I nod in response. Then, as he starts to turn away, I softly add: “Thanks.”
Eventually, we reach an open stretch of sand. The waves trickle and hiss across its smooth wet surface. The air smells of salt and seawater, braided with cold breezes. Connor does a full spin—his arms held out at his sides, the hood of his yellow raincoat drawn over his head—and says, “Is this it? Is this where X marks the spot?”
Jack chuckles. “This is it, bud.”
Mom starts taking pictures. Anytime we go anywhere, she runs out of storage space on her phone. She holds her phone high above her head, pointed at the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the pale blue sky. Then she turns, snapping pictures of the evergreen trees at our backs, the boulders we climbed across, the nearby tide pools.
Jack carried the clam-digging supplies all the way here. He drops his duffel bag onto the packed sand with a jostling thud.
“Are you both ready for a crash course in digging for treasure?”
Connor jumps up and down and says, “Yes!”
Jack grins, unzips the duffel bag, and retrieves a shovel. He hoists it over his shoulder and walks with confidence into the swelling tide.
18
Dig Deep
February 17
The trick is to watch for bubbles and dimples in the sand as the shallow waves retreat. Jack is an expert at this. He explains that the dimples form when the razor clams attempt to burrow deeper underground. He tells us to be quick so they don’t get away, demonstrating by plunging his shovel straight down in the ground, then heaving clumps of wet sand away. Water pools instantly in the newly formed hole. Jack isn’t wearing his gloves anymore, and the thick sleeves of his jacket are rolled up to his elbows as he reaches into the muck. He pulls the razor clam out; its oblong body fits perfectly in the palm of his hand.
Connor gasps as the clam wriggles its short neck. Its flesh nearly matches the grayish-brown color of the sand. Its goldish-brown shell is curved and lined with textured rings.
“Simple as that,” Jack says. He crouches beside our collection bucket; he murmurs a few words of thanks to the clam, for feeding his family. Then he sets it inside and picks up his shovel again.
“Do you always thank the clams?” I ask. A couple of years ago, Jack brought me onto his boat for Take Our Daughters to Work Day. I can’t remember if he thanked the geoducks—the giant razor clams that he hunts for his work—or not; I just remember feeling amazed and a little grossed out by how big they were.
Jack removes his baseball cap with a flick of his wrist, using its bill to scratch the top of his head. “I try to,” he says. “It’s a good habit. It’s important to express thanks to those that help us survive. And our clams have always done that. They’ve always fed and nurtured our people.” He replaces his cap on his head. Looks out across the water. “I’m assuming you two know about how the Duwamish Tribe saved the Denny Party’s children by feeding them clam juice, right?”
Connor scrunches his nose. “The who did what?”
“The Duwamish Tribe? When the settlers landed at Alki Point?” Jack meets my gaze. “Ringing any bells?”
“I know who the Denny Party was,” I tell him. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about with the clam juice.”
Jack makes a face. “What the heck kind of history are they teaching you in school, then?”
Connor says, “Dinosaurs!” at the same time as I mutter, “The Treaty of Paris.”
“Yikes. Well. Okay, then. I guess I’ll be the one to tell you. When the Denny Party landed at Alki Point in 1851, they had a few babies and toddlers with them, including Rolland Denny, who was only a few weeks old. This was in the beginning of the winter season, and they were struggling. The cabin they were supposed to stay in was unfinished. David Denny was ill. One of their other men was missing. They were in a completely unfamiliar environment; they knew nothing about how to hunt or gather in this region. The women were so malnourished, the mothers were struggling to produce breastmilk for their little ones. And so, the Duwamish went to them, and showed them how to feed their babies with clam juice. If it weren’t for those clams, or the knowledge and generosity of the Duwamish, it’s possible those kids might not have survived their first winter in the Pacific Northwest. Maybe none of them would have.”
The waves rush back in, the water swishing and rising to my ankles. Even though my feet are safe from getting wet in my tall rubber boots, I can still sense the cold surge. It makes me shiver where I stand.
Connor’s response is a small, clear “Oh.”
Jack nods. Scans the shoreline for more bubbles. Taps the packed sand with the flat side of his shovel.
“Why the serious faces?” Mom shouts from her seat on a long, bent piece of driftwood. She isn’t participating in the clam dig; she’s content with taking pictures of us, and with staying far away from the freezing sea.
Jack calls back, “Just telling our kids about how the Denny Party survived their first winter out at Alki.”
Mom sits up a little straighter. And I can tell she didn’t catch everything he said over the sound of the waves, because she replies, “Oh! I love Alki! So many great memories.”
Jack smirks. Turns toward the sea. Chuckles under his breath.
“What’s funny?” I ask him.
He shrugs, but he’s still smiling. “Nothing. Our first date was in Alki.”
Connor is absolutely shocked. “Wait, what? You and Mommy went on a date before?”
Jack grimaces. “God, bud. Of course Mommy and I go on dates.”
“When?”
“You know—special occasions, the occasional Friday night. We have romantic dinners, and we go see movies. . . .”
“When was the last time?”
“It was just the other—well, it wasn’t really . . .” Jack blinks wildly at the sea, his face scrunched in concentration. He visibly shudders. “Okay, it couldn’t have been that long ago. Maisie, help me out here.”
I ask, “How am I supposed to do that?”
“I mean, you must remember, right? When was the last time Mrs. Baransky came to babysit the two of you?”
“Like three years ago?”
“No. No way. No, no, no. What about that day I took your mother to the pinball museum? When was that?”
Connor says, “What’s a pinball?” at the same time as I snort and say, “Really? You took her to the pinball museum? Is that your idea of romance now, Jack?”
“Hey, I know romance, okay? Remember the camellias I gathered for her on Valentine’s Day? That was romantic. And thoughtful. And—”
“Free?” I give him a toothy grin. “Yeah, that was super nice of you. Women love free gifts on the most romantic holiday of the year.”
“Okay, you know what? Valentine’s Day is a Hallmark holiday. It’s a cash grab for the greeting card companies, between Christmas and Easter—”
“Yikes, Jack.”
“And I, personally, would argue that New Year’s Eve is actually the most romantic holiday of the year. Because it’s all about new beginnings and anticipation and fireworks. It’s about setting intentions together, growing older together, sharing midnight kisses.”