Time moves differently here. There’s something about the smell of the salt air, coupled with the blossoms of the wild beach roses (Rosa rugosa). The Martha’s Vineyard I remember is orange shag carpet, a room above a garage that alternately smelled like musty basement, dusty attic, and fish, and a family that was unconventional and unencumbered- one that taught me to be strong and smart and fearless. The four beds rested in the corners of the room above the garage, our nylon sleeping bags rumpled in between, and in the space at the top of the stairs, under a low eve with a stunning view of the bay, sat Uncle Bill’s typewriter.
We were told not to walk on the back deck without shoes, lest the shards of weathered wood pierce our tiny arches. So sneakers were pulled on over tight knee socks, white with blue and red stripes circling our calves. The grass, stiff and bleached tan and dull green, felt like crumpling straw beneath our sneakers as we ran from flag pole to sweatshirts, makeshift “ally ally oxen free!” bases to race between. Aunt Dot’s two white Adirondack chairs stood tall like mastheads steering a ship, facing the bay, the thin strip of beach, and the ocean beyond. The adults spoke frequently about the year- 1970? ’72?- that the dunes of South Beach gave way, and a channel of water poured in. “You would jump in the water at South Beach, and just float- and the current would pull you all the way in to the dock. Then you’d go out and do it again.”
The bay was used for swimming, small trips to see if the small boat kept by the dock was still seaworthy (it rarely was), and clamming. For the latter, a parade of barefoot children stomped through shallow water and making squelch-squirt sounds in the wet grey sand. The low tide made Katama Bay passable on foot, while hours later, the shallow pools would be swallowed by several feet of saltwater, tiny dinghies attached to docks gratefully rocking back and forth to its lullaby.
Bending at the waist, we knelt and dug at air bubbles that popped on the surface. The grains stuck in our fingernails, turning them black like some gothic manicure.
Clams were piled into buckets, the sun beat down on our necks. Dot always wore a hat for such expeditions, and in her 70’s, managed to look poised even harvesting the shallow bay for bottom feeders. The rest of us succumbed to the rag tag nature of childhood, splashing as we dug, hair flying in our faces and clothes damp and dirty. Shells cut into my hands, and at times, drew blood. But we were reckless, and kept clawing through, rewarded with rounded quahogs, their tiny necks retreating into shells at our touch. Years later, when I turned vegetarian, I would mourn these tiny mollusks, but at the time, all I could think about was dipping them in water, then butter, and slurping them down on the back porch.
As a teen, I remember going out without adults, allowed for the first time to simply take Dot’s pass, and wander on our own to the promised land. Our parents trusted us, and Dot and Granny were getting on in years. On the hike back, our motley crew happened upon a neighbor putting in a dock. The number one illegal thing to do when clamming is to force the clams to the surface by using a heavy stream of water driven into the ground. However, this is precisely how one legally installs the thick posts of a new dock- stick a giant hose into the ground, and jet water out as you drive the post into the hole. The side effect of this is clams, and any other sand-dwelling creatures unlucky enough to be dozing nearby, are shot into the sky by the powerful force torrent.
There was pouncing. Fingers curled, toes dug into the ground for stability, and the air was thick with clams and giddiness as we routed around, scooping what we could. Seagulls squawked above us, dipping low as they chastised the theft of their dinner. The buckets were filled to the point where two hands were needed to steady them, lest the handles break and our precious cargo be released back to the sea. The deck installers looked on with mild amusement, their black rubber boots firmly rooted to the sand, their faces tan and lined, jarring with each other at the scavengers.
I’ll never forget the feeling of triumph as we entered the house from the back door, intent on displaying our bounty before our elders. One by one, we lumbered in, grinning from ear to ear. Eyes bulged, jaws dropped. “How on earth…”
“The neighbor was putting in a dock!” we answered breathlessly, heaving the buckets towards the garage where the clams would be rinsed before their final journey to the giant speckled steamer pot. “There were so many- we grabbed what we could…”
At final count, there were 296. We lamented falling short of the 300 mark, but congratulated ourselves on knowing we had pulled off the biggest haul in Katama Point history. Whether that was true or not, everyone agreed that 296 was a worthy number, and the matter was put to rest that regardless, the clams were fresh and delicious, and the company second to none.
Sitting on the back deck of my rental, the trex deck smooth beneath my calves, the only sound is the rustling of the leaves above my head (it sounds like layers of crinoline dancing in the wind). I can’t see the water, but I can smell the wild roses, and the tinny shrieks of my daughters’ remind me of myself and my sister all those years ago. If I close my eyes, I can picture the old homestead- picture the dock as it was, the deck as it was, the voices and the laughter, the smell of the roses mingling with the melted butter and steamed clams. It smells like home.
