by John Rocco
“Gene’s strong; he’ll be all right.” He slaps me lightly with his rolled-up paper. “You’re gonna slay ’em, Jake.”
“Thanks, Johnny. Good luck today.” I push my bike back out onto the road, and I can hear Johnny whistling to himself as I pedal toward Barrington.
I arrive at Gene’s and walk my bike up his shell driveway. His house is dark, and his truck looks lonely as it stares out at the water, like a dog waiting for its owner to come back. The Hawkline sits in the moonlight, tethered to the dock.
I move down the ramp with a wheelbarrow filled with everything I need — gas, lunch, drinking water, a knife, and some tools. The ramp is slippery with the morning mist, and the wheelbarrow almost sends me into the river. I think, Wow, if I can’t get the gas on board safely, how the heck am I going to work for twelve hours at the beach? I get to the end of the dock and lift the gas and supplies into the old fishing boat.
Jessy is on the bow, staring at me with her yellow beak jutting out and one leg tucked up into her feathers, her other leg still knotted with fishing line.
“Oh, hey, girl. You’ve been waiting for me?” I see the thick white layer of seagull crap on the bow and realize she’s probably been waiting there since Gene got hurt. Broken shells and dead spider crabs litter the deck.
“It’s just me today,” I say, and start cleaning up the deck. Jessy makes a shrill cry and takes to the air. I watch as she flies off toward Hundred Acre Cove.
It’s just me today. Suddenly I’m scared. It’s dark and I’m alone and I’m taking Gene’s boat without permission and there are going to be a million guys out there and what if I screw up? I’m panicking now.
Gene, tell me it’s okay. Tell me it’s okay to take your boat. Let me know it’s going to be all right. Promise you’re going to be with me out there.
I’m sitting on the gunwale when Jessy comes flying in from the darkness and lands gracefully on the bow with a flutter of wings. She’s got something in her beak and drops it on the deck with a loud thunk.
A quahog.
That’s it. That’s the sign. Thank you, Gene. I rinse it off and take out my knife. I slide the blade between the hard outer shells, pressing it into the palm of my hand. It opens easily, and with a gentle twist I expose the soft belly. I loosen the meat from the white-and-purple shell and raise it up to the sky in a toast.
“Here we go,” I say to Jessy, and slurp it down in one gulp.
Tossing the shell, I reach for my canvas bag and pull out a small dishtowel. Placing it on my lap, I unwrap it carefully and take out my dad’s reading glasses. I’m wondering if my mom will notice the glasses are gone from the top of the register. She’s had them there ever since he went missing. I place them carefully on the console, hooking them around a bungee cord that Gene uses to hold his sunglasses and stuff. Once they’re in place, I set about getting the boat ready, going through my mental checklist, making sure I’m not forgetting anything.
I attach the gas hose and pump the ball on the gas tank to raise the pressure in the carburetor. The engine whirs and growls — err, agh, vpp, ttt, zing — as it starts and spits and tries to fall back to sleep all in the same gasping breath. I’m laughing nervously as this old machine is finding its way back to life, like an old man awakening in the morning. I say a short prayer, and it starts.
I unlash the lines and throw her into gear, and the boat slips from the dock. The green-and-red running light on the bow leads the way through the early morning darkness.
I’m feeling good as I guide the Hawkline up the river and under the bridges, weaving my way slowly through all the sailboats at the yacht club. When I pass the last boat and I’m beyond the red buoy at Blount’s Marina, I give the engine enough gas to plane off. I can hear the swish, swish sound of the waves slapping at the hull of the boat. She’s running well, and I’m early, like I want to be. I make my way past Rumstick Rock and look to the east to see the slightest hint of sunlight fighting its way up to the horizon. I check my watch: 5:08 a.m.
Boats are coming in from all angles now. Dark silhouettes, engines buzzing, make their way through the water toward Barrington Beach. Ronny Camara is running beside me in his seventeen-foot tri-hull. He’s looking over at my boat, steering closer, not sure who’s at the helm of the Hawkline. When he recognizes me, he pulls away and angles his boat toward Nayatt Point.
I can see the light shining from beneath the flagpole at the Rhode Island Country Club on the distant shoreline. As I get closer, I throttle the old engine down and ease in. As far as the eye can see, boats from everywhere are filling in the area, like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Everyone’s moving around, trying to find their spot, and I’m motoring the big Hawkline in between guys from Warwick and Apponaug and East Greenwich. It’s tough to see in the first light of the day. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m sure I’ve arrived. I can’t believe how many boats are out here already. There’s got to be two thousand boats, and it’s not even 5:20 a.m.
I’m looking for a good spot about three hundred yards off the shoreline, right in front of the seventeenth hole of the golf course, just like Gene said. There! I see a good-size opening, so I move in slowly.
“Get the hell out of there! That’s my spot!”
I look up, and this little muscular guy with red-tinted sunglasses and a bushy mustache is screaming at me. He’s cursing and yelling at everybody within fifty yards. I don’t want him pissed at me, so I slowly move off ten yards to the west.
“You’re good right there, kid,” a low voice calls out to me. I look over to see a tall man with a white beard setting up his rake. He looks Norwegian with his blond hair and strong features. He’s working out of a flat-bottomed boat called a garvey. He’s motioning with a screwdriver for me to drop anchor.
I toss the anchor, and the boat begins to drift back as I shake the line, helping the hook catch on the bottom. I’m here. I can’t believe it; I’m going to work the beach.
It’s 5:30 a.m., so I have some time to set up my rake, drink some water, and get some food in me. The man in the garvey is smoking a pipe and pouring hot coffee from a thermos. He’s trying to look relaxed, but I can tell he’s almost as nervous as I am.
All around me the tension is high as boats jockey for position. The sounds of engines revving and men yelling and dogs barking fill the air. The guy in front of me is Alan Newberry from the West Bay. I know I’m in the right spot if Alan Newberry is on top of me. The guy is a legend on the bullrake. I just hope he doesn’t drift back and snag my anchor, sending me adrift into this mess of boats behind me. I’m not sure I can get this old engine started in time to pull me out of that situation.
The light begins to rise over the tree line at Colt State Park, illuminating the bay in oranges and pinks. For the first time, I can see how many boats are out here. They’re packed in so tight it’s like an enormous raft. I’m not too worried that anyone might hit the Hawkline. She’s old and tired and all dinged up; but I just don’t want to be the idiot that sets the whole mess into a cluster.
I check the depth of the water with a string and a lead weight. The string has different-colored marks every three feet. I’m embarrassed because all the other guys have electronic depth sounders, but Gene won’t spend the money. He always says, “I know every inch of this bay. Don’t need any new stuff that’s gonna break down and mess up my day.” He’s right, in a way. The string works just as well and it’s practically free. Tommy would love it.
The guy in the garvey is watching me. “My dad used to do that when I was a kid. Who taught you that?” Our boats are almost touching now, with the swing of the tide and wind, and he adjusts his anchor line on a series of chocks at the gunwale until his boat shifts away slightly. “Where’d you learn that?” he repeats as I set up the pole and the rake.
“My dad,” I say, pulling up the weight and counting the marks. Ten feet exactly. Just like Gene said.
I set up my rake and rest it on the gunwale.
“Jake Cole,” I say
to the Norwegian-looking guy in the next boat.
“What?”
“Jake!” I yell above the outboard motors, banging metal rakes, and barking dogs.
“Cliff Olson. Good to meet you.”
Men are readying themselves all around me, preparing their equipment and putting on waterproof aprons. Black Labs and golden retrievers are standing on the bows of boats of all shapes and sizes, barking at one another as pickers are huddled beneath their hooded sweatshirts, awaiting the first haul, deathly afraid to get in the way of their captains. I suddenly realize I’m the captain of this boat right now. It’s like the gold rush, and I can’t wait to get the rake in the water. I check my watch again.
I still have ten minutes, so I open a can of beef stew and chow down. The stew tastes good, even cold with bits of beef fat congealed and floating in the gravy.
I take a seat on the culling board and survey the boats around me. The little guy with the mustache is still yelling at everyone and chucking things around his boat like a madman so no one will go near him.
Suddenly a cabin boat with two divers on board glides in, and they’re about to drop anchor next to the crazy guy. The little guy starts his engine, still swearing, as he backs right up to the stern of the dive boat.
Right about now everyone just wants to start quahogging, but we have to wait until the clam cops blow the horn at 5:58 a.m., so for now we’re all watching the little guy get into it with these two divers. Most bullrakers hate divers because they clean out a spot so good that the quahogs take forever to grow back. This little guy is ready to kill these divers.
He trims his prop up to the waterline and guns the engine, sending a wave of spray into the stern of the dive boat. Then he starts throwing stuff at their cabin. A window breaks on the starboard side and then another. I duck down just enough so I can see and not get busted in the head.
One of the divers heads to the stern and runs right into the spray of water and gets thrown back into his cabin. All the quahoggers are laughing now like it’s a comedy show. The other diver sees what’s going on and quickly pulls up his anchor, rushing to the controls of his boat.
“Get that piece of crap outta here! Eels go home, eels go home!” the little guy chants while waving a machete over his head.
The divers look around to see all of us staring at them, while the clam cops sit outside the pack, looking on like prison guards watching a fight in the jail yard. The captain of the dive boat starts his inboard engines while their pump shoves water out the stern. Diving gear, tanks, masks, and other stuff is floating around in a mess on deck. The tension starts to ease as they move out of the pack and work their way toward shore. The guys all cheer, and the little guy with the mustache returns to his spot, swinging on his anchor, still yelling at everyone around him.
“This is going good,” I say to Cliff, who’s sitting comfortably on his starboard gunwale.
“Better than expected.” He chuckles, with the pipe still tucked in between his teeth.
“And it’s not even officially sunrise yet,” I say, checking my watch again.
5:56 a.m.
I can feel my pulse thumping in my temples.
I look over and see one of the clam cops standing up on the bow of his boat as it slowly threads its way through the pack. He’s holding an air horn in his hand, and he keeps checking his watch.
Here we go. Any second now I’ll be working the beach.
Anchored off to my right, I see Johnny Bennato hustling to set up his bullrake. He’s in a perfect spot, right between the crazy little guy and me. I can’t believe it. Johnny must have slipped into the pack when that guy was flooding the dive boat. The little guy is so steamed that I don’t think he even noticed Bennato. I’m happy that Johnny’s beside me.
“Morning, Johnny,” I say as he dashes around his boat.
“Jake.” He nods, with a sly smile.
One guy, about six boats away from me, throws his rake into the water and starts digging. I look at my watch. It’s 5:58 a.m., but the clam cops haven’t sounded their horn yet. They speed over and board the guy’s boat immediately. Their boat bumps into two others, and soon they’re all yelling at one another.
Like thoroughbreds unleashed from the starting gate, four thousand bullrakes hit the water simultaneously, and everyone starts digging. I sit and wait for a minute, listening for the horn, but I’m the only one, so I pull my rake off the holder and throw it in. The guy in the boat that got boarded is standing and pointing as the cop writes out his ticket. The other cop is rifling through his boat, checking for life jackets and stuff. It doesn’t seem fair.
My rake hits the bottom with an audible crunch. I try and remember what Gene taught me.
Tickle them out of the hard bottom. Don’t force the rake.
At first, the rake seems to just bounce off the bottom, and I really can’t figure it out. I look around nervously as guys are pulling up full rakes of littlenecks all around me. I let out some anchor line and push off slightly, trying desperately to get my rake into the bottom. Still not right.
I grab the nut driver off the console, loosen the hose clamp below the handle, and let out another three feet of pole. Instantly the rake seizes up.
I’m in.
I start pulling the rake and quickly realize it’s not hard bottom. It’s mud. Mud packed so tightly with littlenecks it feels like cement. I close my eyes, trying to block out the craziness around me. I let my mind slowly travel down the length of the pole until I’m sitting right there on the bottom, watching the rake.
Ca-ching, ca-ching.
Less than a minute goes by, and I can hardly move it anymore. I start hauling the pole hand over hand, and I’m amazed at how heavy it is without Gene lifting with me. I try not to let on that I’m struggling. I don’t want to look bad in front of all these professional guys.
As the pole rises into the sky, I look behind me, making sure it won’t crack someone in the head when it comes down. I carefully angle the pole so it splashes down into the water between two boats.
I look back into the rake and can’t believe my eyes. It’s jammed full of the prettiest quahogs I’ve ever seen. There’s got to be over a hundred littlenecks in there, all of them the perfect size. I shake the rake to release the mud and dump the catch onto the culling board with a loud rattle.
“Doesn’t get any better than this.” Johnny Bennato smiles as he pulls on his rake handle.
“Unbelievable,” I say, throwing my rake back into the water.
Just then this guy they call Mickey the Pimp forgets to look behind him, and his pole and handle come smashing down on my starboard gunwale about six inches from my head.
“You stupid bastard, get off the beach if you can’t work the crowds! You almost clocked my kid!” Johnny yells at him at the top of his lungs.
The guy grunts and moves his pole to rest in the water, off the bow of the Hawkline.
I ignore Mickey’s grumblings because he’s trying to blame me, and I just focus on the work. The conditions are just right. I’m making the rake head sing, but it’s getting harder and harder to pull this thing up to the surface. I figure at this rate I won’t last till noon. Guys are crossing over one another with their poles; handles are getting locked together; it’s a circus out here. My rake hits the surface again and again, and each time it’s filled to the teeth. I start counting and figuring in my head. I’m thinking I might be able to catch enough today to make a huge dent into that debt we owe Vito.
Just focus on the work.
When I hit the second hour, I decide to put on a pair of cotton gloves. I’m hoping they’ll help me last a little longer out here and keep my hands free of blisters. I dip the gloves in the warm August water, wiggle them onto my hands, and continue pulling the rake. I work quickly, using my shoulders, leaning back and putting all one hundred and seventy pounds of my weight into the rake. It happens over and over again, and it seems there’s no end to the quahogs.
After two hours I’ve a
lready got eight bags on board, about four thousand littlenecks. Before the beach opened, we were getting twenty cents apiece, so I figure I’m making about eight hundred dollars per hour. If I can work ten hours, I’ll make eight thousand dollars. Wow!
Hold it. Stop thinking like that. I catch myself again.
My head is down, and I’m working the rake, and the ache in my back feels like a sawtooth steak knife being driven between my shoulder blades. The gloves keep getting bunched up, and they are digging their way into my knuckles, so I ditch them. The blisters are coming.
It’s 9:30 a.m., and I’m already tired. I tie the rake off and sit down on the gunwale and hurriedly pick through the catch on the culling board until it’s covered only with littlenecks. I wish I didn’t have to keep stopping to sort through everything, count it, and put them into bags. Maybe I should have taken Darcy out here with me. I think of her back at the diner, probably rushing between booths and tables, prepping for the lunch crowd. She’s definitely a distraction, but a nice one. I throw the rake back in, and I see somebody paddling out in a bright-orange kayak.
Uh-oh, this isn’t going to be good.
I’m thinking that this crazy fool is going to try and bullrake out of his kayak. As he gets closer, I can see it’s a kid. Probably out looking for his dad or selling jugs of water or something. I get back to work, but I keep one eye on the orange kayak. The kid has his binoculars out, scanning the horizon. The next thing I know, he’s paddling right toward me.
It’s Tommy!
I’d give him a wave, but the other guys are all laughing at him and making jokes.
“No-wake zone, man. Don’t make any waves,” one guy shouts.
“You lost? Newport Beach is twelve miles south of here.” Another points toward Prudence Island. The quahoggers are heckling him as he circumnavigates the pack of boats.
I lift my hat and give him a half wave as I wipe my brow with my arm, trying to make it look like I’m not waving at all. Tommy slides in front and drifts down on me, paddling to stay in my path.