It basically entails going to the beach, dressing up in an outfit consisting of a head to toe rainsuit (all parts different colors, all parts three sizes or more too big), rubber boots, and rain hat. Accessories include shovel, clam net and runny nose. (The horror! I want my heels and skirt!) If that wasn't enough, I then had to proceed to pound on the beach with my shovel, look for tiny air bubbles to come up, dig at the bubbles, and chase the escaping clam with your bare hand after digging about two shovels deep. Usually around this point, a big wave would come in to refresh me inside my rainsuit which pretty much only had an opening around the neck. Mind you, this digging is definitely a workout as a death fearing clam is a lot faster than one would imagine as an inexperienced clammer.
As everyone else caught their limit of 15 clams, I got three (and a really tiny one which I won't count). Happy I got anything at all I proudly returned to the house, only to realize that there were now roughly 120 huge razor clams to be killed and cleaned. There was no escaping this chore under the scrutinizing eye of my new family, not even when I whimpered a little bit and gagged over the clam bucket. As cleaning a razor clam is really gross and reminded me mostly of female circumcision I will spare you further details. I'm pretty much traumatized though, and my bag full of cleaned and dissected clams in the freezer remains untouched until this massacre fades away into the depths of my memory.
|Oh my god, this is gross. And cleaning out their insides is even more nausea inducing. Pictures available upon request only.|
Ok, so can I at least call myself a proper Washingtonian now that I took part in this activity? Please say yes! Or is there another rite of passage I need to submit myself to?