I joined things like the Shellfish Advisory and I really settled into the place. I then got more into the business and started to invest in the farm. I knew I wanted to travel, so once I graduated, I went to South America for three months, came back broke (as you do!) and started back at the farm. “I was still involved with shellfish in college but I did explore other options. You need to be able to read the flats and know where they are, and what kind of oysters to look for.”Īfter school in Boston and a lot of wanderlust, the waters of Wellfleet fit right back in to destiny. My Dad showed me the wild oyster spots when I was about 12-13 years old, and I would spend my time out on the flats with him for a little while, and eventually by myself. I started working with them through that evolution and began learning the seafood business. My parents owned a fish market farm stand that they later turned it into a restaurant. He would even give tours to my school classes. “Even when I was little I would go out to the grant to visit my Dad. I assumed that whatever state, it was good intentions.Īt the bar, Jake began by recalling his early experiences with shellfish as a child. I couldn’t be sure if his smile was a greeting, or it just naturally froze that way from the cold.
A few warm waves greeted us, and a bundled man approached, cheeks pink from the battering winds. We crunched our way over shells and trickling bay water up to the team. The low tide was slowly retreating, and the team of farmers, wrapped up in nearly-unrecognizable clothing, were systematically hauling gear and racing against time. The wind was piercing, but the mood was far less aggressive.Īs we marched down the sand, the last fragments of sun lit the sky into ambers, violets and a red-coated luster, then cradled into the ridges of “Great Island” in the west. We hustled to keep up with the falling sun to Mayo Beach, and tumbled out of our car around 4:00PM, hopping around as we slid into wellies and adjusted our winter caps and gloves.
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Seagulls flapped in the distance as they lifted oysters off the shoreline, flew upwards 20 feet and then dropped them, hoping for a cracked shell by the time they chased it back to the ground. The beaches whistled only with a soft breeze. This time, however, the town was sleepy the ground frozen and patchy with snow. Warwick and I looped around Wellfleet’s windy little roads, half remembering the directions from the Festival just months prior and the bumper-to-bumper congestion as the town roared in oyster celebration.
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