The Oregon coast, even on what are described as "beautiful" days, is often cloudy, windy and cool and this day was no great exception. My steady boyfriend, Ken, had found his dad's old clam shovels and invited me to Seaside at low-tide . . . that's somewhere between the middle of the night and morning, when all reasonably intelligent people are still in bed. Actually, dawn was breaking with a few slashes of light between thick grey clouds as we began our trek down to the sand after driving over two hours to get there. Ken hated the coast so I was positive he had actually planned the trip just for me; I usually loved the beach.

     To my surprise, there were a lot more crazy people in the world than I had anticipated: what appeared to be several hundred of them loomed obscurely in the dim haze of the morning, all carrying buckets and gunny sacks and shovels and some kind of pipe-like contraptions. All were there, ostensibly, to bag their limit of the elusive clams in the cold Oregon drizzle.

     Learning to dig clams is no easy fete. Oh, the digging part is OK, I'd been digging in the sand ever since I could remember. The tricky part was finding a clam. I began by digging divots . . . you know, those little patches of turf golfers are so delighted with but which are apparently not deep enough for a "healthy" clam. So then I dug deeper - much deeper! It took a long time to dig that deep when the water kept filling my efforts with sand washed in like silt and the sides kept caving in. It seemed I could only accomplish large holes not appreciably deeper than the divots. I headed to higher ground where the water was not such a problem. Ken found me there blissfully digging nice deep holes looking for clams. That tactic was all wrong. He drug me back down to the soft, water-logged sand and showed me how to look for the little "dimples" as the tide washed back out over the beach. Little holes also appeared and meant there were definitely clams under there. I had to dig deep holes and dig them fast. OK, fast and deep. I dug my heart out but never found a single clam; again the water was faster than I and my results were giant "dimples." Other people were finding clams, though, so I knew they were there. Ken stopped his digging long enough to come help me.

     I was still digging all wrong. It seems I had to dig with my back to the sea. That way I used the shovel to prevent the clam from making its way to the ocean through the water-loose sand with the tide even as I was digging. Turning my back to the ocean went against everything I had ever learned about playing in the surf.

     Ken laughed at my concern, though. "You're digging clams, for Heaven's sake!" he said. "You won't get any the way you're digging." Wounded pride is a powerful incentive. I set my jaw, grabbed my shovel and waited for the next wave to reveal the little holes which would lead me to the treasure.

     As the water receded, I saw several holes "pop" open. Lunging towards the nearest one, my back to the ocean, I stabbed my shovel straight down as deep as I could. Prying back with all my might, I flipped the whole shovelful out on the wet sand. There, sure enough, was my first clam. It looked kind of small but I was overcome with a great feeling of satisfaction. This was just the beginning. I'd get my limit! I pounced on the clam even as it was attempting its escape. Holding it aloft, I proudly waved it at Ken before plopping it in my bucket. Success! I attacked those incoming waves with a vengeance. My second try was unsuccessful but then I got another clam. This might be OK yet. I think I was getting the hang of it.

     "Having fun?" Ken's voice called over the noise of the surf.

     "Yah," I yelled back, with a determined smile, "let's see who gets a limit first or is your bucket already full?"

     Ken had told me not to wear anything "good" and I was beginning to appreciate his understatement. With every new digging tactic, I had managed to get myself dirtier and dirtier. The salt spray made my skin sticky and every grain of sand which blew my direction stuck like a burr on a dog. My hair, which was long, hung in limp, salty clumps and there were oily sand streaks across my face, left there as residue from my now "clammy" hands each time I tried to brush my hair out of my eyes. I was hot from working so hard and shed my sweatshirt, tying it around my waist with its sleeves. The pink and white striped shorts I had started the day in were now sand colored and I had stuffed my shoes and socks in the bottom of the clam bucket. I definitely looked like something that had crawled out from under a rock! Fortunately, Ken was the only one there who knew me. I would be mortified to death if anyone else saw me like this. On second thought, I reflected, no one could possibly recognize me, anyway. That idea made me feel a little better as I headed out to meet the next incoming wave.

     I thrust my shovel deep into the wet sand and pried back with all my strength. The sand shifted slightly beneath me, causing me to loose my firm footing. As I tried to regain my balance, an incoming wave hit me squarely in the back of the legs and I rocked back, landing hard on my bottom with a nice, loud "splat." The shovelful of wet sand flew into the air and I watched in desperation as it began descending in my direction. Before it could hit, however, all the rules about not turning your back on the ocean came home to roost. Before I even knew quite what had happened, a wave about two and a half feet high (the tide had definitely turned and had begun its upward march) hit me fully in the back, rolling and splashing up over my head as if I was a rock. Then and only then did the sand complete its downward course and land amidst the sea foam in my hair as the sand beneath me rushed back to sea leaving a hole behind my bottom which I promptly fell into, landing on my back. Coughing and spluttering, I sat up and saw that my clam bucket was, miraculously, still upright although about eight feet further up the beach than where I had put it. I was also still clutching my clam shovel.

     "I think I've got enough clams for today," I told Ken as he arrived and lugged me up out of the surf. "What's the limit, anyway?"

     "Total humiliation, I think," he answered without even a hint of a smile. "It looks like maybe you've already got yours," he added looking me up and down.

     "Astute observation," I said sarcastically, not realizing he was tempting fate.

     He retrieved my bucket and helped me up the beach to where there is a water faucet so we could wash off our feet and legs and get our shoes on. Salty sea water was still dripping down from my drenched clothes and my seaweed-like hair as I washed the sand from my legs. My shoes and socks under the clams were drier and less salty than I was. I felt, and surely looked, like I needed to be stuffed back under that rock as a community service.

     "Hey, Pinkie!" a voice called from the roadway about 100 yards above us. A sense of doom filled me, as if my worst nightmares were about to be fulfilled. Surely there was no one else on that beach with my nickname? I looked up reluctantly to see Larry Sauls, a young man I had gone to high school with five years before, grinning and waving enthusiastically to me. "Long time no see!" he called. How homely had I been in high school, anyway?

     Ken was wrong before: now I had my limit!