Tilghman Island Journal; Skipjack Fleet May Sail Into History
Darryl Larrimore never thought he would see the day when the Nellie L. Byrd would be for sale.
He had rebuilt her himself, lovingly, ripping out the soft rot in her bottom, varnishing her raked mast, addding a new set of sails and making her one of the proudest skipjacks that still ply the Chesapeake Bay in quest of oysters.
But the Nellie is tied up in Tilghman Harbor, nodding in an August breeze, a ''For Sale'' sign tacked to her cabin. The price: $55,000.
''I hung on for as long as I could,'' Mr. Larrimore said, standing on the broad deck of his 56-foot-long wooden vessel, one of the last survivors of the only commercial wind-powered fleet still working in United States waters. ''I've never seen times as hard as these,'' he continued. ''Disease is killing off the oysters, and boat operating costs are doing the rest.''
The colorful skipjack fleet is in trouble, possibly sailing into history.
Mr. Larrimore will not be going out this fall when oystering resumes, tacking the Nellie back and forth across the bay, scooping up the day's catch. And he believes many other captains will not be going out, either.
Last year boats that once could easily bring up 150 bushels of oysters in a day were catching only 8 or 10 bushels. The small, muddy pile on the beamy foredeck at the end of the day was a stark reminder of the devastation that has been wreaked by two oyster parasites, dermo and MSX.
Scientists have been struggling for a number of years to find ways to control them.
For almost a century, skipjacks have been putting forth every fall from small bay villages like Tilghman (pronounced TILL-man), quiet, low-lying places with white frame houses and streets with oyster shells in the potholes.
But now the skipjack situation has become so serious that state officials in Maryland have formed a task force to look into ways to save the fleet, perhaps through grants or loans.
''We must keep these boats working the bay,'' Gov. William Donald Schaefer said a few days ago in announcing the formation of the task force. By the state's count, there are only 36 skipjacks still afloat; at the turn of the century the fleet numbered in the thousands. And at least a dozen of the survivors are now used only as pleasure craft or are owned by marine museums.
Of the working oyster craft, nine are tied up here and the rest are scattered up and down the bay. Most are at least 50 years old, and some date to the 19th century.
At least three are for sale, including the 77-year-old Nellie. It is a measure of the trouble the fleet is in that those up for sale have attracted few inquiries.
The watermen of Tilghman have their doubts about the state effort to save the skipjacks, which were developed by Chesapeake Bay oystermen in the late 1800's. The boats have a shallow, V-shaped bottom and a centerboard; they carry a mainsail, a jib and six crew members.
Passionately independent, the skipjack captains worry that they might become seagoing wards of the state.
''Beware of committees,'' said Russell Dize, who has been captain of the skipjack Kathryn since 1979 and grew up working on his father's boat.
''What we need is oysters to make it,'' he added, urgency creeping in among the clanging vowels of his watermen's accent, a throwback to Colonial forebears.
''Disease has hit the beds before, and they've always come back,'' he said. ''My guess is that they'll come back this time. But can we wait it out for two or three more years?'' Maybe. Maybe not. Skipjack captains and their crews can always try to make a living by other means of oystering, such as tonging, which has less overhead. But even those methods produced little last season.
Or they can try to find a winter job ashore that will see them through until spring, when most usually turn to crabbing. The trouble with being ashore is, well, being ashore.
Stanley Larrimore, Darryl Larrimore's uncle, would rather take his chances at sea with his boat, the Lady Katie. ''Come fall, I'm going to take the Lady out,'' he said. ''I could go ashore and look for work, but I'm 58 years old and skipjacks are about all I know.''
His nephew pondered that for a moment. Then he spoke, sweeping his arm in a half circle that took in nine skipjacks rafted up together at the Tilghman dock, masts raked toward the sky, gleaming hulls reflecting on the water, rigging swaying and rattling in the soft breeze.
''Take a good look at all of that,'' he said. ''It won't be here in another couple of years.''