The world is my Oyster

It was deceivingly cold as we headed into open water on one of the few remaining skipjacks in the Chesapeake. So cold, in fact, I was questioning my decision to leave my long underwear behind. But, we soon arrived at our dredging plateau. The motor of the dredge winch rumbled to life and all ambient noise (or lack thereof) was drowned out. Within minutes, the real oystermen aboard had pulled up the first dredge full of oysters, shells, mud and mussels, and dumped it onto the deck. The rest of us watched in frank fascination and soon found ourselves strangely enthusiastic about sifting through the pot with our gloved hands, kneeling in mud and sorting out the oysters of acceptable size. We happily ripped mussels off of the oyster shells and threw them overboard. Even as amateurs, we developed a real system quickly. Like a not so well oiled machine we would deploy the dredge, pull it up, dump it out, sort out the oysters, and send the dredge back down. While we waited, we’d clean and measure the oysters and put them in baskets.

I felt like I was in an episode of dirty jobs as I looked down at my wellies covered in mud, my jeans with mussel guts wiped on them, and my jacket splotched with rust and ocean floor. For a while I actually felt like I belonged, unafraid of getting dirty, smelly or injured, I just did the job.

Lunch finally came and the answer to the question that we had wondered all day was revealed: oyster stew. That was our lunch, of course. It was with much trepidation I took my hot cup of soup and eyed it skeptically. I felt momentarily squeamish as I stirred up a large oyster from my cup and really felt the skipjack swaying with the ocean.
The ideal of ‘when in Rome…’ was the absolute only thing that made me eat it. Well, that and the surprisingly large appetite I had worked up. Oysters are definitely gross to me, cooked or raw. Biting into it's gooey texture and looking on at our bushels of freshly dredged oysters, it was like when I was eating reindeer sausage while admiring a caribou grazing in its natural habitat, but I didn't feel nearly as guilty.

In the second half of the day the novelty of dredging was wearing off. I felt as proficient as a seasoned oysterman, and my respect for them grew with every passing moment. The heat that the winch was putting off was keeping me warm, and I was confident in my sea legs; I really had the hang of it. Although, I admittedly was using a little less discretion when deciding which oysters to keep and which to throw back as my energy for the task waned.

By the end of the day the whole group of us felt very accomplished with our maybe, 7 bushels of oysters. That was until the captain informed us that typical skipjacks can bring in 150 bushels a day! Our trip back to the marina was lovely as the clouds moved away and all we had were blue skies and a warming sun.

Oystering Pictures