We're not the only out-of-towners. 

 As near as we can determine, people 

 travel from all over to attend this event, 

 which has been going on for at least 30 

 years. A woman from Conway, S.C., 

 sits in a folding chair near the back. 

 She's waiting for her husband to get 

 full, she says. There are people from 

 Myrtle Beach, Lumberton, Goldsboro, 

 Fayetteville and Wilmington. Another 

 satiated customer nearby introduces 

 herself in a unique way. She shows me 

 her personal oyster knife. It was a 

 Christmas present, she says proudly, 

 her hand cupping the pear-shaped 

 wooden handle. She tilts the short 

 silver blade to the light to reveal her 

 name engraved on the metal: "Ruth." 



Locals with personalized knives 

 aren't a surprise in a county that has 

 sent many of its own to the nation's 

 oyster shucking championship. Three- 

 time state champion Shirley Simmons 

 lives only a few miles away in Supply. 

 She's not here today, and that's 

 probably because, go figure, she 

 doesn't like to eat oysters. But she can 

 snap open a raw one, cut the elastic 

 abductor muscle with an adroit turn of 

 the knife and lay the quivering grayish 

 mass neatly back into its lustrous shell 

 in a matter of seconds. With no grit, no 

 scratches, nicks or cuts on the mollusk 

 or its shell. In front of a crowd at 

 Shallotte High School at the N.C. 

 Oyster Festival in October, flanked by 

 news photographers and judges with 

 stopwatches, Simmons opened and 

 perfectly displayed two dozen oysters 

 in an "adjusted" time of two minutes, 

 35 seconds. The adjusted part means 

 the judges scrutinize the shelled oysters 

 for any imperfections or debris and add 

 seconds to the contestants' final scores. 

 Simmons won $100 and a trip to the 

 nationals next October in Leonardtown, 

 Md. She took third place and $300 

 during her last trip to the competition 

 in 1994. 



A few weeks after the Varnam- 

 town roast, Simmons graciously agrees 

 to let me come to Robinson's Seafood 

 at Holden Beach one afternoon and 

 watch her work. 



"You drove all the way from 

 Raleigh just to take my picture?" she 

 says incredulously, meeting me in the 

 parking lot of the cinder block scallop- 

 and-oyster house. She seems nervous 

 and wholly humble in spite of my awe 

 at her shucking prowess. She even 

 shrugs off her ability as nothing 

 special. But inside, with the gloves on 

 and her knife moving skillfully, her 

 pride swells slightly. 



"This is no easy job," she says, 

 "but I love to shuck oysters." 



I've read it takes about 20 pounds 

 of pressure applied at once to open a 

 3- to 4-inch oyster. Simmons seems to 

 open the shells effortlessly in a single, 

 fluid movement. But in spite of what 

 my eyes tell me, I know it must take at 

 least two movements — one to open 

 the shell and one to retrieve the meat. 

 Simmons, 42, has been doing this for 

 15 years. It took her three months to 

 get the hang of it, she says, letting 

 each plump, barely steamed oyster 

 plop into pint-size stainless steel 

 bowls. These oysters came from Texas 

 and Louisiana, she says, and though 

 she's not partial to eating oysters, she 

 allows that the flavor of North 

 Carolina's harvest is superior. 



"You can tell an oyster from here. 

 They're smaller. Their shells are 

 green." And, she adds, they're plenty 

 salty. "These oysters don't have any 

 taste." she says, nodding toward the 

 imported mound in front of her. 



To eat, Simmons likes scallops. 

 To make money, she likes oysters. At 

 work she gets 75 cents for each 

 shucked pint. And the contests, when 

 she can find a sponsor, give her a 

 chance to win a few hundred dollars 

 and to travel. She hasn't won a U.S. 

 title, but if she did, she might get a 

 chance to compete in an international 

 competition — in Italy or Norway or 

 Ireland. 



"What's the world record for 

 shucking oysters?" I ask. There must 

 be one. 



Simmons says she doesn't know. 

 I can't resist investigating this 

 during my next visit to a bookstore. 



Sure enough, in italics in the index of 

 the Guinness Book of World Records 

 is the topic "oyster opening." I flip 

 excitedly to the page to learn the 

 answer. Mike Racz holds the record, 

 the book declares. He opened 100 

 oysters in two minutes, 20.07 seconds 

 on luly 16, 1990. 1 stand slack-jawed 

 right there in the reference section. 

 Impossible, I think, wondering what 

 Simmons would say. 



I mull over all this oyster lore on 

 a drive to my folks' a couple days 

 before Thanksgiving. I'm wondering 

 what it is about oysters. What's so 

 singularly wonderful about pursuing 

 them, eating them? I'm hauling a 

 bushel of North Carolina oysters in 

 two cardboard boxes in the back of 

 my minivan, leaking half of Stump 

 Sound into the carpet. The inside of 

 the car smells like the ocean. I'm 

 returning home from Wilmington and 

 plan to stop over at my parents' with 

 a surprise for dinner. 



For all our talk about oysters, we 

 really eat them only a few times a 

 year, preferably when the atmosphere 

 and circumstances are ideal. Later 

 that evening, I realize why. It's the 

 same reason most people have 

 pumpkin pie only during the holiday 

 season. Eating oysters remains a 

 cherished — even sacred — treat, 

 worth waiting for all year if one has 

 to. It shouldn't be overdone. I find 

 this out later that night. 



Taking a shortcut that would 

 horrify true connoisseurs, Dad and I 

 heat the Stump Sound oysters in the 

 microwave until the lips of the shells 

 part. Then we suck them down with 

 butter and a homemade sauce of 

 ketchup, lemon juice and horseradish. 

 A half-bushel later, we feel as if our 

 eyeballs and bellies are bulging 

 beyond repair. Neither of us can eat 

 another oyster. We look at each other, 

 defeated but satisfied. We're going to 

 have to find someone else to finish 

 the bushel. I officially declare the 

 end of oyster-eating season ... until 

 next year. □ 



20 JANUARY/FEBRUARY 1997 



