and we’ve already got three bags on board. I’m figuring if it doesn’t get too windy this afternoon, we’ll catch another five bags. Four thousand littlenecks, and at twenty-four cents apiece, that’s nine hundred and sixty dollars. If we can do that every day, for the next ten days . . . I quickly let that thought drift by because I know that things won’t always be as perfect as this morning. On the bay, things can change in a minute.
Counting is a big part of my job. It’s all I ever do, counting quahogs, counting days, counting money. There are only two weeks until the end of the month and I’ve only saved five hundred and eighty-three dollars.
$9,417 to go.
Gene puts the rake down on the gunwale and reaches for his plastic cooler lunch box. It looks like it’s been through a war, all scratched up and dented. He snaps open a beer and takes some bread from a bag. I’ve already eaten my sandwich because this is the part I look forward to all day. When Gene takes lunch, I sometimes get to use the rake and keep what I catch.
“Am I going to work the rake while you have lunch?” I ask.
“Just promise me that you’ll still go to college. Your mom made me promise I’d encourage you to go to college.”
“Don’t worry, Gene, I’m not even in high school yet.”
“Yeah, but you’ll be graduating before you know it, and when that day comes, I don’t want to see you out here wrecking your hands on the end of a bullrake.”
“I can’t think about the future, only now: what’s in front of me. Right? Isn’t that what you say, Gene?”
I twist the handle of the rake over as it settles on the bottom. The rake’s teeth crunch like they’ve landed on a granite driveway.
“Wow, that’s some hard bottom.”
“Concrete,” Gene says with a mouthful of bologna.
I’m pulling back on the handle, and I can feel it right through to my own teeth. “It feels like I’m on a jackhammer.”
“It has to feel like that some, but with less backward movement. It’s more about what you’re doing with your hands. Tease them out of there; tickle them out.”
“The rake feels full,” I say.
“You’ve probably buried the sucker. Let me feel it.” Gene puts half a bologna sandwich down on the gunwale and begins to rescue me. He gives the pole several sharp jerks to get it free from the hole I buried it in, and then starts to work his magic.
“Here, come close and watch my wrists and my knees; see the difference. It’s a different stroke.” As he is doing it, I can hear the quahogs going into the basket. I imagine I am down there, next to the rake, watching the teeth pull the quahogs from their hold and toss them into the back of the basket. It’s a rhythmic sound,
ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching.
As more and more quahogs find their way into the back of the rake, the sound gets louder. Gene gives the handle back to me and I take over.
“Yeah, Jake, that’s the sound we’re looking for.”
“Okay, I feel it.”
Five minutes later I pull up the pole, and as the rake breaks the surface, it’s half full of the prettiest shiny quahogs. To me they look like coins. I dump them onto the culling board and start to count in my head. I’m hoping Gene makes another sandwich.
“Try it again. You’re doing good,” Gene says, and I hurl the rake out into the green water. I’m pulling hard because I am excited to catch a bunch more quahogs, but now the rake doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t sound right either.
Be patient; take your time. Don’t muscle it; feel it.
I ease up and slowly begin to find that rhythm again.
Ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching.
The sound starts in faint, but it’s beginning to build. I let out a little anchor line and keep going. I want to fill it to the teeth, just like Gene.
From the south, I see Dave Becker’s boat coming over. His regular picker is not with him, and there’s some new guy scrubbing down the side of Dave’s boat with a long-handled brush as they approach.
Counting is a big part of my job. It’s all I ever do, counting quahogs, counting days, counting money. There are only two weeks until the end of the month and I’ve only saved five hundred and eighty-three dollars.
$9,417 to go.
Gene puts the rake down on the gunwale and reaches for his plastic cooler lunch box. It looks like it’s been through a war, all scratched up and dented. He snaps open a beer and takes some bread from a bag. I’ve already eaten my sandwich because this is the part I look forward to all day. When Gene takes lunch, I sometimes get to use the rake and keep what I catch.
“Am I going to work the rake while you have lunch?” I ask.
“Just promise me that you’ll still go to college. Your mom made me promise I’d encourage you to go to college.”
“Don’t worry, Gene, I’m not even in high school yet.”
“Yeah, but you’ll be graduating before you know it, and when that day comes, I don’t want to see you out here wrecking your hands on the end of a bullrake.”
“I can’t think about the future, only now: what’s in front of me. Right? Isn’t that what you say, Gene?”
I twist the handle of the rake over as it settles on the bottom. The rake’s teeth crunch like they’ve landed on a granite driveway.
“Wow, that’s some hard bottom.”
“Concrete,” Gene says with a mouthful of bologna.
I’m pulling back on the handle, and I can feel it right through to my own teeth. “It feels like I’m on a jackhammer.”
“It has to feel like that some, but with less backward movement. It’s more about what you’re doing with your hands. Tease them out of there; tickle them out.”
“The rake feels full,” I say.
“You’ve probably buried the sucker. Let me feel it.” Gene puts half a bologna sandwich down on the gunwale and begins to rescue me. He gives the pole several sharp jerks to get it free from the hole I buried it in, and then starts to work his magic.
“Here, come close and watch my wrists and my knees; see the difference. It’s a different stroke.” As he is doing it, I can hear the quahogs going into the basket. I imagine I am down there, next to the rake, watching the teeth pull the quahogs from their hold and toss them into the back of the basket. It’s a rhythmic sound,
ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching.
As more and more quahogs find their way into the back of the rake, the sound gets louder. Gene gives the handle back to me and I take over.
“Yeah, Jake, that’s the sound we’re looking for.”
“Okay, I feel it.”
Five minutes later I pull up the pole, and as the rake breaks the surface, it’s half full of the prettiest shiny quahogs. To me they look like coins. I dump them onto the culling board and start to count in my head. I’m hoping Gene makes another sandwich.
“Try it again. You’re doing good,” Gene says, and I hurl the rake out into the green water. I’m pulling hard because I am excited to catch a bunch more quahogs, but now the rake doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t sound right either.
Be patient; take your time. Don’t muscle it; feel it.
I ease up and slowly begin to find that rhythm again.
Ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching.
The sound starts in faint, but it’s beginning to build. I let out a little anchor line and keep going. I want to fill it to the teeth, just like Gene.
From the south, I see Dave Becker’s boat coming over. His regular picker is not with him, and there’s some new guy scrubbing down the side of Dave’s boat with a long-handled brush as they approach.
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