A chilly dawn, warm water lies, jellyfish shenanigans, bushels of Bay gold—and one righteous shell drop.
There’s a certain sound at 7 a.m. on a fall dive morning – wetsuit zippers, coffee slurps, and that first “you awake?” laugh from the parking lot. The air had a whisper of winter, but the stoke level was pure summer.
By the time the sun cracked the horizon, the crew was geared up and grinning. A couple of salty veterans. A few brave first-timers. All ready to go play in the brackish playground we call the Chesapeake.
The boat pushed off, the air smelled like diesel and seaweed, and everyone was talking about what kind of oysters they’d be cooking later.
I dipped a hand over the side and thought, hey, this isn’t bad. Lies. Absolute lies. The Bay had tricks up her sleeve — the computer said 68°F once we dropped in. Not cold, not warm, just that kind of numbing “hello, fall” bite that wakes your soul right up.
And then… oysters. Everywhere. Big, beautiful clusters. The kind that clank like treasure when you drop them in your bag. My team worked the bottom like pros — slow, methodical, laughing through regulators. Every time a diver surfaced, they had a grin and a bushel-worthy haul.
But of course, nature loves balance — so right when we hit our rhythm, the jellyfish showed up. Not the big, dramatic ones either. These were the sneaky little sea-nettle ninjas, invisible until your cheeks lit up like a bad sunburn. By the time I surfaced with my first load, my face was on fire. Quick hood fix, back down I went. Eventually I was sweeping my hands in front of me like a Jedi to part the tiny stingers. Then I remembered a trick from the Bahamas — purge the octo just enough to let bubbles clear your path. Instant bubble shield. 10-out-of-10, would recommend.
We wrapped the dives feeling like champions — tired, salty, and starving. You know that post-dive chatter where everyone’s swapping stories and recipes? That. Times ten.
And the best part? The dive wasn’t even the end.
Back on land, I headed straight to an annual oyster feast. Walked in with a cooler full of Bay gold, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work. I shucked like a man possessed. Kitchen smelled like butter and ocean. We had oysters on the half shell, oysters Rockefeller, gumbo, and fried oyster po-boys that could make a grown diver cry.
If heaven has a flavor, it’s salty and comes in a shell.
Then came my favorite mission of the day. Before heading home, I swung by the Robinson Nature Center to drop off the shells. That’s right — those very same oysters were about to start the next generation. The cycle continues. Each shell becomes home for new oysters, and every oyster filters up to 50 gallons of Bay water a day.
We get to dive, eat, and give back. That’s the loop. That’s the good stuff.
So yeah — the Bay bit back a little, but we bit harder.