The Bayman

“If anyone wants to understand what it is about this nearly vanished lifestyle that has created such a fiercely dedicated following, here it is, explained in a way that makes you feel the sun, the lap of the water, the cries of the shorebirds or the smell of freshly cut cedar...But readers don't have to be fans of pinelands and bay culture to enjoy Ridgway’s almost musical text.” — The Beach Haven Times

''… moving without being too sentimental..." — Whole Earth Magazine

“Enough charm, wit, and warmth to draw its readers into the whole story…” — The Beachcomber

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''Merce Ridgway's book is a type of love story, full of poignant remembrances of young love, mature respect and righteous indignation over the pollution and habitat loss of Barnegat Bay...Though he is now far from his beginnings, Ridgway's love of Barnegat Bay continues. It continues in his music and in this generous book.'' — The SandPaper

"A fascinating, salty work about a nearly lost way of life." — Wooden Boat

"Journey into an era of the bay that has all but disappeared. If you love the bay, don't miss this book." — New Jersey Fisherman

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''An accurate, colorful account of the waterman's trade... a clear view of life in the pines and on the bay before the population boom started.'' — Asbury Park Press

"What distinguishes this book from other tales of ecological and cultural decline are the utterly persuasive details.” — The Star-Ledger

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“A wonderful book about a vanishing world.” — The Trenton Times

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Winner of the 2001 N.J. Studies Academic Alliance Author's Awards. “An outstanding depiction of life along the Jersey Shore.”

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The Bayman: Sensitive and Memorable
By Justin Alain (Published in The Beachcomber, reprinted in its entirety.)

During the ’50s and ’60s, when I was a suburban Philadelphia kid fortunate enough to summer at the Jersey Shore, I wondered about the lives of the people around me who worked while I played, and didn’t return “home” after Labor Day weekend, because the shore was their home. Having grown up in a family with local ties in past generations, I was curious about the lifestyles of Island residents in those bygone days portrayed mutely in sepia-tone photographs of familiar places.

This past year, I returned to the Jersey Shore for my first visit in a quarter century, having moved to the West Coast as a young man. In June, I celebrated my birthday at the Surf City Hotel with LBI friends — one of whom, knowing my penchant for local history and culture, presented me with a copy of Down The Shore Publishing’s newest offering,The Bayman: A Life on Barnegat Bay.

Its author, Merce Ridgway, is the genuine article; a Renaissance Man of the Pine Barrens, wetlands, and local waterways. Born into the life of a bayman —rough translation: one whose livelihood was sustained by harvesting the bounty of the bay and the resources of the lands around it — he learned and grew at the feet of his father, an equally remarkable man who, despite the rigors of the bayman’s life and the responsibilities of paterfamilias, still found time to distinguish himself as a local musician sufficiently enough to represent New Jersey at the National Folk Festival in 1941, the year of our author’s birth.

Merce’s formative years encompassed the twilight of that now-vanished era when ?the boats were of wood and the men were of iron, and the Jersey Shore was still first-and-foremost a life-sustaining natural resource for its permanent inhabitants; and only secondarily a vacation resort for my forbears and other city slickers eager to escape the heat and luxuriate in the sea breezes and salt air of South Jersey’s pristine shoreline.

Boatbuilder, fisherman, shellfisherman, hunter, woodsman, naturalist, ecologist, environmentalist, historian, homespun philosopher, folk musician in the tradition of his father, outspoken critic of ham-handed bureaucracy, devoted family man, and first director of the Pinelands Cultural Society — the author recounts a life and a life-style, an era and a heritage, with that rare, eminently readable combination of rich, colorful detail and plain-spoken brevity. In just over two hundred pages, which seem to slip by far too quickly, he left me charmed by his sensitivity and memory for detail; and at the same time, educated, engaged, and well-informed about an ecosystem ravaged by encroachment and pollution; and a folk culture subverted by all that passes for progress in these times when the region is so readily accessible from anywhere as to be irresistible to throngs of carefree vacationers as unaware of the "real" Jersey Shore as I was during the summers of my youth.

The Bayman provided an enthralling diversion from the monotony of the 5 1/2 hour flight home to San Francisco following my June visit to LBI. Indeed, as I became absorbed, it transported me from seat-belted confinement to a guided tour of the gorgeous locale I’d just left behind; plus an intimate glimpse into that life-style which I was vaguely aware was happening around me during those seashore summers long ago.

Beginning appropriately with vignettes from a childhood more closely resembling Tom Sawyer’s than mine, Merce’s “tour” continues with the celebration of his father and other legendary baymen who shaped and inspired his own life; and of the various forms of marine life from which they earned their livelihood.

Merce introduces us to the evolution and construction of the Barnegat Bay garvey — those distinctive, traditional homemade wooden workboats all the baymen captained — and of their navigation in all kinds of weather.

Though seriously educational, his crash-course in the lay of the land, the environment, the encroachment of developers, and the often misguided policies of government “experts” reads as easily as a yarn heard over softshell crab sandwiches while catfishing in the moonlight.

Having brought his reader up to speed about his concerns for the future, and the lifetime of firsthand knowledge which has prompted them, the author takes us home with him and offers up a potpourri of traditional recipes, song lyrics, and tales of the manmade “treasures” he’s plucked from the bay. (He particularly cherishes the stone tools he’s occasionally dredged up, which he believes to have been the possessions of his Lenape Indian ancestors.) Taking a break from his duties as host, he cedes the ?floor? to his wife, Arlene, who details a family tree which traces its European-descended roots in New Jersey back to the 17th century.

This slim volume is a happy example of the absence of literary polish working in the author’s favor. Too often, privileged glimpses into regional Americana are presented to the reader “as told to” a journalist, with the inevitable loss of reality in the translation. Not so The Bayman. Its workmanlike, conversational intimacy is exactly what allows it to read so well. Merce Ridgway’s loving memoir offers a footnote or two for each of a hundred different interests; and enough charm, wit, and warmth to draw its readers into the whole story, no matter which specific facets might originally have piqued their curiosity.

Justin Alain is a native Mississippian who grew up in suburban Philadelphia and the Jersey Shore. A San Francisco resident for most of his adult life, he is a freelance writer, historian, bibliophile and vintage car collector.
This review appeared in The Beachcomber 8/4/2000 and is reprinted with permission. ©2000 Jersey Shore Newsmagazines.

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A YOUNG BOY OF THE PINES

The earliest memory I have is cloaked in a beautiful fall day. I have followed my father to a place in the woods where he is cutting pine. He kneels down on one knee, and looking me in the eye, says, "Stay within the sound of my axe, but not too close; wouldn’t want a tree to fall on you."

These were thrilling words to me. It was the most gentle of tethers, leaving me free to wander through the pinelands of South Jersey and practice the new knowledge I was gaining of the land.

At first I watched from a safe distance the rhythmic and powerful swings as my father worked. With each blow of the axe, chips as long as my face flew high in the bright morning air. I watched and a certainty grew within that one day I would do the same.

Soon the lure of the woods beckoned, and I would wander off to practice the things my father was teaching me: to read the signs of life there, to forage for berries or look for lady’s slippers to admire. The teaberry provided a snack and leaves to chew. A laurel cluster offered a place in the sun to dream. When I realized that the sound of the axe had stopped, I knew the direction to go, and headed back.



Life, it appeared, held many wonderful activities that a person might take part in when he grew up. If there was one thing I most wanted, it was to have a boat to go out on the water. I don’t know why, I just wanted to.

By the edge of the field between our house and Grandpop June’s there was an old boat. It was a pretty large sneakbox, it seemed to me, and remembering it now, it must have been eighteen feet long. Even though she was old, she was all clean inside because she’d never had a motor in her. Evidently they had sailed it at one time.

I loved to crawl inside that boat and inhale the fragrance of old cedar. That smell was better than anything I could think of. There is something special about an old boat that has been out in the bay in the salt water when she sets upon the land. Funny thing about that particular scent those old cedar boats have.

I was five in 1946 in my earliest memory of Barnegat Bay. My father had an ancient sea skiff. Chugging sedately out Forked River creek was a dreamlike experience, which turned into a sort of nightmare as my father opened up the motor to full throttle on reaching the bay. The roar of the engine, the flying spray, the vibration all conspired together to scare the wits out of me.

Seeing that I was upset, he slowed the boat down. I quickly recovered to enjoy the gleaming expanse of bright blue water and sparkling sunshine.

There were no houses in sight and the dunes at Island Beach seemed to beckon with a golden glow. I was fascinated not only by the water but by what must lie beneath the water. I thought perhaps sunken pirate ships and golden treasures might lie there. I was overcome by a passion to know and explore the vast body of water, but this would come later.



THE SCALLOP

Scallops have a rough, sharp edge where the new growth is occurring. We used cotton gloves through the season, as they provided the manual dexterity to sort out the catch. Some days we would wear out two pair, the catch would be so rough.

The first shock of cold water through the gloves seems unbearable. On a winter’s morning, when the wind is blowing, our hands would quickly grow numb. As we worked, sorting out the catch and pulling the dredges, a wonderful thing happened. We began to feel the tingle of the returning heat to our hands and soon our hands felt perfectly warm. As long as we kept on working, our hands would stay warm, as would the rest of our bodies. Take a break for a sandwich and coffee, and you had to start all over again! We didn’t break much on cold, windy days.

Dredging for scallops was like tonging for clams. You got real sore for the first couple of weeks, particularly the hands, from the constant pulling on the ropes as you hauled the dredges. Then you would get “broke in,” and you would harden up to the work.



PHILOSOPHY OF THE BAYMAN

For the baymen of my time, it is a double tragedy. Not only do we have an unproductive bay, but also we have also lost the use of the wetlands that were a part of the bayman’s life. At times or according to the season, they were a source of income, food and even fuel for the stove.

My people were religious and did not work on the Sabbath. That meant there was one day a week that was open to recreation, after church on Sunday morning.

My brother and I used to head for the woods. It was about a mile through the woods to the meadows. The route to get there passed through swamps where the flies and bugs would eat us alive in the summer. When you got out on the meadows, though, the afternoon breeze would clear the air. Most often it would be the prevailing southeast wind off the bay. As you got closer to the water of the bay, the temperature of the air dropped. We spent many happy summer afternoons roaming the bayfront.

And so the meadows were a source of recreation to the bayman from the time of his youth. As I grew older and began to work on the bay, there was less and less time to enjoy idle days. It became more important to get the day’s work done than to satisfy an urge to take a walk or to catch soft crabs.

Never mind, I would say to myself. I will not work forever, and when the time comes, I will do as I did in my younger years. I will feed myself from the bounty of the bay and the meadows. That, I said, will be my reward for years of hard work. I will build myself a nice duck boat, carve a set of stool ducks and set them out when the northeast wind blows. I will feast on the broadbill and black duck.

All this and much more I promised myself. As the years passed I began to see it was never going to happen.
What we did not lose to the developers we lost to government programs that bought up large tracts of wetlands in order to preserve them, and then banned us from going on them. If I want to shoot or walk, I must get a map and see where I am allowed to go. Much of the land is off-limits. Along with the loss of land went part of the baymen’s cultural legacy.


THE MUSIC


Looking back now, the Homeplace holds fond memories from those years.

Finding it that first night was something of an adventure. Out Route 539, across from the area where Wells Mills Park is now, was a dirt road that ran back into the woods. Along the way were road signs that people had brought in from other areas, and here and there, people had leaned mirrors from dressers up against trees. At length we came to an intersection marked by a construction that we came to call “the phone booth.”

Inside was a stuffed animal of some description, and other oddities, which in general created a feeling that we were in the wrong place.

It was starting to get dark as we drove into the parking area, and the deer were walking all over the place. Joe and George had a number of foxhounds, and they began to howl and bark. Added to all of this were the strains of music drifting out of the hunting cabin. We were in the right place after all. We got out our instruments and went inside.

The kitchen was clean and neat with a wood cooking stove, gas lights glowing and a gas refrigerator. There was no electric. A hand pump on an old-time sink and a table with some chairs completed the picture.

Beyond was where the music was going on. The main room had bunks around the outside walls, and inner layers of chairs filled with friends and musicians. The walls were hung with pictures and memorabilia of hunts. There were some sayings that they had hung up, my favorite being: “Bad breath is better than no breath at all.” And so for about fourteen years we went to the Homeplace.

I was to watch it grow and grow, and meet many musicians there on Saturday nights...

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Barnegat Bayman: A Hard Life, a Sweet Life Raking in the Harvest
By Pat Johnson (Published in The SandPaper, reprinted in its entirety.)

It is possible to love a place as much as one loves a family member; to note with pleasure what each passing day brings, to watch for changes with concern, to hurt inside when the place you love is harmed. For the hardy men who spend their lives on the waters of Barnegat Bay and live on the land near it, this love is rarely talked about but deeply felt.



Merce Ridgway’s book, The Bayman, A Life on Barnegat Bay, is a type of love story, full of poignant remembrances of young love, mature respect and righteous indignation over the pollution and habitat loss of Barnegat Bay.



Ridgway grew up duck hunting and fishing on the bay, made his living on it by clamming and crabbing, drew spiritual solace from it.



He grew up in the pines, in Bamber, then in Forked River until his family moved to Lanoka Harbor. He learned from his family the work cycle in the pines. From mossing to blueberrying, clamming, oystering and scalloping, hunting and wood cutting, crab dredging.



Ridgway’s childhood memories of working with his father and family in all these pursuits are the sweetest part of his book.



By the edge of the field between our house and Grandpop June’s there was an old boat. ... I loved to crawl inside that boat and inhale the fragrance of old cedar. That smell was better than anything I could think of. There is something special about an old boat that has been out on the bay in the salt water when she sets upon the land. Funny thing about that particular scent those old cedar boats have.



Memories of the heat of a pine needle bed on a summer’s day while the wind sings softly through the oaks and pines, the taste of teaberries, the scent of oak leaves moldering in autumn, Indian Pipes poking up through dark earth, the sting of a breeze that catches sand on a cold winter day — these are only a few sensual memories that are stamped on a native “piney’s” soul.


Ridgway’s father encouraged his son to get an education, do some other kind of work besides clamming and working the bay. He sadly felt the bay was failing and would not sustain another generation. But the call of the bay was too strong for Ridgway, and after a stint in the Marines, Merce returned to Barnegat Bay.



He bought a used garvey for $250. After scraping and caulking her, and getting her motor running, Fin, Fur and Feathers, as she was named, became Merce’s work boat.



"The boat would carry all that I would catch over the rest of my career as a bayman. It would bring me home when other people would not think of going," wrote Ridgway.



A bayman’s boat is as important to him as a horse was to a cowboy in the Old West. It is not only a means of transportation; it’s his island of safety and rest. After a morning spent in the soft mud of the bay, feeling with expert feet for the knock of a hard clam, lunch time means a walk back to the boat, a few minutes on a hard seat to eat and reflect.



At these times, with his back aching and salt sweat in his eyes, does the bayman reflect on the differences between his humble repast and a three-martini business man’s lunch? A lunch that might (ironically) include the dainty feast of a fresh, half-dozen Barnegat bay clams? Not likely.



At the end of his lunch, the bayman gladly jumps back into the bay, at one with the crabs, the gulls, the blue sky, grateful that he has avoided wearing a suit for yet another day.



He is subjected to the harshest elements. The pleasant, sunny day at the beach can be blistering for those working the bay all day, every day. When thunderheads appear, the bayman may seek the relative safety of dry land, or he may choose to ride out the storm, depending on how much metal he has aboard.



Wintertime is not the end of the bayman’s work season; his search for the elusive bivalve continues through ice and snow. He will be tonging through ice breaks in the bay or searching for "cut outs," where the ice has scoured the mud away around islands and exposed the clams. These frozen clams can be easily picked up but must be treated with care if they are to live.



All that stands between the bayman and death in winter’s harsh conditions is a good boat and motor. Ridgway had them. He was fortunate to save others when they capsized in storms.



As a man struggling to make a living from the water, Ridgway was lucky, for he had the dedication and love of his wife, Arlene, his son Tom and his daughters.



"Our children started going out on the bay — family boat rides and picnics — when they were infants in bassinets. I took them out to experience a ride on the water but only on beautiful weather days.
"

Son Tom became an expert clammer, and his six sisters all took turns driving the boat while Ridgway counted his clams.

Because clamming can be a dangerous job, clammers in a particular area get to know each other well. Ridgway was a Forked River bayman.



It’s not unusual for one clammer to help another by towing him if his motor has died. There is no reward given or expected. This is part of the unwritten code of the bay. Baymen will lend rakes, baskets and weight belts; they will sometimes share information on where the clams are "up" (easy to harvest).



But the baymen’s fraternity is stretched to include only those whose conduct reflects their own.



"A man’s word was the most important asset that he owned," wrote Ridgway. "Honesty among the men was highly valued. The liar might be tolerated around the dock, but he would have no friends among the core of the baymen who lived our unwritten code. The thief, if such a one were to come around, was not tolerated. To be caught in the act would put the guilty party in fear of his physical safety. Once one was found out, he might as well find a new place to tie up.?
"

The worse offense to the code of the bay, wrote Ridgway, was the practice of leasing naturally productive areas of the bay to the few. If the cowboy analogy can be tapped again, this is like fencing the prairie.



According to Ridgway’s account, oystering was big in Barnegat Bay in his grandfather’s time and still prosperous for the few in his father’s time. His father and uncles tonged for oysters but were shut out of the oyster leases by the Shellfish Council, whose members divided the leases among themselves, wrote Ridgway. It was that oyster bed leasing and dredging that helped to decimate the oyster in Barnegat Bay, the author tells.



There were other factors influencing the flow and chemistry of the local waters, including the Oyster Creek Nuclear Generating Station and the start-up of the Ciba-Geigy plant at Toms River.



"When a bay dies, the causes should be found, for the safety of all those who live on or around it," the author said.



Ridgway writes about the meadows (now called wetlands or salt marsh). He can remember a time when he could see cattle grazing on the meadows around Bayville. Fifty years ago when he looked out from Forked River, he could see just one building on the meadows. Now he sees a wall of houses.



Science has accepted that development has contributed to the pollution of the bay from stormwater runoff, and politicians seem willing to look at ways to improve conditions. But Ridgway knew the bay in its essential wilderness; his bitterness at what most call "progress" can be understood, even sympathized with.



"When there was one house on the meadows, the effect of the bay did not amount to much. Build five thousand houses and the damage is five thousand times as great. We know without a doubt that this is so, yet, as a people, we allow it to go on. We pass laws and regulations with plenty of loopholes so the next guy with some money can still get his dream house with a view of the water."

Ridgway and his wife now live in West Virginia. The decline of clam stocks in the bay coincided with some health problems and forced him to relinquish his physically demanding work. The high cost of living on the Jersey Shore was also a factor in their choice to move. Now they live in an old farmhouse in a "holler," and some of their children and grandchildren have followed.



Though he is now far from his beginnings, Ridgway’s love of Barnegat Bay continues. It continues in his music and in this generous book.

This review appeared in The SandPaper, 7/12/2000, and is reprinted with permission. ©2000 Jersey Shore Newsmagazines. It is reprinted in its entirety.

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