Clam digging as a kid was a highlight of any trip to the beach, so Yukon and I decided to head out of Homer some 16 miles towards Whiskey Gulch, where we introduced our friends to the dirty, wet, and addicting sport of clamming.
The nicest part was that the kids were so easily amused by the holes left by the shovels and clam gun that we didn't have to worry about them a bit. They also were intrigued by the clam gun that magically sucked up a razor or butter clam and deposited it on the sand. Holes, mud, water, and sea creatures; heaven. Even the sand in their sandwiches later on didn't dissuade them. They had a great time.
My job was to reach into the hole and try and dig out more. I got pretty good at it. We ended up with nearly 50 (not even close to the limit per person) and decided to stop there, realizing that we had to go home and clean the suckers.
I won't go into the cleaning process; my friend had nightmares about it afterwards. Let's just say that they look a whole lot better all cut up and nicely frozen in bags...