Days don’t get any better than yesterday. Spring came in on a southwesterly breeze, so I opened the morning with a beach walk with Daphne and the dogs, followed it with a fast 90-minute bike ride to Sandy Neck, then started the ritual of re-commissioning the Tashmoo for another season of clamming, fishing, and expeditions to Dead Neck.
Returning 90 minutes later, Pete had sorted out the charger and there were electrical signs of life, enough so that we pulled oun our waders, collected the clam rakes, licenses, baskets and buckets, and made ready to launch and be off to the clam flats.
Once in the water, we dropped the engine, gave it a crank and … nothing. There wasn’t nearly enough charge to get the engine alive after three cold months of inactivity. Pete took the car to the house, grabbed some jumper cables, and in a move out of the handbook of stupid things not to do in saltwater, we got the nose of the car close enough to the boat battery to get the jumper cables on and crank the Honda four-stroke back to life.
That was a very good sign and optimism filled the hearts of the clamming crew. Pete reparked the car, my son Eliot climbed aboard — yelling at us because he insisted of listening to iPod for the rest of the afternoon and instantly turned into our version of Forrest Gump, unresponsive to all questions, louder than a deaf codger for anything he cared to share — and we pushed off from the beach with an oar, lowering the idling engine until we were ready to click into gear and head out to the head of the harbor.
Bad move. The boat always stalls out the first time it goes into gear, and this time it stalled again. Now we were fifty feet away from the beach and the engine hadn’t been running enough to get another crank’s worth of charge into the battery. I tried, we crossed our fingers, but alas, the boat needed to be paddled back to the boat ramp, the car un-parked and brought back down the water’s edge, and again we jump started. This time waiting ten minutes before getting back into gear.
This time it worked and we winged across the Bay at full throttled to the cove where the clams were. I ran us aground in the shallows and nearly lost the engine — an unacceptable outcome given there was not another start in the battery yet — but recovered nicely in time to jump aboard in my waders and push us back into the channel.
We unloaded and left the engine running at an idle, something I don’t like to do as idling outboards get overheated and foul the plugs, but the clams were calling and the day was waning into the late afternoon. Pete took his new Ribb jerk rake — a mini two-handle bullrake — and I dropped to my knees and started pawing through the cold mud for steamers while he worked the inlet for cherrystones and Eliot walked in circles, iPod distracted and ignoring my waves to come over and work the productive section of flat I had found.
I returned to the flats, took a turn on the Jerk Rake (I didn’t like it so much, and prefer my basket-rake) and started packing up our gear for the return to the mooring and a post-clam beer.
We were hosed. There was no walking home for help. Only a long, long paddle back to the mainland in the approaching darkness.
Pete opened his cellphone and called his foreman, Greg, who had been out on the water earlier that afternoon. We were in luck, he was at his mooring only a half-mile away. Fortunately we had the jumper cables, so when Greg arrived we were able to give it a start. The engine wasn’t happy though. The gas left in the tank was a bit messy — water, over-winter varnish — and it wouldn’t come up to speed. So we rigged a bridle, transferred Pete and Eliot to Greg’s boat, and towed me ashore, the more ignomious of outcomes.
Today the battery should have a full night’s worth of charging in it, I will buy new gas, and we’ll make a return to top off the clam baskets and get some more steamers for tonight’s clam fest of fried clams, Clams Casino, and Ultimate Stuffies. It’s another great spring day here in Cotuit, no thoughts of returning to Raleigh for the week are permitted to cloud my mood, all children are upstairs in the beds, and all, given a working boat, should be right with the world.
0 thoughts on “Stalking the wily clam”
nice bucket. try stuffing a nice avocado with clam meat and then wolfing it down accompanied by Clam Juice shooters. Yummy.
After seeing an 18 Tashmoo docked in Boston Harbor, I’ve been trying to locate where they are made. During a search I came across your Tashmoo in your blog.
I’m interested in finding a downeast rouded chine hull…
Could you please let me know where they are made or can be purchased?
Thanks for your help
I saw a Tashmoo 15 in the childs river in Falmouth today an love the looks and allso was wondering who makes them.
The Tashmoo 18 mold is somewhere in Orleans. The original company went out of business.
I just picked up a Tashmoo 15. She’s a beauty! The original sticker on the back says, Machine and Marine Vineyard Haven MA.
Cant wait to put her in the water. I wish I new more history about them.
Any Cliff Clavin’s out there???