In Leipsic, watermen have toiled for generations to dredge the deep

Why Should Delaware Care?
The Leipsic River — running through a small, Kent County town bearing the same name — has for generations been a taxiway out to the Delaware Bay for swaths of the state’s watermen to catch crabs, oysters and different kinds of fish. But as watermen who have called the river home for years watch their industry change over time, some have begun thinking about how to preserve it for future generations.

Craig Pugh sat inside his pickup truck, his eyes trained on the bending Leipsic River before him.

A river that, despite its tranquil nature, bore an outsized impact on Pugh’s life. 

The Leipsic River runs through a 180-person fishing town bearing the same name, about 7 miles northeast of Dover. Pugh has called the town home for each of his 63 years. He even served as mayor for a time. 

Many in Delaware have likely never even driven through the small town off Route 9, especially since the Route 1 highway allowed traffic to virtually bypass it. For those who make the trek, it’s likely to eat at Sambo’s Tavern, the local favorite crab spot that many argue is the best in Delaware for crustaceans. 

For generations, watermen — commercial fishermen who often cycle between crabbing and oystering depending on the season — have called the Leipsic River home. 

And Pugh is among them. He has worked the water, using the Leipsic River as a taxiway to and from the Delaware Bay to collect crabs and oysters, for nearly five decades. 

But he has seen the industry change over the years, from rising operating costs to increased regulations. And he is not alone. 

As Pugh, and some other veteran watermen, think about their own futures, they also are looking for ways to preserve Delaware’s commercial fishing industry for the next generation.

“We’re all connected to this goddamn river,” Pugh said on a sunny day last December. 

A life on the water

Founded in the late 1700s, the town was named Leipsic by 1814 because of its muskrat pelt industry — taking the Americanized name from Leipzig, Germany, another fur trading center of its time. Its successes as a river town grew to include a grist mill, canneries, shipyard, docks and hotels in the 1800s, but it declined in the next decade as roads grew farther inland.

But the Leipsic River, Pugh explained, is one of the deepest running in the state. Its depth makes for a far more stable route to the bay during low tides than some of the state’s other waterways.

Pugh’s godfather first put him to work on a crabbing boat when he was 12 years old. He never looked back.

“I believe that boy is old enough to do a day’s work,” Pugh remembered his godfather telling his dad.

Pugh’s story is familiar among watermen of his generation. 

Leonard “Limbo” Voss — his uncle gave him the nickname — is a fifth-generation waterman. He also started working on a boat when he was “young enough to still be playing Little League,” he said. All three of his brothers are watermen, as well.

Limbo did not grow up in Leipsic — he is from nearby Smyrna. But he has docked his boat in town on the river for nearly 30 years. And while the river has been a stable home for Limbo and other Delaware watermen like him, the commercial fishing industry it supports has been marked by adapting to change.

Pugh and Limbo both began their careers primarily as crabbers. Both men also stand by their assertion that Delaware Bay crabs far exceed in quality their more well-known Chesapeake Bay “blue” brethren.

But while crabbing gave both men their start, oyster dredging was once the name of the game on the Leipsic River, Pugh said.

That changed in the 1950s and ‘60s, when parasitic diseases that plague oysters, like MSX and Dermo, forced watermen to diversify their income. Pugh said that refocused the industry in Leipsic around crabbing.

The town’s location on the mouth of a river centrally located along the shore of the Delaware Bay also makes it a prime spot for crabbers, who work up and down the coastline, to dock their boats, Limbo noted.

But crabbing, like oystering, proved volatile.

In the winter of 1976 into 1977, the Delmarva peninsula plunged into a sustained, months-long freeze. It was so cold the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Agency rated it the “coldest winter on the East Coast since maybe the founding of the Republic,” according to local author and historian Jim Duffy.

Pugh recalled that winter, saying it was “catastrophic” to the blue crab population. 

Limbo, who has worked on boats since he was about 10 years old, said 1977 is one of the only two years he has not worked since. 

“You’re feast and famine,” Pugh added.

A morning out on the bay

It was quarter past 6 a.m. on a frigid morning last December. Limbo was already out on the Leipsic River, heading toward the bay. 

Accompanying him were a slew of other watermen – all of whom happened to be his relatives: His son, Zach; his brother, Bird (whose given name is Burton, but that uncle had a penchant for nicknames); and his cousin, Joe. The crew hoped to harvest the last remaining oysters of the season before it became too cold to make the trek out to the bay. 

But Limbo also had another goal to accomplish.

After making it out of the river, Limbo drove down the coast and picked up a group of post-graduate students studying at the University of Delaware’s College of Earth, Ocean, and Environment in Lewes. While Limbo and his crew hoped to catch some oysters, the students would collect data on the ones not yet ready for harvest.

Out on the bay, the water was rough. Rougher than Limbo had expected. 

Waves rocked his 20-foot-long boat to one side and then back again. Water crashed into the cabin’s windshield. 

Gone was the man who casually steered through the Leipsic River’s winding waters earlier that morning, charismatically holding court from his captain’s chair and telling stories of gambling woes and wins, boat mechanics, climate change and evolution.

Now, Limbo was focused. His eyes shifted between the wide open bay in front of him and the boat’s back deck, where the crew had assembled in anticipation of the real work beginning.

He decided to abandon harvesting for the day. No need to stay out in that mess longer than necessary, he said.

But he wanted the students to check on the oysters’ growth — to collect the data they needed. So he dropped the dredge — a large, chainlink, basket-like structure with metal teeth on one end — into the murky water. 

When the dredge reached the floor of the bay, where the oysters grow on “beds” of accumulated mud and shell, he slowly drove the boat forward, dragging the dredge with it. 

After a few moments, the dredge, now filled to the brim with slimy brown and gray colored shells, rose out of the surf. 

Zach, Limbo’s son, stood on a platform at the rear of the boat, grabbing the full dredge and pouring out the oysters onto a conveyor belt. A smile was plastered across his face.

The students stood in a line, picking at the shells as they moved down the conveyor belt and throwing them back over the side of the boat like a scene out of “I Love Lucy.”

Occasionally, Limbo shouted questions out the back window of his cabin: Have the students found any oysters? How do they look? How big are they? 

Limbo explained later that he works with the school on some of its marine science programs, hoping to ensure the bay’s oyster beds remain sustainable for future generations.

It takes anywhere from four to six years for an oyster to mature, he said. So cataloguing the size of oysters in certain beds can help determine their age and how much longer they should remain in the bay to grow and reproduce.

“We’re trying to build something up,” Limbo said. “And you can’t build something up if you’re constantly tearing it down.”

An eye on the future

While Limbo works to ensure the environment for watermen is on solid ground, he and Pugh also know that building a sustainable industry requires more.

Pugh has seen Leipsic lose some of its ties to the fishing industry as longtime residents – many of whom were watermen themselves, or came from families with a history of working on the water – either die or move away.

And beyond the town itself, the industry is tougher now, Pugh said. He pointed to increased regulations on watermen, like commercial license requirements that are often capped, meaning only a certain number of people can hold them at a time. 

Limbo also said rising costs for fuel, bait and labor have been coupled with largely stagnant sale prices for crabs and oysters, meaning there is less profit to be made.

Essentially, there is no longer room for error for the younger watermen trying to make their way in the industry. 

“I don’t think there is a shortage of younger guys,” Limbo said. “It’s just that throwing somebody in the water and saying, ‘Sink or swim,’ is tough. And it’s not like it was when I started doing it. You could make mistakes, and you didn’t hurt [financially].”

To help combat this, Pugh has taken a younger waterman, 22-year-old Trevor Fox, under his wing. Pugh has taught Fox the hard skills of fishing, crabbing and oystering, but he also has tried to instill in Fox a sense of business acumen.

“And now it’s time for you kids to learn from our mistakes,” Pugh said. “And hopefully, you’ll be able to retain what we’ve done, and then build on that.”

At 63 years old, Pugh said he is ready to pass on his decades of knowledge to the next generation. He has come to learn, he said, that life — especially life on the water — is about cycles and seasons. 

For now, it seems, the seasons are starting to change.