My father was always hustling for a buck. His full time job was as a conductor on the Long Island railroad. His part time jobs included painter and Clam digger. It was as sleeping and fishing on the tiny foredeck of his clamboat where my brother and I caught the fever.
As many of you are likely to be unfamiliar Clam digging with a rake on the great South Bay 50 years ago - allow me to fill in the details. His boat like many other diggers, was old, wooden, mostly open, 18 feet long and without doubt a work boat. It spent some time upside down in the garage where cotton was first hammered into the gaps between the planks then covered with putty. The old 2 cycle Johnson motor lacked the reliability of the modern engine and could just get the boat ‘up on plane’. The rake head was heavy, held on with pipe clamps and sat at the end of a long adjustable length metal pole and had a ‘T’ handle. To avoid disaster there was a float attached to a line tied to the head.
Clamming is a primitive, arduous and repetitive affair. Throw the rake over the side, wait for it to hit the bottom and well ‘rake’. Hopefully the current will help move the boat. The clams and all manner of junk will be deposited in the belly of the head. Then lift the rake up hand over hand then dump your catch into a basket. Do so quickly to avoid drifting out of the spot. This method is not to be confused with the tonguers who use a post hole digger like tongues. The gold he raked for was deposited in a cull. Those that passed through through the cull were to small to be legally kept. Some of the cull found its way to the end of my fishing line and into my families bellies. The ‘legal’ clams were deposited in a bushel bag and sold for, as I remember, the grand sum of $16 (In the late 60s). There are several hundred clams in a bushel.
Sitting or lounging in the sun, with the never ending breeze, catching fish and smelling the salt air - well just heaven for a young guy. I’ve learned boat fever can go dormant, particularly when you are land locked, but it is always there just waiting to send you down a dangerous path.
My neighbor and fishing buddy, about ten years older then me was a curious fellow, procrastinator of the worse sort. Nary a shrub or bush was planted in the twenty something years he lived at his house, two doors down from me. That is until his daughters wedding. No bathroom was added to the second floor of his house as was customary. Sparse, nothing on the walls but very clean.
What he did have in the basement was a enviable collecting of fishing rods and reels. Even though he was of modest means he would buy a $500 rod where my conscience just wouldn’t allow me to do it.
I guess It was why I wasn’t surprised when a 18ft, center console Parker showed up in his small driveway. The fishing trips we went on often went like this. Get up at 4:30AM drive an hour and half out east to the Ramp. Finding a free or cheap ramp was so paramont. Launch the boat, park the tow vehicle and head out 30 minutes to our spot. The inlet we fished was a dangerous place and my buddy was fearfull of the ocean. Around that time a bigger Parker capsized in a nearby inlet and few people drowned. Of course a healthy dose of caution was a good thing. We caught fish, no doubt about it but, well in retrospect not as many as all that. Anyway in the late afternoon after a day in the sun and wind we would head to the dock and reverse the process. Once home we would struggle to back the boat into his narrow driveway and then clean it. Often the process ended in the dark.
Some point along the way it registered with me This is way too much work: Im exhausted by the time we are done. And we would chew through a tank of gas just getting out there.
The fevers still there but my memory of all the hard work and expense keeps it under control. Boats are a pain.
So did i ever tell you about surf casting...
As many of you are likely to be unfamiliar Clam digging with a rake on the great South Bay 50 years ago - allow me to fill in the details. His boat like many other diggers, was old, wooden, mostly open, 18 feet long and without doubt a work boat. It spent some time upside down in the garage where cotton was first hammered into the gaps between the planks then covered with putty. The old 2 cycle Johnson motor lacked the reliability of the modern engine and could just get the boat ‘up on plane’. The rake head was heavy, held on with pipe clamps and sat at the end of a long adjustable length metal pole and had a ‘T’ handle. To avoid disaster there was a float attached to a line tied to the head.
Clamming is a primitive, arduous and repetitive affair. Throw the rake over the side, wait for it to hit the bottom and well ‘rake’. Hopefully the current will help move the boat. The clams and all manner of junk will be deposited in the belly of the head. Then lift the rake up hand over hand then dump your catch into a basket. Do so quickly to avoid drifting out of the spot. This method is not to be confused with the tonguers who use a post hole digger like tongues. The gold he raked for was deposited in a cull. Those that passed through through the cull were to small to be legally kept. Some of the cull found its way to the end of my fishing line and into my families bellies. The ‘legal’ clams were deposited in a bushel bag and sold for, as I remember, the grand sum of $16 (In the late 60s). There are several hundred clams in a bushel.
Sitting or lounging in the sun, with the never ending breeze, catching fish and smelling the salt air - well just heaven for a young guy. I’ve learned boat fever can go dormant, particularly when you are land locked, but it is always there just waiting to send you down a dangerous path.
My neighbor and fishing buddy, about ten years older then me was a curious fellow, procrastinator of the worse sort. Nary a shrub or bush was planted in the twenty something years he lived at his house, two doors down from me. That is until his daughters wedding. No bathroom was added to the second floor of his house as was customary. Sparse, nothing on the walls but very clean.
What he did have in the basement was a enviable collecting of fishing rods and reels. Even though he was of modest means he would buy a $500 rod where my conscience just wouldn’t allow me to do it.
I guess It was why I wasn’t surprised when a 18ft, center console Parker showed up in his small driveway. The fishing trips we went on often went like this. Get up at 4:30AM drive an hour and half out east to the Ramp. Finding a free or cheap ramp was so paramont. Launch the boat, park the tow vehicle and head out 30 minutes to our spot. The inlet we fished was a dangerous place and my buddy was fearfull of the ocean. Around that time a bigger Parker capsized in a nearby inlet and few people drowned. Of course a healthy dose of caution was a good thing. We caught fish, no doubt about it but, well in retrospect not as many as all that. Anyway in the late afternoon after a day in the sun and wind we would head to the dock and reverse the process. Once home we would struggle to back the boat into his narrow driveway and then clean it. Often the process ended in the dark.
Some point along the way it registered with me This is way too much work: Im exhausted by the time we are done. And we would chew through a tank of gas just getting out there.
The fevers still there but my memory of all the hard work and expense keeps it under control. Boats are a pain.
So did i ever tell you about surf casting...
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