A Kinnellian oyster

Yesterday Leslie and I wandered around Poverty Beach. The sun ducked and dodged occasionally threatening clouds until the mist closed up around us.

The ocean here spits up shells, lots of them. The ghosts of whelks mingle with their victims--oysters, quahogs, scallops, and surf clams.

While meandering around the mass of mollusks, I stumbled upon the largest oyster shell I've ever held.

What is the lifespan of Crassostrea viginica, the local oyster?
What is its maximum size?

Go ahead, look it up.

The experts will tell you it gets to 20 years old, and about 8" long.

I found the shell of one today that just misses 9 inches. Its shell tells a story about 40 years old.

"Awareness of ignorance is as devout
as knowledge of knowledge. Or more so. "
Galway Kinnell via Sean Nash.

We don't know nothing.
If you ever forget this, take a walk along the ocean's edge.

The image is from the NOAA collection, taken in 1895, back when an inch was still an inch.

Last weekend in December

Solstice light.
Midday shadows are as long as they're going to get, at least according to my Farmer's Almanac.

Leslie and I walked to the ferry jetty and back Saturday, our favorite walk, one that is different every time. A southwest breeze warmed us up to the 50's--some folks wandered around in shorts and t-shirts.

The tide was out, and I wandered around keyholing, looking for quahogs. (The quahog's two-siphon system leaves an imprint in the sand that looks like a keyhole.)

Didn't find any keyholes, so dug at a random clam hole and got my hands on a razor clam. After a few minutes of a gentle tug of war (razor clams are fast but fragile), I lifted it out of the sand, its huge foot now grasping at the air.

I put it back in the hole. The exhausted clam did nothing. I debated taking it home for a snack, but there's not a whole lot of recipes calling for a single razor clam.

Not sure it ever recovered--ask the gulls glaring nearby.

***

I found the smallest living crab I've ever noticed. I was about to pocket a cockle shell when I saw a speck move on it.

A tiny, translucent critter with black pixels for eyes was busy waving its claws at us, defending its turf. Took me a moment to figure out what it was doing, but its tough guy stance earned it another shot at life. I put the shell back down.

Not sure it recovered--ask the sand pipers pecking nearby.

***

What else did we see?

A loon kept me company as I scouted the end of a jetty for a future mussel dinner.

A half-dozen purple sand pipers ignored us on the ferry jetty. (No, we don't get any shellfish here--the canal keeps these waters condemned.)

For those of you who walk to the end of the jetty, be aware that the large stone on the outside edge of the foghorn tower is loose. It's tucked in between other rocks, so it's not likely to go far, but feeling the world shift under your feet can be unnerving.

Photo by Leslie--it was much better before I butchered it to fit here.

Last weekend in November

Clamming in late November is a bit chilly, but the clams don't seem to mind. Leslie and I weren't expecting any company for dinner, so I had plenty in a half hour.

Because we think in terms of increments of dozens, and because we figured we needed a "dozen and a half," and because this may be the last clamming trip of the season, the last clam, the 19th, was returned to the bed.

I scooped out a pocket of mud that quickly filled in with water, then gently dropped in the clam. Leslie noted I made a clam bed.

The clam was about 10 years old, it could live another 30 if it manages to escape starfish and me. I hope I'm still clamming then.

If not, I'm hoping someone else is, using the same rake I'm using now, occasionally thinking of the hands that used to hold the rake, using the same methods taught years before.

No better reason to be a teacher.

Photo of Irish clamdiggers, 1882, is from the National Archives.