Well, the Bay. Plenty of Bay … seasoning for UD, a native Marylander whose father loved to take his little motor boat out on it and catch fish for dinner. We had a weekend house here – much further up the western shore than Pier 450 – when I was young.
Yesterday, when we talked to some boat owners who pulled up, elegantly, charismatically, along the Pier 450 pier to join friends for lunch, they happily admitted to regret – often; not always – at having bought their boats. “You know what B O A T stands for, right? Bring Out Another Thousand.” “Every time I take it in for maintenance I regret buying it.”
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The vastly interesting world of this vast estuary … Its spectacular natural world.
Its cultural world, where oysters are planted to bring back the almost-defunct oyster fishing culture. The locals talk distinctly funny, drive vast dusty SUVs and pickups with Jesus Loves You plastered all over them, tatoo themselves. We had a rambling uncomprehending chat with a drunk woman possessed of the local occult accent and also slurring her words. It was important for her to convey to us that at Buzzy’s you can choose your own beer out of special fridges but we didn’t understand why this was noteworthy. She was headed into a store that calls itself MARKET, but when you go in (we were looking for insect repellent) it’s 99.99% alcohol.
Both nights the sky blackly glistened, and we were happy to wake at three and walk along the dead fields and dark pier and drink it in.
