But at the South Bend, Washington, seafood festival, participants convinced of their oyster-eating prowess gather during the first weekend of each October. It is, after all, the oyster capital of the world,
For the unschooled, oysters can be consumed raw or cooked. The former condition has a texture that is at once slippery, slimy, and gooey, and has been equated with heavy phlegm, a loogey of prodigious proportions. They are not for everyone.
A gregarious crowd was on hand to watch the presumptive winner, champion for the past four years, a bachelor fisherman named Rampart McTavish, eat a truly disgusting amount of sea snot.
The contest held at sunset is a ritual of unknown origin. Strings of Edison lights powered by a noisy generator illuminate a waterfront boardwalk, near the marina where local fishermen ply their trade. Seating is on the adjacent beach.
Oysters are a legendary aphrodisiac. The consumption of 46 dozen slimy creatures in one sitting can leave one howling at the moon and vomiting, often simultaneously. Last year, Ramp did exactly that. Local women sequester themselves when Ramp competes.
Ramp enters a variety of eating contests. He is a large man with a large appetite, but he is not a foodie. Neither is Shawna Anderson, similarly proportioned and another serial contestant who can repeatedly affirm her ability to down enormous quantities of strawberry rhubarb pie. She is from Minnesota, but is passing through South Bend and thought she’d give it a try.
This year’s contest will be her first with seafood, and Ramp has been speaking derisively about her presence in “his” arena. Still, he plans to not only humiliate Shawna, but to break his own record of 560 oysters eaten in ten minutes, set last year.
There are other contestants, but Ramp and Shawna are drawing all of the attention.
The contest begins with the firing of a flare gun. This supports the nautical theme of the event. The contestants begin sucking, slurping, and swallowing in a bivalve-gorging frenzy. Ramp is off to a great start, consuming over one hundred in the first minute and a half. Basically, one per second.
Shawna doesn’t even look up, much to Ramp’s dismay. She matches his pace, mollusk by mollusk. She discovers that the sensation of oysters in her mouth is not that different from strawberry rhubarb.
Ramp picks up the pace. In the next three minutes, he downs another two hundred oysters. Taking an allowable drink of beer, he prepares his mouth and throat for the next few minutes of punishment. He briefly thinks about Joey Chestnut’s record-setting 70 hot dogs and buns, then refocuses on the task at hand.
Shawna is a machine. She hesitates for nothing, drinks no fluids, and never takes her eyes off her plate. Ramp sees this and becomes concerned. Sweat drips from his forehead, further lubricating his next oysters.
The clock approaches the ten-minute finish. Digital counters display the results. Ramp has the lead, but only by two. He glances over his shoulder at the totals and smiles. He thinks he has her, since the pace of consumption generally slows to a crawl toward the end. But in a last-minute effort, Shawna stands, tilts back her head, and shakes it from side to side, like a goose downing a fish. Both of her hands are forcing oysters into her face, eyes closed and trancelike. Two, four, six, the final seconds of the contest count down, her total rapidly catches up to Ramp’s and passes his. He is stunned, stops eating, and knows he’s beaten.
Shawna wipes her mouth with the back of her fleshy hand and winks at Ramp. He is smitten, aroused. Not long after the contest ends, twin howls are heard from the water’s edge on the dark and distant beach. They are harmonizing, and to no one’s surprise, they marry six weeks later.
