Song for Hong
There is much to say about "preseason" cruise. First, no crabs. Secondly, no errors (In general). And if early enough in the season, there will be no sailors, either, the acceleration of their boats in the early hours and the racing channel. You'll have caught them between oystering and the start of crab season, when they are more likely to be working on their boats or preparing their traps.
You will surely see an osprey, however. We did it in this rainy April morning when Enrique's brother, sister-in-law Pat and I left Puerto Marina Carpenter in Deale, Maryland, in its Gulf Star 44, INSSA, bound for Hong River. As engines of the past daymarker at the mouth of Rockhold Creek, a pair of nesting Osprey chewed us out in very clear terms – roughly translated, his diatribe went something like this: "Stay away or I'm going to slice my face sharp peak and food for fish. 'We pay them no mind.
INSSA cut into Herring Bay like the rain that had been dripping incessantly over the past three days respite. Brother Henry and the lovely Miss Pat were planning a summer trip to Canada. This little tour is shakedown cruise spring. Henry had been a little skeptical when I first proposed the idea. "The Mushroom?" said, raising his eyebrows. "Nobody goes to the fungus."
"Sure," I said. "Many people, in fact."
The Hong River is located on the east coast, opposite the mouth Patuxent River and the island of the Solomons, and not all that far north of the Potomac. Protected by Hooper Island (Upper, Middle and bottom) in the west and swampy lowlands along the east, the river offers 12 miles long ports half dozen sailors, with a couple of yards of work and packaging crab to boot. For boats that can make in Back Creek, there are also Old Salty's, a restaurant has long occupied the old school Hooper Island. But here's the problem: Despite a profound canal cuts through the middle of the river from Hooper Strait Fishing Creek extent, Hong most places is quite superficial. Regardless of skinny water, we anyway. I wanted to go on this trip, just to set eyes on the place where the Claud W. Somers dropped, March 4, 1977.
This is a story that can not overcome. I wrote about it once to this magazine [see "Good Men Down", March 2005], and I've been wanting to write a song about it since then. Some people catch the Bay in the paintings, some of them with a camera. Bay try to capture in music, putting the history of the Bay people and the creatures in my lyrics. The history of Claud W. Somers is one of many issues that I've focused on, but for some reason, the muse had hitherto been difficult to achieve. I thought maybe I go to Hong in early spring and see for myself where the ship was shaking down a little inspiration.
As we moved the bay the wind dropped considerably and the waves whitecapped waves settled in matt pewter. The sun had hidden behind a cloak of clouds, and the air was cold. In the distance, the lowlands of the east coast on the horizon loomed. We passed the leaning tower of Sharps Island Lighthouse – is so difficult to imagine the land mass that once was there, with churches, houses, farms. Bay is like Atlantis. Then came the long past Barren Island.
We have ignored the Barren Island Gap, which leads from a swampy stretch north and the rest of Barren Island to the south by the narrow bridge between the mainland and the island of Hooper top and corner in the north of Hong River and Fishing Creek community. We would need local knowledge before we tried something. Sailors to use this network pretty routine but the letter said he would find only three feet of water in one leg in particular. With the wind from the northeast, which would not go near him. Instead, he took the long way: to the south around the bottom of the table that calls the Island and Lower Hooper Island locals call Applegarth. There was a series of farms and families until the hurricane of 1933 washed with salt. We loop around the island, headed north on the fungus and slid into Rippons Hoopersville Harbor, near the southern end of Middle Hooper Island. The day had been long term and we were exhausted, happy to be in the shelter of the island and tied snug along the boardwalk Rippons.
Chan Rippons The deceased had made the harbor here, the installation of a series of slides comfortable (though not comfortable enough to handle our nearly beam 15 feet) and a basin of attraction bulkheads, including a fuel dock (gas and diesel). Rippons Brothers Seafood, Chan's father and uncles founded in 1947, and crab steamers packages during the season, which begins with the warm weather in April and May and runs through November. We were too early to enjoy a plate of crab steamed fresh, but we stayed next to the bowl and thought about it. We were happy to be out of the wind, but it would be even happier that he decided, if we could find a place to eat on the boat. Somewhere warm. In a dry place. Somewhere quiet. . . .
It is a walk of five miles from the port of Rippons Old Salty's, located in Upper Hooper Island, in the village of Fish Creek. If he had ventured further up the river and take INSSA in Back Creek, we could have Dinghies to a landing near, crossed the road and been there, but given the time, we were not so sure that we could get to do it safely in the back and went Creek, so we stayed in Rippons. We knew that Old Salty was open (now it was Sunday) and was standing the only main road that winds through the high land of the islands. Perhaps, we thought, someone would be so kind to give us a ride, if you ask very well.
With this in mind, I got a call Old Salty's. A cheerful voice got on the first ring. "Let me call you back," said the man, when he I said what I wanted. "I just need to consult with my boss." Within minutes, our phone rang, and the fellow on the line, said yes, we could pick up in five minutes, but we had to get ready since I was the cook and could not be absent for long. It was early, but not too early to eat, so the chef-conductor said we would not keep you waiting. Indeed, in the amount of time it takes to put on a pair of street shoes, a big ol 'Truck was idling on the tarmac next to our slip. Once established, our driver introduced himself as James. He was happy to pick us up, said, because he'd had anyone to cook for the moment, and since the rainy weather, he feared that his kitchen was for a slow night.
At no time We were shooting at Old Salty's parking lot and then sitting in the classroom next to large open windows. To the west, we could see the waters of the bay of Tar with Barren Island to the right. Whitecaps led the waves and the spray blew along the coast riprapped. We are excited to be on the ground, waiting for wines and martinis reading and a full menu of tempting choices. The crab imperial is lovely here, we were told, and we were determined to try.
It is clear that seafood reigns here, and small wonder, with so many local sailors hauling in crabs and fish. You can get a steak if you wish. Or chicken. Or a burger. But you can also get fresh flounder, rockfish fresh (in season, that was when we visited), and crab, crab, crab. It was too early for Fresh soft crabs, which are on the menu were fresh frozen. And while the crabcakes sounded tasty, we held our ground and ordered the crab imperial. Henry was one of the specialties of the day: fresh flounder topped with crab imperial. Pat dish was the crab imperial, served with fresh asparagus and stewed tomatoes. My crab imperial was spread on top of a plate full of seashells, with steamed cabbage and sweet potato on the side. The vegetables were done perfectly. The asparagus still crisp. Kale was firm and tasty (and wrapped in butter!). The moisture content and flaky flounder, scallops were tender and the crab Imperial was lovely. It was almost as rich as many we've had, and the sauce was mild enough so that the flavor of the crab shine through. We finished our rations – Not overwhelming, but certainly large – without feeling that we were destined for an imminent heart attack. Crab imperial is not exactly a healthy heart, but Old salt recipe is probably easier for the heart more. No leftovers for us this time.
Meanwhile, the night was slow, a number diners in droves and began filling the tables. A nice looking lady sat alone at the table next to ours. "Are you a local?" I asked. She was Hooper Island, he said, but she had gone and returned again. "I wonder if you remember anything about the Claud W. Somers?" I asked. She stared at me and shook head. Well, I thought. The dining room of Old Salty's is not the place to conduct an impromptu interview, so respectfully I returned to my meal.
James had passed word to us that could give us a lift back to the boat when we were ready, but first had to check out Pat absolutely the gift shop, where he bought a pair of hand knit slippers. James had been too busy to cook enough in the end, but not as busy as usual, he said. The Sundays were usually jump. Lucky for us that things were slow or might not have gotten a ride! Then again, Hooper Island is the kind of place where you get thumb can stop any traffic going your way. An elevation of the road is just a neighborly thing to do in these parts. Moreover, it has Rippons Brothers a courtesy van that will loan to visiting sailors, but we had arrived on a cold rainy Sunday when no one was around to give us the keys.
There was actually taken in our area last night, so the next morning had a clearer look around. Still raining intermittently, and had been cold and raw. Talk (to me) about the launch of the small boat to visit the city was quickly and decisively crushed by the master, for relief first officer. I called and went exploring on foot sausage.
Hurricane Isabel was not kind to the islands Hooper. Flooded almost all the houses on the island groups half and cut costs. Among other things, to launch the project in the flag-Chan Rippons father had built. I could see the cement floor silhouetted against the asphalt. "They built the pavilion for the friends of my grandfather could come and eat crabs," said Chan's daughter Janet Ruark, who has been running the company his mother's family since his father died. We had settled into his small office in the packing small, and she said that people used to come home wanting to buy crab crab hot vapors. Then they crouch on the tables provided in the screened-in area to eat. The seafood business has not occurred even the extra money needed to rebuild the pavilion, said Ruark, but the sailors are more than welcome to eat the crabs on board your boat or tables in the street, put there by courtesy of the provincial Department of Parks. Just be careful: The mosquitoes are relentless here at dusk in the summer, making the park dangerous territory from the sunset.
In fact, the seafood business has been difficult for quite some time here. Local boatmen will be presented their ships to Cape Charles to get the first crabs of the season. Last year did not start carrying them until late May. But Ruark hopes for better season this year. "My grandparents – two – said that everything runs in cycles," he said. "They talked about how the hardheads (bass) ran so strong in 1947 did enough money to start this business. Then the hardheads fell and not seen again until the 1990s. Veterans say the crabs are in the same way. "The Oysters are a different story, however. They are just past, he said, pulled and sent to pots and raw bars across the country. "The seamen [] used to work outside the Windmill Point Bar "Ruark recalled, nodding toward the lowlands on the other side of the river." That was an incredibly oyster bar productive. That's why my grandfather and his brothers took a windmill as its trademark for this business. But then the state came and took the bar away. Dredging of the old shell out a winter and transported somewhere in the Bay, "presumably as part of the first efforts of the bar coast oyster bars in other places. "My grandfather said:" Mark my words, there will be no oysters there next year. "Tongers out next season and was no longer nothing. But no one compensated for them losing their livelihoods. The state pays farmers not to grow, the sailors do not get anything. "
Now everyone was waiting to see what the state would decide on new crab regulations. The sailors waiting new limitations in capturing females. "Simply we are not sure whether to set a size limit or a limit bushel, or cut the season in October, "said Ruark." It's going to be hard for the sailors any way. "(Not long after our visit, Maryland did two things: shortening the season for female crabs in almost two months and the imposition of limits bushel for women in September and October, basing the limits of the "media of each vessel's historical catch tight every day" women for those months. The State also made absolutely illegal for recreational crabbers to catch the females, except for soft crabs. Virginia, meanwhile, took the unprecedented step completely ban winter dredging, another move aimed primarily at reducing the harvest of females.)
Crabs best race in the fall, from September to November, having gained over the summer and went back to the mouth of the Bay of winter in the mud. It was then that crabbers most of their money and expect it to tide over the winter, Ruark continued. To cut one of the most productive months of the season would be a major difficulty. Have to sacrifice through the crabs to see if the female adds a degree of scrutiny that will be difficult to accomplish in this time of year. Crabbers are sufficiently busy managing their boats, carry and empty pots. As Ruark said, the sacrifice of undersized crabs is fairly easy, but having to determine what is the masculine and feminine is not fast by a person having also to see where it goes. In crab summer can bring along their children or hire someone to do all that sorting. Aid is more difficult to find in the fall when children are back in school and summer help has gone to home. Many of the helpers on the boats Hooper Island are workers from Mexico, who come to pick crabs or work on boats for a stay of six months. After their permits expire and return home.
A knowledge of Spanish to drift in the steam room, where two men were already busy preparing the team for next season. More guest workers who arrive in a few weeks to work on boats and water vapor and collect the crabs. Most island residents are retired these days or have jobs all year round off the island, leaving local packing Ruark and other problems with seasonal labor. "The guest worker program has been a godsend, but even that is more difficult for us. I fill out the paperwork during the winter and hope for the immigration office has not reached his court, by the time you can present it, "said Ruark. These workers have returned several years in a row, they know how to pick crabs and have gotten very good at that. "I want the same people back," he said.
I leaned against the wind to leave the office Ruark and went back to the boat. Since the time did not seem likely to get a lot better, the brother of Henry offered a commitment to launch the small boat to get up close and personal with the river as I expected. Instead, he offered to head up river INSSA to see the sights and try to get into Back Creek. It was still very raw, but at least it was not raining. But from our point of view on the open sea all was gray: water, earth, sky. Very little distinguishes the horizon, only the bar range dark gray to indicate the high tide line and the tree squat rise above it. Even that seemed to surround us, we could see cuts between the long slender points of land that looked as if we were in a large but shallow lake. Susquehanna Flats reminded me that way. We could follow the channel quite easily, but there was strong current of water everywhere else. A boatman handed his only pots right next to the eel Wrote Island. Greeted as we passed.
We went to the "15" marker, near the end of the channel, and loopback. The draft of a ship that could have shallower been sentenced to Golden Hill, where Goottee Navy maintains a narrow channel. If we had been able to round Wrote island, could have made our journey towards Crapo City. Instead, set out in the back Creek, a sheltered port, but without much room for us. Phillips Seafood operates a crab-packing plant in a big red building in the mouth of the creek, and robust line of the old houses from the promenade. As the north, PL Jones Boatyard is up and on the right. Old Salty's is beyond that, across the main road on the left. A team was at work dredging Jones "slides, beyond that there was little activity today. We carefully turned around and headed toward the river. "
Having come to the Bay in a coup wet, I had a new vision in what should have been like for the men aboard the Claud W. Somers before she fell into a gale. The bay was frozen in the winter of 1976-1977, and sailors had not been able to work for months. When the ice finally broke the dredging fleet of Deal Island was happy to get to work again. But Captain Wallace Thompson aboard the Somers was one of only two that went to skipjacks on the morning of March 4, in the teeth of a gale which would speed at the end of the day. The captain made a few skipjack other lame and went home. Captain Wallace hung. When he finally returned to port, engine thrust boat stopped, leaving him wallowing in heavy seas and beaten by winds were too strong for their candles. A passing boatman tried to tow behind his Somers Splinter dead, but after an hour or so, the wind and the waves were so strong nails pulled from the boat and the Good Samaritan had to stop drift Somers. He offered to bring everyone on board his ship, but Captain Wallace was sure to get the list back in the sail. That's the last time anyone saw him and his team alive. Cold and raw, with the wind howling around your ears, it had to be tough and terrible.
The fungus is very open to the south. As close as anyone can tell, the Somers went to the river from flooding Hooper Strait before Norman Cove. All hands were lost, Captain Wallace, his older brother, his eldest son, a cousin, a nephew and a family friend. When the ship was lost, the men of the headwaters of the Hong all south of the island Deal was looking for her, hoping to at least rescue the men, if not the kite. Not long after midnight, one of the would-be rescuers saw the top of the mast overhanging the water. The ship had gone down in 12 feet of water, there was no sign of Captain Wallace and his crew. Men fished from the bottom the next day up the boat and went on with their lives. The ship continued dredging for a few years, then became inactive and the deterioration to the Reedville Fishermen's Museum of the found, restored and put to sea again, off-site in Cockrell Creek, near the Great Wicomico River on the western shore of Virginia.
As we motored past the place where he went down, there was no wind to speak of – but I shuddered, despite myself as Norman Cove at left INSSA port and passed Applegarth Island in the west. Went home, we were hoping to cross the bay by wind thread again. Ahead of us, it seemed Hooper Strait peaceful enough though sad and cold. He had had a bit of sun on this trip. I imagined a lone kite, fighting and is dominated by the wind, Water flooded his escape from the seams and the torrent of waves splashing over the sides. It would have been dark when he came down the Somers, and darker still for the moment the storm had calmed down enough for boats to search for solutions. A few days later, when the ship stopped in the mud, there were 33 tonnes of oysters still in their holsters.
I took the pen and began writing: Down on the Hong waters run wide with fine soil spreads like a carpet, and work water is all you can do, and pray for run another day. . . . It took a month to complete, but I had my song.
About the Author
By Jane Meneely, writer for Chesapeake Bay Magazine. For more great articles and photos on boating, sailing, fishing, and cruising, visit http://www.ChesapeakeBoating.net
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