I was born a forager, a natural hunter-gatherer: Clamming, berrying, lobstering, crabbing, the first to spot the wild asparagus before it went to wispy seed, the first to predict the arrival of migratory alewives at our fish ladder as they headed to their natal ponds to spawn.
My clamming started the moment my mother plopped me down in the shallows of our tiny cove, mostly as a clean-up effort, as I was not yet toilet-trained. I immediately found steamers, lots of steamers. Once my tiny legs became more seaworthy, I moved deeper into the cove’s quahog territory. And so it went. I became the seeker, the finder, the harvester, the predictor of the arrival of edibles. On land, accompanied by Waterboy, my oversize black Lab mix, I led my siblings to seek out wild asparagus and berries — as well as a few arrowheads and multiple cases of poison ivy,
I often got an early tip on the location of the migrating fish from the dog, known to lope down the valley for a salty dip in Cape Cod Bay. On the day the dog returned home wet, sandy, and proud, a bloodied alewife in his mouth, we knew the fish to be nearby, massing in the bay at the entrance to our creek, waiting for the fresh water flowing from the creek to turn warmer than the salt water in which they schooled.
The presentation of Waterboy’s first bloody alewife signaled time was upon us, time to dig out the dip nets. No easy task, given the state of our antique barn, full of the treasures of a family with many interests. Unstrung tennis rackets atop busted lawnmowers blocked a rickety wooden stairs. The upstairs floor was strewn with saggy cardboard boxes of old 78s that had come with the place. Shards of antique window glass littered the floor, unswept since a BB gun had been among the presents at a recent birthday party. The dip nets were finally found, where they’d been propped up the year before, next to my mother’s honeymoon trunk, a massive affair that opened sideways to reveal silk-lined drawers, opposite a tiny closet with little satin hangers and a lacy little white box of ossified wedding cake.
Alas, the family’s foraging ground to a halt when my father’s career path veered from novelist to diplomat, and we went to live in cities.
Decades later, I made my way back to New England and my beloved foraging for wild food. Much I had hunted and eaten was as I’d found it decades earlier. All but the alewives, whose roe I’d dined on each spring. Pollution, dambuilding, and overfishing had decimated stocks of river herring. Now only indigenous folk were allowed to harvest the migratory fish; here on the Island that meant members of the Wampanoag Tribe. Now if I want a spring treat of fresh roe, it means a trip to Net Result to plunk down $12 for a puny pair of shad roe.
About shellfish? The news is better. Even for me, who at 84 is no longer able to make it out to the Senge flats to dig and carry my own clams. The bivalves are still here, and free to diggers. You don’t need to visit Net Result with a fat wallet. Just a shellfish license (costing zero to $5, depending on your town). And someone to become your Designated Digger, should you not be up to the task yourself.
The helpful folks of Oak Bluffs Town Hall walked me through the process of designating a digger.
I started with the ever-helpful Debra Alley, executive assistant to the Oak Bluffs Select Board. Debra connected me with Shellfish Constable Donovan McElligatt, who also serves as herring warden and assistant harbormaster.
Constable McElligat informs us, “On the topic of digging for another handicapped permit holder, this is allowed, but a letter (typed) must be submitted BEFORE someone digs for them. The letter must also designate ONE person who will be shellfishing on their behalf.”
I’ve written the appropriate letter, designating as my digger MV Times art director and production manager Dave Plath, widely known on-Island as the Clam Whisperer. Former Times reporter Brian Dowd recommends Plath, saying, “Dave’s got the masterful dexterity to dig up the best clams, and the salty wisdom to teach others how to do it. In my mind there’s no better benthic reaper out there — especially one with his trademark enthusiasm for sharing his bounty with others.”
I’ve handed over to Dave my rusty old clam bucket. Waiting for him to fill it.
