John’s haul

Vacation week, Cape Cod. A guy lumbered out of the water with the rising tide, and dumped his floating basket into the large plastic tub onshore. He was wearing mismatched layers of water-poly clothes, a huge floppy hat, and a face gaiter for gnats.

Me and my rake, little bounty “clam nursery” water hole dug in the sand

“Wow,” I said. My little basket of about two dozen. “How long did that take you?”

“About three hours. Caught the tide before it turned.” I noticed he had no rake. Just big industrial gloves for digging.

“What are you going to do with them all?”

He told me he sells to restaurants and fish shops, loves it. Lives there in one of the most popular Cape towns, and makes a living, more or less, paid by the pound. Always digging, and his hands always hurt.

“You?” he asked.

I said I was a writer and he grinned. “Make a living?”

More or less. Paid by the word, always digging.