Blackout by Jason Elam, Steve Yohn Page A

grin.
    Skeeter glared at Riley.
    â€œâ€™Cause you almost sounded a little scared,” Riley continued.
    â€œYou gave me a job, and I did it. Now are we getting out of this thing?”
    Riley scanned the beach. “You sure you want to get out? There could be scary birds out there or maybe even a ferocious baby seal.”
    The two men stared at each other, albeit with very different expressions on their faces.
    Riley broke the standoff, saying, “Okay, my friend, if you think you can handle it, let’s get out. I want to show you something.”
    Riley swung open the door next to Skeeter, and the big man lumbered out of the tiny airplane. Riley followed with much greater ease. At the tail of the Cub, Riley grabbed a handle, lifting the plane’s rear section off the ground and pulling it further from the surf.
    â€œThat should be good,” Riley said admiring his work. He looked at the sun and at the water. “We only have about forty minutes before we’ll get run off by the incoming tide.”
    He went back to the plane’s cabin and reached behind the backseat to pull out a bucket and two small shovels.
    â€œLet’s go,” Riley said with a smirk.
    As the two men walked toward the water, Riley explained what came next. “This area is known for very large razor clams. As you can see, right now it’s low tide. As the tide begins to come back in, the water pressure will force the clams to the surface. You’ll know you’ve got one near you when you see small air bubbles in the sand.
    â€œWhen you see one, take your shovel and dig very quickly just to the side of the bubble. When you’ve got a small hole, drop the shovel and begin digging with your hands. Once you feel the hard outer shell, grab what feels like the clam’s tongue and pull. The clam will be digging too, so you need to be quick.”
    â€œGrab the tongue of a digging clam? Be honest—this is kind of like snipe hunting, isn’t it?” Skeeter said suspiciously.
    â€œNo, I’m serious. We can get close to seventy, but we have to be fast. Then when we’re done, we’ll clean them up, and I’ll make a seriously rocking clam dip,” Riley bragged.
    Skeeter didn’t move.
    â€œStill don’t believe me? Here, watch.”
    Riley, hitching up his chest waders, dropped to his knees next to a dime-sized hole. After two quick shovel motions, Riley thrust his hand down into the sand. Moments later, he pulled his hand back proudly and revealed a nine-inch oval creature.
    â€œYour turn,” Riley said as he tossed the clam up to a surprised Skeeter. “Once you get one, throw it in the bucket, and move to the next set of bubbles.”
    Skeeter reluctantly dropped to his knees and began the muddy process. At first he was clumsy with the shovel, flinging sand on himself and Riley.
    â€œLighten up, Francis!” Riley laughed. “That’s the only shovel I have for you. You break it, you’re digging with just your hands.”
    Tossing the shovel aside, Skeeter plunged his hand into the wet sand, mumbling incoherent curses all the while. Finally, his hand came out, and he stretched it over his head. In it was an enormous clam. “Woo-hoo!” Skeeter uncharacteristically called out.
    â€œShhh! You’ll scare away the rest of the clams!” Riley chastised him.
    â€œOh, sorry,” Skeeter whispered.
    Riley started laughing as he rifled a handful of wet sand against Skeeter’s waders. “Come on, Skeet! You see any ears on that thing?”
    Skeeter looked at the clam, then threw it at Riley—pegging him in the chest.
    â€œOw,” Riley yelled, still laughing. “What kind of bodyguarding is that?”
    Without answering, Skeeter began scouring the sand for more air bubbles. Quickly, he got the hang of the process and began tossing clams into the bucket at rapid intervals. By the time the tide returned, the two of them