Then they shoved the empty shells and undersized oysters back overboard and dropped the dredge again. The deckhands sorted the “keepers” out of the gray jumble. The dredge swung on its chain, and two Mexican deckhands balanced it on a metal frame welded to the side of the deck before tipping its contents onto a worktable.
EASTERN OYSTER SPAT SCAR DRAWING FULL
With a belch of exhaust and a roar like a tractor trailer entering the highway, a powerful diesel motor spun a spool of cable that hauled up the dredge full of oysters and debris. The captain steered from a wheel set up front where he could see the dredge, a five-foot metal-rake-and-net contraption that he dragged across the bottom of the shallow bay. Wide across the middle with a huge foredeck, it looked like a barge with an upturned nose. I stood on the deck of the Trpanj, a typical Texas oyster lug. GALVESTON BAY WAS CALM, the sky was blue, and the water temperature hovered at sixty degrees-perfect oyster weather. ONE - The Texas Shell Game TWO - Going At It Forks and Tongs THREE - Sin City’s Wall of Fame FOUR - Irish Eye-sters FIVE - Grand Central Degustation SIX - English Oyster Cult SEVEN - Dreaming of a Huître Christmas EIGHT - Wild Bill on Hog Island NINE - Will Shuck for Food TEN - Cajun Oyster Pirates ELEVEN - Rodney’s Sand Dune TWELVE - In My Bleeding BackyardĪppendix - The Oyster Bars about the author
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