Now, defenseless without my sneakers,  I clamp my toes (it is more intuitive barefoot anyway) around what I believe to be a huge mollusk.  I reach down with both my hands into the salty liquid and I bend my right knee, raise my foot towards the surface, releasing my toe grip on an enormous clam as I place it securely, deftly into my left hand and lift up a beauty of a clam.  I shake it up and down, I spring out of the water about a foot high and exclaim loudly, “Mira, Pa, mira que grande!” (Look, Dad, look how big it is!)  It seems humongous in my childish grip.

My dad looks over from around fifteen feet away to my right, in much deeper water, further out from the rocky shore and calls back, “Oh, ese lo vamos a usar en una linda sopa.” (Oh, that one we will use in a nice soup.)

“Yes,” I ponder proudly, “it will make a good addition to a scrumptious fresh clam chowder!”  I know my mom will add homegrown veggies from our summer garden to the meal and I start to salivate just imagining it.   I find and retrieve yet another clam without letting it drop back into the sea and escaping my hold on it.

I enjoy the entire event – the ever diving down, reaching and clutching with my toes, the dance of lifting and grabbing the mollusks from my foot, to hand, to basket, and the time spent with my dad.   The satisfaction of spending quality time with my father (in a natural setting to boot) infuses my soul.  I also rather enjoy the feasting afterwards and with a comfortable, slow smile on my face follow the thought of how much I take after him and how much we belong to each other. There is no way I was adopted, though sometimes you wonder when you are young, because I instantly know in that moment, we are too alike and are having way too much fun hunting and gathering and being productive.

My dad takes pride in my clam-digging skills.  I fashion myself as a worthy ten-year-old sidekick.  My only drawback,  is  I want to keep everything and I question, haggle and repeatedly ask, -“Is this clam too miniature or illegal?” and  ” Are you sure I have to put it back?”  Clamming for a few summers now,  I feel confident in my dexterity, skills and ability.  I toss the mollusks left and right into the makeshift tire-tube basket that floats and dances between us under the scorching sun.

Every clam has a destination after the harvest.  A super large Little Neck clam resembles and weighs as much as a hefty rock! Chopped up gigantic four to five inch “Little” neck clams are relegated to my mom’s tasty and well-seasoned version of  clam chowder.  She bakes the medium -sized clams right in their own deep purple and pearl Quahog shells with homemade Italian breadcrumbs, parsley, garlic and butter. The bivalves are served in their own homes, a spot of pure genius and ingenuity.  These savory sea morsels are best right out of the oven and devoured while still blazing hot.   The Iroquois Indians of Long Island valued the beautiful violet interiors as currency.  The darker and larger the purple stain, the pricier the clam shell was worth.

Tune in tomorrow for the final description of clam digging and eating.

“No, no sirve, hija – es muy chiquito – dejalo que crezca.  Tíralo de vuelta en el agua, no lo metas en la canasta, Cecilia” (No, it’s no good, daughter – it’s too little – let it grow.  Throw it back into the water; do not put it in the basket, Cecilia).

‘Argh,’ I think.  Bitten by a crab for a teeny, tiny clam I have to throw back into the water. Really?  Oh well, back it goes.  I restore this creature to the depths of the murky inlet of Little Africa Beach into the depths of the Long Island Sound.

The summer sun warms the muddy water and drenches me in heat.   I kick the dark sandy sediment at the bottom of the sea upwards using my toes as I feel around for clams. Seagulls squawk and dive down over my head.  Their constant swooping and chatter, a backdrop to the lapping of shallow waves.  The distinctive scent of the sea permeates my nostrils and hangs heavy in the hot, humid air. The brine tastes sweet, it’s familiar taste pleasant and a comfort, as I smack my lips. It is a flavor particular to the Long Island Sound, back east, in New York.

My dad says it is unlawful to keep the miniature little neck clams and I reluctantly return them to the tepid summer water.  I look forward to them thriving, developing and multiplying because next season I will eagerly scoop and hold them up high like a prize won for patience, endurance and expertise.

The best way I know how to dig for clams is to touch and dig into the earth under the seawater as I tread and hop. I feel the terrain with my toes and grab what I think might be a clam between the ball of my feet and toes, clinching tightly around my catch …then I swing my clenched foot up to my opposite hip and reach down with either hand.  As I bring it to light for the very first time in its life out into the air and sunshine, I inspect my treasure.

Sometimes, my find emerges out of the water and it’s just a sharp- edged rock and I am severely disappointed.  On most occasions though, I discover a solid, pearly, round Little Neck clam, native to the Northeastern seaboard.  I bob up and down as I trudge the floor of the Sound searching for hours, repeating the scenario.  Occasionally, a crab grabs my toes and nips.  Sometimes, I even draw blood.

“Ouch!,” I exclaim.

Crabby crustacean biting occurs frequently in the month of August.  It is a good time to stick some old Converse or cheap department store sneakers on my feet to go clamming safely.

Today, I realize a little too late, is the last day of July and I left my shoes outside on the kitchen stoop leading to our patio. After my café con leche (coffee with milk) in the morning, I didn’t want to miss a single minute of daylight or time with my dad so I hightailed it out quickly to the driveway.

My dad waits with our gear in our old white-finned car. I live in bathing suits in the summer adding perhaps a pair of culottes and maybe a top. I dress in beach-prepared style all summer long.    However, I forget my protective sneakers today and I pay with some abrasions and crab inflicted wounds.

Tune in tomorrow for further clam digging drama…