Raked Over

          Clamming tonight with the Fyfe family to remedy the sincerely indecent fact that although a native Cape Codder, I had never dug for bivalves. Sadly, I did not turn up any clams myself, getting disgruntled after accidentally dismembering a crab, and remaining inconsolable even after the Fyfes assured me that it would grow a new claw and was a necessary casualty in the quest for quahogs. Nevertheless, low tide at Saint's Landing, sunset, warm breeze, hermit crabs and moon snails everywhere. And eventually we even hauled in some Quahogs too (and by we, I mean everyone but myself. I was really there for moral support).

Contemplating the quahog beds.

Stevie, the lonely quahog.

Stu rakes for clams, in the background Charlotte ponders the abundance of calico crabs, and Andy demonstrates that there is in fact cell phone reception on the Brewster Flats. Don't worry, he later redeemed himself by pulling in half of the final clam harvest.

Final haul for the day.

          The trip was cut short after only half a basket, however, because the clams were slow to surface and, according to Mr. Fyfe, the "taters were burning" back home in the oven (as in, the potatoes, roasting with the chicken, were nearing done). Tomorrow's menu: stuffed quahogs. Well, the Fyfes will be having stuffed quahogs; I'll be leering at their beautiful feast until they offer to share.