Siliqua Patula, Strawberries, Lime

The summer minus tide series are the most extreme for the year. The median tide line is set (somehow) as zero. Anything above median is a plus tide; anything below is a minus tide. Simple logic, that.

In the winter we have our highest plus tides, exceeding 10 feet above median. Add a storm behind that and you get what they call a surge. Add torrential rains to the surge on a 10 foot flood tide, pushed by a storm and you get just that: a flood.

In 1996 we received over 20 inches of rain in the month of December. There was a 10 foot (or better) high tide and fierce storm winds helping the sea, shoving it into the mouth of the river. "Take it all, bitch" took on rare, but not unseen implications for those who live in the lower tidal plains. It flooded. It flooded people out. What couldn't move, or be moved, to higher ground was lost. Animals perished, lives were saved---both sides of that tide flowed.

But in the summer there is little rain, seldom a storm and the greatest recessions of the surf reveal opportunities both pleasant and productive. I went clamming this week.

An interesting thing about tides is that their extremes increase as you go north. In California it was a big deal if we got a 1.5 foot minus tide. Here on the coast of Oregon, we annually see tides reaching minus 2.5 feet. In Clam Gulch, Alaska they got a 5.4 foot minus tide on May 17th. Nova Scotia, I have heard tell, has the lowest minus tides on the planet, exceeding 10 feet. Wow. You could just about walk to Portugal if you could do it in an hour.

The difference between the lowest and highest points of a tide cycle is called the exchange. This month we got a 7 foot high tide followed by a 2.5 foot minus. The exchange was nine and a half feet. In Nova Scotia the exchange is 33 feet. When the tide changes from low to high, there is a wave called "the tidal bore." It sometimes exceedes a meter in height. The bore sounds the alarm that, if you are on low ground, it's time to begin thinking about making like The Jeffersons and start movin' up.

Ebbs do not tarry. Low slacks last little longer than the time it takes to make a good act of contrition. I have been fishing on the rocks and wound up getting wet when having to swim the renewed lagoons. Our ocean temperatures are somewhere around 52 degrees F.

In this video, my friend Jack taught me what to look for in order to see the clam "necking." There really isn't much neck to see. The "show" is very subtle. The clams will just ever so slightly breach the surface of the sand, revealing the rosette pattern of the larger of their two valves (hence the name, bivalve) and then disappear. Jack showed me this clam and we waited for it to reappear to no avail. After we got tired of waiting, he thumped the sand to startle the clam into action. Hopefully, you can see the perfectly round hole containing the whirling sand as it retracts its neck for an escape. The show appears just before a wave obscures it. Sorry. It's quick. I was told early on that razor clams are the only clam that can dig almost as fast as you can. You will see Jack doing battle with this notion, but prevailing in the end. Jack was a bit disappointed that the clam was not very big. I thrill to see any size. And the smaller ones, as they say, eat better.




See, Annie? It's true. Turlock is not only famous for its turkeys, but it is the home of Medic Alert:





This is Dan, the reason I came to the beach. I threw pots for Dan in 1981. He is the person who took me razor clamming for the very first time. He doesn't remember it. But I do.



This is Linda (on the left) and Connie. I met them at the beach. They didn't know how to dig clams. They were so cute with their brand, new shovels with the stickers still on them. I told them that I am the clam whisperer. After each had their first clam I said, "My work is done here, ladies. You're on your own." Every time I go, I meet someone new. I give them some good Gawpo to take home with them, sometimes in the form of getting clams, sometimes just in the form of a friendly contact. These gals got both.




I liked the reflection of that person holding the two buckets. There were about 80 clammers on the beach. On this minus tide it was a long walk to the first wave. About a quarter of a mile.



In front of the sand dollar is a ghost shrimp. I got about ten yesterday. Fried in peanut oil they are DELICIOUS! No one eats them. Except Gawpo, that is. They don't call them razor clams for nothing. Those shells are thin and sharp. I cut my finger on one and forgot about the cut until I saw a bright, red orb in the water. It caught my eye. That is the job of the color of blood. All of a sudden it burst into tendrils not unlike the grand finale at the fireworks display on the Fourth of July. I immediately began my vigil against great whites. The limit is 15 clams. I am learning not to break the shell.




It's rare to find a whole sand dollar. This is the second one I found.



On this and a prayer...



These are cool.




This is Keli, the ODFW (Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife) checker. As I was walking off the beach, I saw her checking two people headed for the parking lot. She didn't see me before she noticed three other clammers headed to another parking lot. She bolted across the sand on a dead run to catch up with them. I stepped up my pace, knowing that when she was done with them she would see me. I slowed to a walk as she turned away from her last check and when I was sure that she saw me, she started to walk faster. I stopped in my tracks, then lowered my body as though I was going to run. I started running as if I was trying to avoid her. She began running really fast. I then stopped and laughed and yelled, "That was pretty funny." She yelled back, "What---me running or you?" I yelled back, "I made you flinch." She was a good sport. The checkers ask two questions: How many and how long. My answer was: Fifteen in 27 minutes. Naughty Gawpo...




Linda and Connie again, this time with the lighthouse in the background. Look familiar, Nana-g?