Incident at the Clam Shack, 8/05

My sister invited me down the Cape for a visit last week. Her vacation home is close to the area where our family's summer cottage had been, and we both enjoy revisiting some of the old haunts from our childhood. We decided to have supper at the Clam Shack, a humble yet venerable eatery located right at the mouth of Falmouth Harbor.

There is nothing fancy about the Clam Shack. As you enter, the screen door slams behind you, and you read the menu from paper plates tacked to the wall. We knew why we were there, though--the clam platter. The clams are lightly breaded and fried, and under the clams are more clams, not more French fries. Add some home-made cole slaw, lemonade, and tartar sauce, and you are ready to eat.

The shack has a few tables inside, but everyone takes their food to the picnic tables outside, either up on the roof deck or along the edge of the quay. About fifty yards across the harbor entrance is the Falmouth Yacht club, with its fleets of Beetle Cats, Flying Scots, and 110's. As we ate, dozens of boats passed us in either direction, south into Vineyard Sound or north to their slip or mooring. Small bluefish snapped at sand eels on the surface 30 feet in front of us.

Suddenly I saw my sister grow tense. I turned around and saw a tiny girl, probably a two-year-old, standing at the very edge of the quay, looking down into the murky water. It was about a four-foot drop down to the surface, where boat wakes slapped against barnacle-encrusted pilings and the current was running at about four knots.

The little girl's family sat at the table about thirty feet away, watching. They had the pallor of tourists, and they chattered excitedly, oblivious to the danger the girl was in as she tottered along the edge. My keys were already on the table, and I reached for my wallet as my sister nodded toward the life ring on the wall of the building. It was unspoken, but we had a plan.

Then the little girl's foot hit a cleat, and she tripped.

She tripped, but she did not fall into the water. She fell onto the edge of the landing, fell into the detritus of a working pier--broken shells, creosoted timbers, gull guano. Her father came then and scooped her up. She was dirty, scraped, and crying, but safe. To her father, it was one of dozens of falls that toddlers experience. No more than that.

My sister and I shook our heads and returned to our supper. Beneath us, the undulant dark water hissed against the pilings as it flooded into the harbor.