The old man loved clams and his favorite form of weekend recreation was rooting around in the black muck of with his bare feet for quahogs with a good beer buzz going on. He dug his share of steamers too, never with a rake, but barehanded. It was my job to go along, for I needed to be schooled in the way of the bivalve.
I was not -- and am not -- a fan of barefoot clamming. Too many low tides with the old gent gave me a horror of all things that dwell in the mud. While someone with a bent brain might regard a pair of rubber waders as the fly fishing equivalent of a body condom, I do not, and I still have big issues when it comes to wading; especially wading at night.
Other have reported on the cute and confused mating habits of horseshoe crabs. I think horseshoe crabs are marvelous creatures. They are dinosaurs of our day. They are more blue-blooded than a Republican governor. They cure cancer. They are also stupid and think wader boots are for humping. This is a well known phenomenon reported elsewhere, but when it happens on a calm, still night, in murky waters, when the unsuspecting victim, like a lady walking to her car in a dark parking garage, is preoccupied with picking apart a rat’s nest of tangled fly line and feels a horseshoe crab the size of a hubcap climb aboard and start doing the Barry White Mambo on his right boot.
I am here to tell you man can walk on water. If a spider crab so much as touches my foot I am gone, paddle-wheeling over the waves in full Hanna-Barbera mode, I learned how to make like a hovercraft while quahogging with my old man. He thought this behavior was inappropriate for someone from his end of the gene pool, and of course, like any good father, he needed to provide me with fodder for future therapy ("I see. Can you tell me more about your father and clams?") so he would order me back into the perilous ooze for more encounters with jellyfish, green crabs, blue crabs, hermit crabs, fiddler crabs, blood worms, sea worms, clam worms, and periwinkles carrying the schistosome cercariae parasite.
Some people find seals to be cute. I understand that certain lobstermen in Maine carry rifles because they find seals to be so cute. I certainly am overjoyed when I am fishing and the seals decide to eat whatever I catch before I can catch it. I also like how they pop up a few feet away around sunrise and look like scuba divers or really weird Labrador Retrievers, regarding me with a tone in their eye that seems to say, "I live here. You don’t. I can kick your butt."
And sorry, but skates suck. Catch a skate and there’s a slimy parallelogram of disgusting flesh (which people in New York pay big bucks to eat roasted in pumpkin sauce on a pureed bed of rutabagas in restaurants where everyone wears black), with a vaguely pornographic mouth going "Mwah Mwah" on a squid pattern that took some serious time to tie last February. What to do? Stick your fingers near the writhing thing? I think of stingrays, see the tail whipping around, cut the line, sacrifice the fly, and push the thing back into the water with my boot (also known as Playmate of the Month to Mr. Horseshoe Crab).
So why go in the water unless thrown into it by a shipwreck, plane crash, or drunken stroll off a too short pier? To get close to the fish you say? Sure. And be eaten by a shark. I obsess about shark attacks. Look at my Google search history and you will find the very disturbing evidence that I should never be appointed to public office: "Shark Attack Wound Photos" "Sting Ray Wound Treatment" "Necrotic Flesh Eating Fish Spine Injuries"
So I stay on the boat. Bad things come to those who get out of the boat. The Chef in Apocalypse Now, the poor ex-chef from New Orleansm got of the boat and almost got eaten by a tiger. Humphrey Bogart in African Queen got out of the boat and leeches latched onto him. Everyone in Jaws.
I can cut bait, slice a tidy filet, and play with fish guts with the best of them. But I have no desire to get into the water and be one with the mud creatures, the denizens of the benthic zone.
And so, we come to the first real report of the real summer. Can you feel it in the air? The angry joggers are back on the streets. Left turns are now officially impossible to perform on the highways of Cape Cod. The guys in the grape smugglers are turning up their phallic speedboats for drunken runs to Baxter’s, thousands of toddlers are getting ready to increase the ammonia content of the waters around our public beaches, and the fish are getting ready to say: "Buh-bye" and hide in deeper waters until Labor Day. This is it. Last weekend of the sane. Next weekend Amateur Hour commences. Fireworks. Parades. And one continuous motorboat wake from Maine to Key West, scaring away all self-respecting fish until the bonito arrive.
Send me your reports. An email report earns a person immunity from necrotic swimmers itch.