Happy as a clam at high tide

Of course, we all know the tide eventually drops and that happy clam is dug up, boiled, battered, fried and served. And like a good ol’ fashioned game of Russian roulette, you never know who’s gonna get the toxin-saturated one, until you’re keeled over attempting to regurtitate your entire stomach lining mucous reserve and a side of bile.

You run to the bushes to puke, but forces unknown have got you bracing for an extreme blast of diarrhea, which doesn’t come because you’re back on your knees chucking more guts.

You think to yourself, I’m certain cold, salty water will calm the stomach, if I can only get my wetsuit on without upsetting the bowels. Success. Down the path, 6’2″ under the arm and into uncharted waters with adrenaline overpowering nausea.

A delicate combination of ego and impatience set me free into the chilly waters to a count duck dives too high worth mentioning. Finally outside, bobbing around, listening to drunks honking on the bluff and my stomach rumbling like a ’86 Datsun, I puke some more. Hysterical laughter in my head countered by gut-wrenching pain in the abdomen and semi-flawless sets rolling by, I slowly gather composure.

I then manage to nab a few in the time my lips go numb and mouth begins tasting like a full Dura Race cogset, post Paris-Roubaix – grimy and metallic.

The real highlight comes towards the end of the session, post-sorta-cover-up-to-sand-dredge-bottom-tour, my head began feeling a little light and simultaneously as I dove under a crunching set wave, my mouth filled with puke. Blaaaaah! More guts. More mucous. More pain. Less glory. Sparkling lights and mild hallucinations set in and I decided to call it a day.

Two hours later it was all over, along with my desire to eat clams for a while.

Fucking bi-valve, bottom feeder, mollusk mother fuckers, I’m going Vegan. Peace.


One Response to “Happy as a clam at high tide”

  1. You drove all the way to Lake Superior in a weekend?!!!

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