Within two hours of docking in gusty grey drizzle, the sky is swept clear of clouds and blue as the deep end of a swimming pool. The cold front that brought the rain has pushed it all out ahead of it. We have a completely different day. All that remains is the wind, which blows unabated.
As the sun gets low, appetites rise. Doug shows off his new custom kitchen box, made by Paul Skalka in trade for Doug’s old catboat mast.
We dive into oysters again, and whatever else is handy, but real rib-sticking platefulls of something are soon in order. A foraging expedition to a local seafood roadhouse is quickly organize and executed.
This is actually the second night in a row we’ve come to this place. Why deviate from a known quantity? The food is good, the prices right, and the atmosphere conducive to the unwashed. Doug gets the All-You-Can-Eat Crabs and Corn. Someone else does the shrimp, or clams. Others get the fresh fried flounder filet, which is pulled straight from the seafood counter and tossed into cornmeal batter. I barter for a couple of crabs, because crabs.
At the table next to us, a fellow who appears to be a local is slowly clawing his way, literally, hand over hand through the remaining claws of at least three dozen crabs. Which it appears he has eaten all by himself. He eats a claw. Digests a bit. Eats another. Nothing is wasted. An impressive feat. He is a large man.
After suitable stuffing and imbibing, a few of us detour down to the town docks. The crescent moon is setting between the harbor light and some peeler shacks.