The Fam That Clams

When I was in 8th grade, on a long road trip with my grandparents up the AlCan Highway, I had my first experience of “clamming”; the activity by which one hunts for and then digs up clams at the beach. I remember it being cold and rainy, and that the pebbles hurt my hands. Yet the warm clam chowder reward, sopped up with hunks of bread, resulted in a very happy memory, despite the dreary circumstances.

Along with a couple of friends we had the wild idea to introduce our own kids to a clamming adventure. So, on a rainy day, we bought fishing licenses, packed up the kiddos, and headed for Pismo Beach, CA.

If you drive up the PCH to Pismo Beach, you’ll find a number of restaurants serving “world famous” Pismo Clam Chowder. They even have an annual Pismo Clam Festival. Legend has it (erm, Wikipedia says) that clams were once so plentiful on the Pismo beaches that they were harvested with plows.

Everyone donned waders, grabbed shovels or buckets, and headed for the water. We taught the kids how to look for the sand bubbles that signify a clam beneath the surface, and how to dig without shattering the clam’s shell. Those lessons proved pointless however, because clams, come to find out, are exceedingly difficult to find. As the morning wore on, the kids became distracted with other, more productive activities like building sand castles or filling the clam buckets with the gorgeous sand dollars dotting the beach.

Come to find out, the Pismo Clam has been massively over-harvested and is nearly non-existent on the beaches after which it was named. We did not harvest a single clam that foggy, cold day. But I find it deeply meaningful that, much like my initial experience of clamming, my memory of this day is an exceptionally happy one.

It reminds me that the activity is merely a vehicle for relationship and memory; of friends being together, making mistakes, commiserating, and laughing. It’s a good reminder, the clams don’t matter.