An Interview with a Hermit

My family has always vacationed at the same beach every summer. My grandfather lived there. My mother and all her siblings romped on the same sands when she was a child. There are generations of memories on that island for my family. I’m pretty sure there are scars on the walls of one house in particular that has endured years of our rough-housing. I love that island. It always gives the illusion that all is well in life, and always will be.
When I was younger, my dad used to take us out fishing on the boat. Why we still go is a mystery to me as I don’t recall ever catching supper. Not once. We used to go to the marina to buy bait, snacks and ice. There was this weathered man who was more often than not sitting on the beaten wood bench outside the shop. His skin was leather, his eyes a piercing blue, his feet were thick and bare, and his hair a blondish white mess forever beating around his face in the wind. His clothes looked as old and worn as the man inside them. Back then, he looked to be about 60, though I’m sure he was closer to 40 or 45. He was a picture of fierceness. And I thought he was incredibly intriguing.

LJ lived on the island across from the marina. He would motor across the waterway in his little boat, the “Clamdigger”, and hang out with the fisherman who chartered their boats for deep sea fishing. When they would bring in a huge catch, I would sometimes see LJ help with the filleting. I’ve never seen a man fillet a fish so perfectly with such swiftness. I imagine after cleaning a bucketful of Spanish, or whatever was running that day, the captain would hand him a few fillets as payment.
Every summer I would see this man. When my dad would walk in the store, I would hop up on the rail across from LJ and we’d talk. Just for a few minutes, usually. But every summer those minutes added up. And this summer I decided I was going to have a real talk with him. This hermit who, for years, had tickled my curiosity and entertained my childish questions on the docks. I wanted to find out more about him. It had been a few years since I’d talked to him. Something had gone down between LJ and the owner of the marina and he wasn’t allowed on the property anymore. But I knew where he lived. And I was bound and determined to have an interview with him.
I know the fastest way to the heart is good food. My mama taught me that growing up. And I knew that LJ liked seafood. So I took my little sister out on the kayak at low tide, and we set to work. I would paddle and she would stand cautiously in the front to cast her net for shrimp. Over an hour in and we only had about 10 shrimp even close to being big enough to cook. Disheartened is not a strong enough word. But the show must go on. We paddled back and cleaned our meager catch. I made a great experiment in the kitchen trying to throw together some shrimp and grits that had a little flare to it. Paper plated it and threw some tin foil on top to keep it warm. I couldn’t go alone, for obvious reasons, so as soon as my sweet man got to the house I drug him into it. We battled the currents for what seemed like an hour kayaking to LJ’s humble island. I guarded the food from the water as best I could, but by the end Brian and I were both soaked and the food was probably a little saltier than it started. I called LJ’s name as we pulled the kayak ashore. I saw the branches being pushed aside and then there he stood. Looking a little confused, I might add. We walked up, met in the middle, and I reintroduced myself. He said he remembered me. I told him I made supper and was wondering if he had a few minutes to talk. He took the plate, turned to his campsite home that was hidden in the trees and said he’d be right back. Brian and I pushed the sand around with our feet, swatted the mosquitoes eating our legs and talked quietly for a couple minutes. There was a torn paperback with sand-filled pages rotting in the dune grass a couple feet away. Rumpled beer cans littered the path leading to his site. His house looked like a worn in bachelor gypsy camp. Trash and all. When he came back we all stood there and talked about his favorite authors, dates, storms, trapping and such. LJ doesn’t much like badgers. As in badgering people. He is a private sort of fellow, so I guess the hermit life suits him well. He has lived on that island for about 8 years. Through storms, cold winters and all. He wouldn’t really say what caused him to want to live there all alone, except that it was cheap and people didn’t bother him much. Perhaps that’s enough reason for him. He digs clams for a living. 10 cents a piece for the big ones, and 25 cents for the small ones. I guess medium sized ones are 15. He takes his little motor boat out, hops in the mud with his thick, bare feet and clams for hours. He tugged the sleeve of his shirt over his shoulder to show off his faded tattoo that reads, “Clamdigger”. “That’s what people call me”, he says. “That’s what I do”. I ask him what he does if he gets sick. He doesn’t. Ever? “Not really. I must jus’ have a strong immune system”. And what about storms? “Depends on the wind. I’ll stay with someone if it’s blowin’ the wrong way”. How many times has he had to leave? None. LJ has weathered every hurricane that has blown through the island in the last 8 years. He said he got a little worried once. The wind changed directions. And the cold? “It’s not tubad. I jus’ keep a fire going'”. We asked about his family. He wouldn’t say too much about them. I know he has a brother who keeps up with him decently. And friends will go in and check on him. I asked him if he ever thought about trying to get squatter’s rights. He shrugged it off and said he didn’t much care about all that. He is content to read a good old western by the dying light of day and go to sleep with the sun. Then wake up with it, eat some food out of a can and go to his secret clamming spots to earn enough so he can do it all over again the next day. As much as he says he doesn’t like to be bothered, I believe he just doesn’t like being bothered about things that don’t matter. LJ is a relational man. I realized this the longer we spoke. He’s also a little crazy. Not unexpectedly so. He told us some stories that made me glad Brian was standing next to me. He has a lot of good in him though. I’ll have to bring him some more suppers to learn more about his story. He still looks 20 years older than he is. His skin is still tanned leather, his eyes still strikingly blue. And I am still intrigued as I was nearly a decade ago.