In March, the water is colder than land. So forty five degrees in Wanchese means its colder on the Pamlico. We left Manteo wearing three layers of cloths. Now.....we put on "slicks" before leaving the harbor. Slicks are rubber boots with warm feet inserts, rubber bib coveralls pants suspended by wide suspenders and a rubber coat with attached hood, rubber gloves with inserts, to keep your hands dry and warm. Slicks come in white or orange so the coast guard can spot you floating torso down from a helicopter if you don't show up in the evening. This day promised me all I asked for my birthday, storm front coming in with rain, winds push by the front and a sharp drop in temperature.

Ole Mike and Edward pre-sold twelve bushels so the goal was to get twelve bushels and come in. Fifteen bushels is the daily limit for a commercial oyster boat. In North Carolina, only licensed by the state commercial fishermen with an oyster endorsement can catch oysters and sell to wholesellers, restaurants, et. Each bushel, weighing about sixty pounds, is tagged for identification. I doubt there are more than five professional oystermen on the Pamlico. I only found three when doing the article and two were Ole Edward and Mike. Oyster season in North Carolina extends from mid-November thru March so to avoid a bacteria called pitheria (as close as I can get) floating in all salt water that becomes active once a certain degree in temperature is reached. This bacteria will kill humans with liver diseases if digested with raw oysters. For what its worth there is no record of a North Carolina harvested oyster eaten raw killing anyone, probably due to the restricted harvesting season.

So forty five degrees in Wanchese means its colder on the Pamlico. Exiting the Wanchese harbor into the Pamlico Sound, Mike, from the rear of the old commercial oyster boat throttles "Dead Rise" upward carefully and remindful you only negotiate the Pamlico in marked channels. After achieving top speed,Mike turns the steering duties over to Edward, the seventy-eight year old salt sitting with me near the boat's bow and whose family has fished these waters since the 1700's. Cold wind rushed past our faces as I recalled Edward's advice: five years earlier in June saying, "Boy, always remember, on the water, you can always take it off but can't put it on if you leave home without it." Zigzagging into the Sound, employees on a channel opening dredge jumped, hollered, waved in our direction. Mike and Edward engaged in lively debate over the waving concerns. We turned toward the dredge and were given an order for a bushel of oysters delivered on our way back. The Crab Sleue is a gigantic underwater oyster reef about eight miles west of Oregon Inlet. Once over the reef, my eyes turned west to observe a dark black sky heading east directly in our path just as the weather predictors predicted.

As Mike and Edward worked the trawl I marveled at their work synchrony, one depending on the other for maximum return in the shortest time. Everything on an oyster boat, connected to an oyster boat has a purpose..... but until you observe,study, feel the feeling, could never appreciate its usefulness. A notch cut in a piece of wood, a short two by four nailed here, a piece of angle iron there.....and........the black sky gets closer as the boat circles, almost teasing you with dangerous marine imaginations. Still Mike and Edward work as a pop radio station drowns out the marine radio's chatter. The water's smooth surface changes its face as the wind pushes the weather front toward us. The "slicks" are on, tied to maximum resistance and while my friends are pulling their income in the old boat, I'm wondering if they truly know what they're doing, with this storm almost over us.

The wind picked up and the Pamlico's appearance change from pleasant to cautionary. The old oysterboat, the "Dead Rise", hardly noticed. My appreciation for local boat-building increased with each passing minute.
Then with blinding speed, the rain fell hard. The warm rain hitting the cold water created instant fog. Visibility limited itself maybe just thirty feet in all directions.
I am captured inside Gruden slicks with no place to run and only ole Edward and Mike as my security.
The winch strains while oysters crash onto the culling table. "Dead Rise" maintains its consistent rumble.
This is Monday, an oyster fishing day for oystermen. Edward picks up his aged oyster knife and opens a shell. Inside is what we're here for including the extra bonus of a tiny blue crab incubating toward another day. I gulp down both the oyster and the crab. Tender, tasty, salty......Ole Edward smiles knowing I'm an oysterman. From the culling box to the holding box Edward and Mike pitch the rocks. Oystermen call oysters rocks because they look like rocks.
It takes two and a half snow shovels of rocks to fill the measuring cone. A bag sits under the cone. Once the measuring cone is full of rocks, you lift the cone, dropping its bushel of rocks in the bag. The trawl is pulled in after the culling table is cleaned.
The entire operation is a live art form......then you realize Edward is seventy eight years old and how fragile this live art form is.
The wind died suddenly as the storm front passed leaving us in heavy fog. The water's surface appeared as glass while my mind asked, "how can this be?" knowing we were twenty miles east of North Carolina's mainland. Mike and Edward said not a word while working feverishly, culling the trawl's bounty. A mixture of pop radio, marine radio chatter and "Dead Rise's" low bellow in trawling gear were all you could hear.
"Are we facing east, west?" Surely, they know what tide we are on."
Thinking of the dangers getting sucked out Oregon Inlet, Edward asked, "How many bushels we got?" "Ten," responds Mike as they continue to work. Two more bushels and Edward asked me, "What time is it,Richard?" "One o'clock" I say wanting to show my response as quickly as Mike's. I want to be an oysterman, you know. Edward moves to "Dead Rise's" bow and steers while Mike takes up the floating position markers. Once in, we slowly head northeast carefully, instinctively, attempting to stay in the deep narrow channel. Suddenly an abrupt stop.
"Damn," shouts Edward, "I ain't no good in fog."
Now on a shoal, Mike takes the steering/power duties at "Dead Rise's" stern. The old oyster boat revs with power in reverse as the Sound's muddy bottom shoots straight up in the air. Back in the channel and northeast again, Mike asked, "Are you okay?" "Sure, no problem," I say with confidence desperately wanting to be the oysterman. "Don't worry," Mike laughingly suggests, " I have a Laran (global positioning system) in my head."
The rain and fog lighten nearer to harbor's safety. In the harbor we gas up for tomorrow's workday and remove the twelve bushels from "Dead Rise" and put then on Mike's pickup truck. Edward tags each bushel (State law) while Mike washes down the boat.
"Aren't you gonna take your slicks off?" Edward asked. "NAW...I'll just wear my pants back to Sally and Phil's (the Bed and Breakfast Annie and I stay)," I say, "not wanting either of the two see me trying to exit rubber pants.
I want to be an oysterman, you know.