I was watching a radar target astern as I was nearing my destination in a rare Chesapeake Bay fog. By its size and speed, I thought it must be a sport fishing boat but there was suddenly a very loud horn blast and I looked up to see a huge Menhaden fishing vessel loom out of the mist and turn to pass me close to port. The name on the side of the bow was Reedville. Even though I knew where I was going, seeing the name jogged a decades old memory.
My first job as a naval architect in the world of working craft was for the firm that did the vessel engineering for the Reedville fleet. I knew the name as a place my boss flew off to and I drew tank modifications, performed stability calculations, and figured out ways to make the vessels measure smaller under the arcane regulatory rules.
The fog lifted shortly after and close on the heels of the clearing came the smell, much like being downwind of a pile of just pulled lobster pots in Maine. In the next days I would learn how that smell has helped preserve the delicate ecology of human interactions that makes a true community. It is also what is referred to in many places such as the paper mill towns of Maine as, “The smell of money.” It represents better health for millions of people as the fish oil produced is one of the major and best sources of heart healthy food additives. I already knew though, from what I had learned in the bay and prior to this trip that this fishery is a slow ecological disaster that is affecting life as far away as my home state of Maine. All of the beauty, complexity, and conflicting needs of our modern world would come into focus in the beautiful little town I was headed for.
I learned almost immediately that there was an Oyster Roast at the Reedville Fishermans Museum the following day. Much to my disappointment, it had been sold out six weeks earlier. I went up to tour the museum and, while talking to the director and docents about my connections to the town had the incredible good fortune to find that the one of the docents had an extra ticket.
During the first years after starting my own company, I was primarily involved with historic vessels and sail training. I’ve seen a lot of marine museums and this one is a jewel. I spent the rest of the day walking around and getting to know the town and talking to residents. It quickly became apparent that the community is a jewel as well. One resident invited me in for some of his home grown oysters and beer simply because he had seen me get off the boat and walking past his house. Talking about the town, we concluded that the smell, which he said is only evident less than a dozen times a year, has kept out the kind of people who tend to take over and disrupt the delicate network of human relationships that make true communities like this as endangered as the marine species that feed on Menhaden.
The true quality of the community became evident at the oyster roast. 200 volunteers from not a very large community serve 1000 people oysters, clams, BBQ, chowders, hot dogs, and deserts. I’ve never seen such an event run so well. Not once did I see someone running and frantically asking, “Where are the…”. It takes a true community to pull off and event as complex as this so smoothly.
The cookers were there hours before getting the fires burned down to a good bed of coals:
and preparing for the logistics of moving thousands of oysters:
This beautiful skiff, built in the museum's boat shop was raffled off:
Roasting the oysters is hot and heavy work:
The line stretches down the street:
And keeps going out of sight:
The event begins as people who have been standing for hours start to stream in:
The eating begins:
Going:
Gone:
And clams:
The shed and the tent look like this all afternoon:
The museum's Skipjack, USCG certificated and still sailing with passengers:
I don't know exactly when the event ended but I could hear music long after I had to return to Strider to lie down to try and digest all that amazing food.
You can be sure that I will be planning next year's trip south around this event and will be buying my tickets well in advance.
http://www.rfmuseum.org/
My first job as a naval architect in the world of working craft was for the firm that did the vessel engineering for the Reedville fleet. I knew the name as a place my boss flew off to and I drew tank modifications, performed stability calculations, and figured out ways to make the vessels measure smaller under the arcane regulatory rules.
The fog lifted shortly after and close on the heels of the clearing came the smell, much like being downwind of a pile of just pulled lobster pots in Maine. In the next days I would learn how that smell has helped preserve the delicate ecology of human interactions that makes a true community. It is also what is referred to in many places such as the paper mill towns of Maine as, “The smell of money.” It represents better health for millions of people as the fish oil produced is one of the major and best sources of heart healthy food additives. I already knew though, from what I had learned in the bay and prior to this trip that this fishery is a slow ecological disaster that is affecting life as far away as my home state of Maine. All of the beauty, complexity, and conflicting needs of our modern world would come into focus in the beautiful little town I was headed for.
I learned almost immediately that there was an Oyster Roast at the Reedville Fishermans Museum the following day. Much to my disappointment, it had been sold out six weeks earlier. I went up to tour the museum and, while talking to the director and docents about my connections to the town had the incredible good fortune to find that the one of the docents had an extra ticket.
During the first years after starting my own company, I was primarily involved with historic vessels and sail training. I’ve seen a lot of marine museums and this one is a jewel. I spent the rest of the day walking around and getting to know the town and talking to residents. It quickly became apparent that the community is a jewel as well. One resident invited me in for some of his home grown oysters and beer simply because he had seen me get off the boat and walking past his house. Talking about the town, we concluded that the smell, which he said is only evident less than a dozen times a year, has kept out the kind of people who tend to take over and disrupt the delicate network of human relationships that make true communities like this as endangered as the marine species that feed on Menhaden.
The true quality of the community became evident at the oyster roast. 200 volunteers from not a very large community serve 1000 people oysters, clams, BBQ, chowders, hot dogs, and deserts. I’ve never seen such an event run so well. Not once did I see someone running and frantically asking, “Where are the…”. It takes a true community to pull off and event as complex as this so smoothly.
The cookers were there hours before getting the fires burned down to a good bed of coals:
and preparing for the logistics of moving thousands of oysters:
This beautiful skiff, built in the museum's boat shop was raffled off:
Roasting the oysters is hot and heavy work:
The line stretches down the street:
And keeps going out of sight:
The event begins as people who have been standing for hours start to stream in:
The eating begins:
Going:
Gone:
And clams:
The shed and the tent look like this all afternoon:
The museum's Skipjack, USCG certificated and still sailing with passengers:
I don't know exactly when the event ended but I could hear music long after I had to return to Strider to lie down to try and digest all that amazing food.
You can be sure that I will be planning next year's trip south around this event and will be buying my tickets well in advance.
http://www.rfmuseum.org/
