Liere: Clamming provides true test of mettle

My parents introduced me to clamming when I was 10 years old. Back then, razor clams in Washington State could be dug in the summer, and a day on the beach during a low tide was a memorable part of family vacations to the Pacific Ocean. The limit then, as it is currently, was 15. I think the clams were larger, but I’m pretty sure they couldn’t dig nearly as fast as they do now.

I think part of the reason clammin’ appeals to me still is because I have always had a curious fascination with sand and mud. As a child, my folks called me “Pigpen” after the Charles Schultz character and each blamed the other for the strange, dirty son they were raising.

Clam seasons seldom run into the summer anymore. We addicts can be found either scouring low tide beaches with a shovel and lantern in the impenetrable blackness of a winter night, or braving sideways rain and high surfs in the gray early spring.

To get razor clams, you find a “dimple” in the sand and then, from your knees, try to outdig the 6-inch bivalve below as it heads for China. That a 220-pound man can be challenged thus is a paradox, but the clam with its little fleshy foot can dig as fast as I can with a shovel. That’s why I have recently gone to a 3-foot tubular device with a handle called a “clam gun,” though they’re hard on aging backs.

They aren’t called “razor clams” for nothing. A few years ago, I cut a knuckle to the bone while trying to grab a fleeing mollusk. It put me in a Westport hospital because the subsequent infection caused my hand and arm to treble in size. The bill for antibiotic IVs contributed greatly to my grief and assured my clam fritters would eventually be worth about 100 bucks (clams?) each.

Yes, clam digging has been expensive, but it has also provided the periodic excitement necessary for flushing ugly cholesterol. Last February on Long Beach, I joined friends and relatives on a perfect morning with excellent tides and fast limits. The next day promised even lower tides, but when I got to the beach, the surf was high, and huge angry waves pounded the shoreline. When they broke, brown frothy water carried a long way up the beach, but when it receded, I followed it as far out as I dared to look for dimples.

I figured as long as I kept an eye on the inrushing water, I could trot to safety before the incoming surf engulfed me … but I was wrong. A maverick wave came in hard and fast, and as I looked up, the rushing torrent was upon me. Stumbling, arms flailing, I tried to outrun it, but the water knocked me down, broke over my head and tumbled me 30 yards up the beach.

When I finally stopped rolling, I sat up in 2 feet of retreating water, still holding my clam gun. People were applauding. Someone would have a great video, but the camera I had hung around my neck was gone. Sand was packed in my ears and the lining of my rain gear. My hat was missing and salty water logged me down. I had to crawl up the beach to dry sand, which then clung to my clothing like sugar on a cookie. For a kid called “Pigpen,” it was a perfect day.