit closer and tossed a red fin up against the bank. I started a “walking the dog” trip across the top of the water. He swirled at the sound, his dorsal fin pointed directly toward my lure, and he rushed. He hit that lure like Mike Ditka hitting a quarterback and the battle was on. We had redfish for dinner that night as it was in the legal slot. I love skinny water fishing. More clams go into the bucket. Taking a small break I look south toward a lighthouse about a quarter mile away. All the land has been washed away, but the rip-rap remains so the lighthouse seems to rise straight from the bottom of the bay. A closer examination shows that the sandbar that used to be land is still there. On the rip-rap, many types of shore birds show off their plumage, but I think the best is the orange-beaked Oyster Catcher that is a bit rare around here. There are always several around the lighthouse. Epilogue: That night we did have clam fritters, clam chowder, and cold chardonnay. Life is not good: it is GREAT. |
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