Water Memories

I grew up near the York and James Rivers in Tidewater, Virginia. Although we never owned a boat and weren't particularly outdoorsy, the scents and sounds of those rivers, and the Chesapeake Bay and Atlantic Ocean they feed into, still sprinkle my childhood memories.

This love of place really has a lot to do with my father. He was one of those who served in the Pacific during the "big war," as he called it. He wanted to be a fighter pilot when he marched down to the recruitment office in Norfolk, Virginia with other earnest young men the day after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Due to eye damage caused by looking at a solar eclipse as a young boy, the Navy assigned him a medic's job. That didn't stop him, though, from considering it the adventure of his life. And despite witnessing the horrors of war, stories of which he didn't share until close to his death in 2005, he was so enchanted with big ships that he abandoned his earlier path to become a newspaper cartoonist and decided to become a naval architect.

After receiving a degree from the College of William and Mary (I followed him there thirty years later), he amazed his family by being accepted into graduate school at MIT. He fell in love with Boston and became a lifelong fan of New England, but returned to his beloved Virginia after graduating. Employed his entire career by Newport News Shipbuilding & Dry Dock Company (and its various incarnations under different corporate owners), he designed hulls for many of the Navy's aircraft carriers and submarines that now ply the world's seas.

My sister, five years younger, and I were thrilled by our trips to the sprawling docks along the James River to see these ships, walk on their decks, descend into their bellies, and wince at the crash of champagne bottles against their bows. I can still see my sister and me, too little redheads, one shy (me) and my sister (the sprightly, adventurous one) twirling around Navy admirals and political dignitaries, unimpressed, of course, until the time I stood eye to eye with Caroline Kennedy at the christening of the USS John F. Kennedy. I think that is when I began to look at my dad as someone quite extraordinary.

Of course, my dad never saw himself that way. He had sort of an endearing, self-deprecating sense of humor, and a gentle heart. At family meals, we would recite the child's blessing, "God is good. God is great".....but he would always end it with, "and make me a good boy." We used to tease him about this, and laugh at his fondness for silly words, like "burple" instead of "purple," or "milch" instead of "milk." We never did figure out this idiosyncrasy, but it came in handy when we had our own children. He and my sister's oldest daughter would go on and on speaking their own secret language. Now, when we look back at our dad, my sister and I realize that he taught us how to feel good in our own skin, treasure family and the daily pleasures in life, and try to give others the benefit of the doubt.

Growing up, my sister and I, and our friends, spent hours upon hours playing in the ravines and woods behind our various houses, and sometimes join friends on their boats. As a family, we often took Sunday drives across the bridges and down the country roads that traverse the Tidewater peninsula, to see relatives or just "tool around." There was little territory we did not cover, and of course my sister and I were not always thrilled with these sojourns. But, nowhere in this watery landscape was my dad so content, or did we create more family memories, than the beaches along the Atlantic.

In the early sixties, we would go to the Navy Beach in Virginia Beach because my dad was still in the Naval Reserve. I remember how exciting it was to sit cheek by jowl with other families in the sand and stand in line to order greasy french fries, a juicy hot dog and cold Coca-Cola at the crowded grill. When I was a teenager, we went to honky-tonk Myrtle Beach a few times, but most of my beach memories resonate from rented beach houses on the fragile barrier islands of the Outer Banks in North Carolina.

One of my dad's favorite things to do was to walk the beach every morning. My sister and I usually went with him, but he especially loved it years later when he took along his sandy, sunburned little grandchildren, his "kiddies," along to collect shells and "treasures," run in the surf and chase elusive ghost crabs. He was a hard-working sort, and always used these vacations to relax and refuel. We loved it, and so did our children, because we could run barefoot, eat what we wanted, watch skies full of stars or enormous thunderheads emerge on the horizon, and go to sleep at night to the rhythm of distant waves. To this day, damp, seaweedy, warm Atlantic breezes are a tonic to me and will always remind me of my dad, my family, my life.

One of our rituals was to go "crabbing" in the tributaries flowing into the Albemarle Sound, with string, chicken necks and crab nets. We would bring those beautiful blue creatures back to whatever cottage we were renting that year, drop them mercilessly in Old Bay-seasoned boiling water, and, after they had turned a lovely paprika red, break open their shells and savor their meat dunked in lemony, melted butter.

All year, though, these waters were a part of my life. It was in the winter, when I was introduced to the sweet, briny taste of raw oysters and their crunchy, warm goodness when my dad would deep fry them Christmas mornings for breakfast. Occasionally, we would go to one of Tidewater's traditional outside gatherings in the fall or winter: "The Oyster Roast." I remember being encircled by the intoxicating aroma of fall leaves and oysters steaming under soaked burlap on top of a wood-stoked fire. I can close my eyes right now and taste those smoky, wrinkled nuggets chased down with their warm liquor.

And speaking of the bounty of the sea, here is my recipe for-

"Real" Crab Cakes

I know, everybody has their own recipe for "real" crab cakes. But after living in Baltimore in the 80's with my then-new husband, and remembering my mom's opinions about what made a good crab cake, her being a Tidewater girl herself (I have lots of stories about her!....), I share my version.


1 lb. fresh crab meat, back-fin lump (picked over to remove any shell remnants; hand-picked from the Chesapeake Bay is the best, but sadly, it is a scarce product due to the environmental decline of the bay)
2 slices stale, good quality firm white bread (remove crust and tear into shreds)
1/4 c. milk
1 tsp. chopped fresh parsley
salt and freshly ground (coarse) pepper, to taste
1/2 tsp. Old Bay seasoning (optional; sometimes I want that strong flavor, but sometimes I only want to taste the crab)
1 lge egg, slightly beaten
1 tbsp. mayonnaise
1 tsp. good quality Dijon mustard
1/2 tsp. lemon juice
1/4 c. peanut oil, or other high heat oil (or 1/4 unsalted butter)

Mix dry seasonings into shredded bread. Pour in milk to moisten. Stir into crab meat with fork. Whisk remaining wet ingredients together. Stir egg mixture into crab meat-bread mixture with fork. Shape by hand into patties, either small appetizer size or medium entree size. These can be made ahead, covered and refrigerated for up to four hours or so.

Heat oil or butter and saute crab patties until browned and crunchy on both sizes. If using butter, watch that it doesn't burn. Makes about 16 small or 8 medium-large crab cakes.

Best with cold, cold beer, but a citrusy Sauvignon Blanc or minerally Viognier are good partners, too. Good sides are cole slaw with celery seed, and salted, fresh garden tomatoes. Trust me, it doesn't get much better than this............