August 29, 2017 — March, 1981. A large blue dragger, The Little Infant, is moored nearby on my side of the Harbor, which is deepest just inside the curve of the spit. The entire crew of seven or eight are standing in a line on her port side, shucking sea scallops and throwing the gurry over the rail to the raucous delight of the gulls swarming below on the surface of the water.
A U.S. flag, which is usually not run at all, is at half-mast in the rigging, a tribute to the crew of the scalloper Cap’n Bill, which went down with all hands lost a few weeks earlier.
The men stand at the rail in large yellow rubber overalls and shirtsleeves, with the intermittent winter sun beaming down on them and small flocks of eiders scudding by as they deftly slip their knives into the yielding shells and flip out the large “eyes” or adductor muscles. There is a rhythmic competency and camaraderie to their work, almost as if they are a band performing out there for their own pleasure.