The Clam Chariot: A Love Affair with Dysfunction

The Clam Chariot: A Love Affair with Dysfunction

Hey everyone, my name is Matthew Raynor. I was a deep-sea commercial fisherman and bayman before a diving accident left me paralyzed from the collarbone down. These days, I'm a full-stack web developer, inspirational writer, and storyteller.

If you've ever found yourself in a dysfunctional relationship—with a person, place, or thing—drawn to something you hate but just can't quit, then this story's for you.

Before my accident, I was a squid fisherman in the Northeast, mainly out of Shinnecock and Montauk. I worked on 70- to 90-foot trawlers, heading out for trips that ranged from a day to three weeks. I absolutely loved it. I was enamored with the ocean, the hard work, the long days—and, oddly enough, the masochistic punishment that came with it.

Looking back, I think my love affair with commercial fishing started as a way to escape—escape from myself, my thoughts, and the mess of my choices.

I fished for six years, and for the first three, I was a full-blown alcoholic. I struggled with low self-esteem, depression, and anxiety. I'd come ashore with a paycheck meant for rent and food and blow it in days—on everything I thought I loved, but that clearly didn't love me back. It felt like the punishment I deserved.

Eventually, I got sober and began to heal. But even then, a lot of the choices I made before breaking my neck were still rooted in the same old patterns—thought habits shaped by a mind that only knew how to wander in the dark.

Which brings us to the bay.

When I wasn't on the ocean, I spent a lot of my time working on the bay. I had a small business harvesting clams and scallops in the waters around the East End. On its own, it was a total dead end, but if done in conjunction with fishing, I found it "helpful."

Looking back now, I can see it was just another form of self-punishment disguised as productivity.

I had rebuilt and repowered an old Mako to be my "Clam Chariot"—which I guess was my sarcastic jest at making a very unglorified task into something dignified. It was one hell of an undertaking. I learned to do fiberglass work and spent a summer covered in sweat and fiberglass shards putting the boat together.

The only thing worse than killing brain cells sucking in fiberglass fumes? The work of clamming itself.

I was a sucker for punishment, and my relationship with my shellfish boats certainly fit the bill. Before the maiden voyage of the Clam Chariot, I had a tiny Privateer that seemed to have a will of its own. The traitorous little boat wanted to kill me more than anything.

It would try to sink during work, at the dock, in the inlet—the engine loved to die at the worst times. It would work fine for a while, almost as if to lure me into a sense of safety, then die on a December day during a gale while I was hungover, or right before the breakers at the mouth of the inlet.

So, not actively pursuing death, I upgraded.

But upgrading the boat didn't upgrade the work itself. Working on the bay is painfully dull, brutally hard, and doesn't pay well. When the conditions are best, the bay deals out the worst punishment. The strong wind and choppy waves are exhausting—it's significantly harder than fishing.

Not to mention, I wasn't great at it. It's a serious skill that takes years to develop, and I usually found myself sunburned, windburned, bored, and still broke.

Here's what a typical day looked like:

I'd time my six hours on the bay to coincide with the incoming tide, since clams move up and down in the mud based on conditions. I'd pack lunch, water, and sunscreen, then head to my mom's backyard (aka "the shop") to hitch the trailer to the truck.

Then I'd cruise down to the boat ramp by Ponquogue Bridge and dump the 'Chariot' in. Hopefully, there wouldn't be a horde of tourists—or worse, families of drunken rednecks sunbathing in nests of empty Busch Light cans, sporting white T-shirts and sincerely out-of-fashion sunglasses.

Clams are caught by a rake connected to a steel basket, both attached to a hollow aluminum pole. You toss it overboard, and as the boat drifts in the wind, you pull on the handle to drag the rake teeth through the bottom. Clams hit the teeth and get pushed into the basket. All by manpower—no mechanical assistance allowed.

The windier the day, the better—the rake covers more ground. But it's a dreadfully boring endeavor. The entire day boils down to two activities: pulling on the rake with all your might, and sorting the clams by size. With occasional breaks to scream into the wind or spiral into an existential crisis. All while being beaten by the elements.

Believe me when I say the bay is nasty. You'll take a beating in Shinnecock much worse than on any trawler—especially in December.

As I sat out there screaming like an insane person, I'd light up with delight when I pulled up seaweed or dead mussel shells. Mussels would be great, but in Shinnecock they're usually full of tiny crabs and you can't sell them.

I did everything I could to get better. I rebuilt a boat, installed a new engine, upgraded equipment, and rigged up a pot hauler to pull the heavy rake. I even made a Tom Sawyer-inspired sail to drift faster on low-wind days.

But despite my efforts, I sucked at it.

In retrospect, I think a lot of it came down to mindset. These days, I find success in part because I believe success is possible. I see my losses as signposts pointing me toward something unseen. Back then, I cursed myself with negativity. And in doing so, I almost guaranteed failure.

After a few hours of this punishment, I'd have a couple bags filled and head toward the ramp. By that point, I probably looked like a tomato from sun and windburn. I'd had at least one meltdown, maybe two. Kicked a basket. Slammed a bucket.

If it was a particularly rough day, I might tie the boat up wrong and watch it drift off—or ram the trailer and break something.

Then I'd stop at Corjay's Seafood Market to drop off the clams. I always loved that part. I knew everyone there, and after a full day of silence, it was good to speak with friends.

There's a vast difference between who I was and who I became. Sometimes—for some of us—to find the "way," we have to lose it first. Looking back, a few things are blatantly clear.

The most obvious is the growth I've experienced through my challenges. I went from someone addicted to chaos—constantly trying to outrun his own mind—to someone who can sit in quiet solitude for hours. I no longer fear my thoughts. Now, my mind is a refuge where I grow through stillness, meditation, and prayer.

Through Buddhism, Taoism, and community, I've cultivated self-love, discipline, and a depth of understanding that earlier versions of me couldn't have pictured. Which is funny, because now—after a near-death experience, spiritual practice, and recovery—I've found a kind of peace I never imagined possible.

The second thing that's clear: no matter what you've been through, growth is always possible. Despite my history with addiction, anxiety, and self-hatred, I found a version of myself I actually love. A stillness I once thought was completely out of reach.

And through that stillness—through meditation, discipline, and self-love—I've found a way to share my light with others.

We all carry darkness. We all struggle. We all fall short. But I believe pain can be a sacred teacher—if we let it. If we stay stuck in old thinking, convinced that things won't work out, we curse ourselves. We trap ourselves in the very karma we're trying to escape.

And I believe—wholeheartedly—that the universe wants us to grow. To love. To care for one another. We don't need to understand why. You can feel it—if you're willing. You can feel it on your skin on a warm summer day. You can feel it in the quiet awe of a field of wildflowers. The moments that move us are proof enough.

You attract what you feel. You become what you think. You create what you imagine.

So be good to yourself.