In Maryland: Going Deep for Oysters

By Peter Staler

He was a bold man that first eat an oyster.

Connoisseurs of seafood may take issue with Jonathan Swift; it takes no boldness at all to eat oysters fresh from the waters of the Chesapeake Bay. But going after these oysters requires a bold spirit and a sturdy body. Most of the Chesapeake's watermen, heirs to three centuries of tradition, harvest the bay's oysters by time-honored methods. Some scrape them off the bottom with dredges towed behind graceful, sail-driven skipjacks. Some haul them up with mechanical dredges. Many pluck them off the bottom with unwieldy 18-ft.-long tongs.

Now there is a new and increasingly controversial way of bringing up the shellfish. Tucker Brown, 45, and Roy Sprague, 33, along with a growing number of other watermen, harvest oysters in person--by diving for them. While Brown mans the helm of his 46-ft. work boat Frisky, Sprague plunges beneath the surface of the bay and sends the oysters topside in a wire basket. "It ain't easy," says the soft-spoken Sprague. "But it sure beats long-tonging."

It also makes some long-tongers angry. Though the divers usually work deeper than the tongmen and thus are not vying for the same oysters, the oldtimers feel threatened by the more efficient newcomers. "They're gonna clean the bay out," claims one long-tonger.

Brown and Sprague acknowledge that their harvests are bigger than the average tongman's. But the fact is that none of the watermen are getting huge hauls these days. Nitrogen, carried into the bay by runoff from neighboring farm lands, has lowered the Chesapeake's oxygen level. The primary victims are the oysters, whose numbers have been declining in recent years. The secondary victims are watermen like Brown, whose family has been working the water for three generations, and Sprague, a Californian who was sent to Maryland as a serviceman and liked it so well that he stayed. "I've seen it good and I've seen it bad," says Brown. "But this is really bad."

It is indeed. Maryland's department of natural resources reports that this year's oyster harvest is one of the worst ever. That is why Brown and Sprague work as often as the weather allows. And that is why they are down at the Dennis Point Marina in rural Drayden at 6 a.m., when both the sky and the St. Marys River are the color of a day-old bruise. "Got to get out there early," says Brown. "Want to get them oysters before they wake up."

Getting out to where the oysters live is relatively simple: a 15-minute cruise brings Frisky to a spot over an underwater ledge that Brown and Sprague located the day before. But getting down to the oysters and getting them back to the surface are a bit more complicated. With Frisky fast to a buoy, Brown, already bundled against the chill in a sweater, a wool shirt and a quilted vest, suits up for work in rubber boots and oilskins. Sprague strips to his underwear, then wriggles into a bright red neoprene wet suit.

The suit is not Sprague's only protection against the chilly Chesapeake, whose temperature this morning is only a few degrees above freezing. A hose connected to a standard home water heater in Frisky's cockpit feeds 100DEG F water through tubes Sprague has sewn into his suit. The warm water makes Sprague steam like a freshly cooked lobster as he stands at Frisky's rail to pull on his gloves and flippers.

Ready for work, Sprague wastes no time talking. As Brown checks the air and water lines to make sure there are no twists or kinks, Sprague dons his face mask and dives into the Chesapeake.

Alone in Frisky's roomy cockpit, Brown works quickly. First he sets up the culling board, a 5-ft.-long sheet of galvanized steel that runs, like a ramp, from the top of Frisky's engine box to its rail. Then he takes a couple of bushel baskets and places them beside the board. Finally, he takes his position at the rail.

Brown has hardly finished before Sprague tugs twice on the line, signaling his partner to haul in. Following a well-choreographed routine, Brown grabs Sprague's line, reeves it through a block on the arm of a small, gallows-like crane that projects over Frisky's starboard side, and gives the end a couple of turns around a winch drum. A few seconds later, he hauls in a galvanized wire crate, dripping bay water and filled with black lumps that resemble pieces of coal.

Brown opens the crate and dumps its contents onto the culling board. Oysters less than 3 in. long go back into the Chesapeake. Oysters carrying "spat," or seed oysters, go back too. Legal-size oysters that are stuck together are separated with a blow or two of a hammer-like tool.

The baskets fill slowly. When the harvesting is good, Brown can get a bushel out of each crate. Today's first crate produces barely half a bushel. Brown gazes at the half-filled basket sadly. "Look at that," he says, holding up an empty shell. "We get a lot like this lately. It sometimes gets discouraging." Still, Brown insists that neither he and Sprague nor the hundred or so other divers working the bay pose any threat to the future of oystering in Maryland's waters. "It's not the fishermen that threaten the oysters," he says. "We'll never catch the last ones the way they let us work. It's the water quality."

The department of natural resources is studying the impact of diving on the oyster population, but is more worried about nitrogen runoff, an infestation of oyster-killing parasites and increasing salinity, which results when dry summers reduce the flow of fresh water. At least a few officials would agree with Brown when he says, "It ain't just the bay that's threatened. It's the watermen. We're getting to be an endangered species."

If Brown faces extinction, though, he is going cheerfully. His round, windburned face split by a smile, he looks around him as he works, taking note of other boats, gazing at a Canada goose that passes overhead, and chuckling at the bounty that the Chesapeake is capable of bestowing on those who fish it.

When Sprague surfaces at noon, the two have managed to fill eleven baskets with oysters. "Not too bad," says Sprague through the ice that forms quickly on his beard and mustache. "But not too great, either. Be nice if we could get 20 bushels. Some days we get as few as twelve, and that barely pays for our gas."

Breaking for lunch, Brown and Sprague retreat to the wheelhouse to sip coffee from a thermos bottle and eat oysters fresh from the bay. "Can't find anything better than these," says Brown as he dips an oyster into a potent sauce made of vinegar and red and black pepper.

Neither man, however, lingers over lunch. The forecasters have warned of a storm, and the two want to work as long as the weather holds. Sprague, steaming slightly, zips up his suit and slips back into the water. Brown resumes his station.

But the afternoon's harvest is poor. When Sprague surfaces for the last time, there are only 18 baskets on deck. The catch will bring $12 a bushel. But considering the cost of Frisky's fuel and upkeep, it will not make Brown and Sprague wealthy men.

Heading back to Drayden, Sprague and Brown admit they are depressed about the way things are going--but not enough to consider doing something else. Fishing, Brown explains, is simply in his blood: "We have a saying around here. 'If a child born in Maryland takes his first steps into the bay, he'll be a waterman.' Parents always say, 'Oh Lord, don't let my boy taste salt water.' "

Sprague smiles as Brown pauses, then turns serious as his partner continues. "I guess I tasted salt water early and liked it," Brown says. "I love it out here. That's why I'll always be a waterman. I don't want to be anything else."

--By Peter Staler This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.