a&e features
Paradise lost: Remembering the popular Rehoboth men’s guest house
Beach town’s pioneering B&B welcomed gay clientele before arrival of AIDS
“What hath night to do with sleep?” John Milton, A Journey to Paradise
In February 1987, 30-something Bill Courville was at his Mt. Pleasant neighborhood home. He opened the new edition of the Washington Blade. As usual, he read it from beginning to end. With a Ph.D. in psychology, Bill enjoyed the classifieds. It lifted his spirits after reading obituaries of gay men and news of meager AIDS funding from the Reagan administration. Sandwiched between personals and escorts were real estate sales listings, including a one-inch ad about a B&B in downtown Rehoboth Beach, Del.
Bill thought about his youthful days living in New Orleans and working at the Maison De Ville, a small dusty red stucco painted guest house overlooking Toulouse Street. There Tennessee Williams had once lived while penning “A Street Car Named Desire” — when not sipping Sazarac cocktails in the garden courtyard.
He circled the ad and placed it on the kitchen counter for his lover, Bob, to read. The couple had met two years earlier crossing the P Street Bridge and had gradually merged their lives. After Bob looked at the ad, Bill suggested: “Let’s go look at this! We will have a business and an income — and a place to live!” Born in Minnesota, Bob Jerome, the more cautious of the pair, had grown up in California, attending college in Claremont and later working as a Senate staffer. Like Bill, he had a doctorate and traveled throughout the world before their P Street encounter. Unlike Bob, however, Bill never had been to Rehoboth. Nevertheless, Bill insisted this could be their next adventure or at least an excuse to visit the shore off-season.
“It’s a great seasonal resort,” Bob responded positively. “Everybody goes there. There’s gay life!”
The next weekend, they crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and drove to Paradise. Rehoboth was mostly shuttered. But the Renegade bar was open at the fringe of town as was the Blue Moon along the gaying Baltimore Avenue. Driving one street over, they arrived at 40 Maryland Ave.
John, the Realtor, whose lover “Dolly” performed at the Moon, met the couple at the 19th-century house. “It was pretty awful,” remembers Bill. The fatigued Paradise Guest House sign was washed-out and the wide front porch with its handcrafted trellis lusted for paint. The pipes were drained. There was no heat or electricity. There were slivers of mirrors glued on living room walls, a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, 1930s over-stuffed maroon chairs, and yard sale grade furniture facing an old TV. The scent of stale cigarette smoke lingered in the ceilings and walls.
As they wandered through the 28 rooms — most barely wide enough for a floor mattress with a thin plastic sheet and an occasional odd-fitting dresser — they eyed stacks of men’s magazines (Honcho, Mandate, Bound & Gagged), iconic videos like “Boys in the Sand,” “Stryker Force,” and “Pacific Coast Highway,” along with chests of dildos in every imaginable size. Off the living room, a narrow passageway at a left angle to the main corridor led to the first-floor bedrooms. At the end was a trap door. They didn’t venture down. “Seasonal resorts like the Paradise were kind of like bars,” Bill explains. “They look great at night but don’t look at them during the day.”
On their drive back, the couple chatted about the venture. “I told Bill that if we were going to invest, he needed to run it so we could learn the business.” Bob knew his income would cover their personal expenses as long as Bill was willing to do the day-to-day management. “We were youngish. I don’t think we thought about what a massive undertaking it was…. But it seemed right.”
After purchasing the property, they along with some friends had just a few months before the 10-week season began on Memorial Day weekend. “We’d drag them down there and make them work, saying, ‘Oh, you can go to the beach.’ But, of course they never did go as it was always cold and rainy.” Bill wondered, “Does the sun ever shine here?”
Those next weeks were frantic: discarding discolored mattresses and sex toys; tearing out faux bedroom walls to restore the original 14 rooms; buying new white wicker furniture; upgrading the bathrooms, deck, and kitchen. Everything was thoroughly cleaned. Fresh white paint glistened on the walls and gray-painted floors replaced piles of tattered, sandy rugs. A local lesbian contractor built sturdy outside showers replacing a rickety wooden stall connected by a water hose and lined with reflective aluminum foil — designed more for strutting than showering.
“It was a huge undertaking,” admits Bill. “Everything we had was sunk into it. It had to be open!” He remembers one man calling a few days before asking if he could change check-in to Wednesday. “No, you can’t,” Bill said flatly. “You can come Friday at 2 o’clock, but not one minute sooner!”
With little time to advertise in this pre-Internet era, they did their best to explain the changes to former guests, beginning with its new name: The Rehoboth Guest House. More importantly, it now was open to lesbians as well as straights and there was no smoking. “We had a mix of friends,” says Bill. “So it would be gay-owned and operated but pretty much open to whoever wanted to come…. We had been discriminated against for most of our lives. If you don’t want to come you don’t have to.”
Remembering Paradise
Reactions from Paradise veterans varied when Bill and Bob discarded the blue, white, and yellow “Paradise Guest House” sign and, more importantly, its ethos of male eros. One of the new owners’ early supporters was Charlie Allen, who worked in the Baltimore schools but summered in Rehoboth. “He was writing a book,” Bill reveals, “called ‘Summer Sisters’… they were sisters for the summer.” Bob interjects, “The other part of the title was ‘Some Are Not.’ So, it was ‘Summer Sisters [pronounced Some Are Sisters]: Some Are Not.’Charlie died before publishing his book—which has never been found.
Unlike Charlie, “some hardcore folks were upset,” Bob recalls. “This used to be a gay male oasis” where men could “be themselves: wearing dresses; walking around naked; having piercings everywhere. They could get out of their suits and live the lives they wanted with people like them.” In an understanding tone, Bob adds: “That’s hard to take away.” The Paradise was a safe spot not only for Philadelphia accountants, D.C. staffers, and Baltimore teachers, but college kids enjoying summer break, career embarking twinks, and closeted locals seeking safe harbor.
Charlie was best friends with the German-accented Paradise owner Herbert Koerber and his boyfriend, Alvarado Ortiz-Benavides, whom everyone called “Mami”— colloquial Spanish for sweetheart. A gregarious man with fading hair and a reddish beard, Charlie often helped Mami with housekeeping and other chores. Mostly, though, he just enjoyed the sexual freedom of Paradise and the camaraderie among male guests. Some returned each year for a week, others visited more frequently for long weekends, and a few stayed the entire summer. Most guests were younger than Charlie’s 40 odd years, but everyone seemed to get along.
Most of Koerber’s clientele came from word-of-mouth advertising, although there was a classified ad in summer issues of the Washington Blade: “friendly guesthouse, close to beaches and bars.” One of the very first media stories about gay Rehoboth appeared in the May 1980 issue of this iconic paper. It described Paradise as “utterly comfortable” and quoted 38-year-old Herbert: “Tell people I can put them up — maybe even give them a discount during the week — but on weekends, after the bars close, my lobby will be packed.”
Before Herbert opened Paradise, in 1979, there were no openly gay-owned or gay-friendly advertised guest houses in Rehoboth. The Sandcastle, a decrepit speakeasy-like rooming house owned briefly by several gay men, had burnt to the ground four years earlier. The grand Pleasant Inn Lodge, hosted by the reclusive, debonair bachelor Peck Pleasanton and his octogenarian mother, Bessie, welcomed an occasional well-behaved “single” gentleman.
During eight seasons, Paradise evolved as did Herbert and Mami. The two were an odd pair. Herbert, a “fussy queen” who swore like a sailor, was tall and thin with longish hair and a handlebar mustache. He was always tanned even though his forehead would get beet red given his German complexion. The much shorter Mami, whose family was from South America, was soft-spoken and very sweet. Compared to the larger-than-life Herbert, he was less memorable to guests. Bob describes Herbert as “the German businessman. Mami was the onetime boy-toy.” They wintered in Key West, operating a gift shop and hawking kitsch souvenirs like black velvet paintings and seashell coasters.
Herbert monetized every aspect of Paradise, creating a sexual Disneyland. With 28 “teensy rooms the size of bathhouse cubicles,” there could be upwards of 50 men checked-in along with their friends and friends of their friends, wandering in during the night. However, the number of bathrooms — two full baths and two halves — did not expand. “It was shabby and crowded, but we were young and didn’t care,” one Paradise regular muses. “It had a reputation. It was our party house.”
The second floor became clothing optional with men often walking around with towels during midnight hours. Plywood partitions were set between rooms with guests on one side having a window and the other windowless. Herbert’s “summer curtains” served instead of doors, which allowed air (and guests) to circulate. Those with bedroom windows overlooking the sundeck could easily extend an invitation to a coconut-lotioned twink or a weightlifting hunk. “Everything went on at the deck and in the windows and rooms behind it,” recalls a frequent guest. There were late Saturday afternoon happy hours and skit contests. Staging was festive, if not overly decorative, with a jerry-rigged backstage area for costume changing. A raucous backyard crowd cheered contestants.
Originally, there was a huge gabled attic bedroom that required ascending a steep stairway. Herbert slashed it into a tiny single air-conditioned room with the remaining space transformed into an after dark playground full of mattresses with an aroma of poppers and pot. “Herbert turned every square inch of that attic into a bed sleeping sex area. It was masterful,” Bob says in a praiseworthy tone. “Every inch was geared toward pleasure” And, as he and Bill later discovered, There was a leather sling in the “dungeon,” a 10 x 12 cinder block walled room accessed only from the first floor trap door.
Room rates were low and backyard camping was just $5 for those bringing tents. Campers, though, had to be late night partiers. Before dawn, visitors often entered from the alley along a little path leading to the unlocked side gate. Nocturnal grunts, gasps, and groans harmonized to sounds of crashing waves. Back then, as one Paradise regular stresses, “Sex wasn’t a taboo thing. It was like going to lunch! It was as common as going for a cocktail.”
During the day, Herbert was often found in his flip-flops, T-shirt, and khaki shorts, puttering in the garden or tending to his beloved lacecap hydrangeas gracing the front yard. Herbert was estranged from his German-speaking family so Paradise regulars became his family. Friendly, he knew everyone by their first name but don’t ask to reserve a specific room. One returning guest remembers phoning Herbert for a reservation and requesting a first-floor room with a door: “Oh, honey!” Herbert laughed. “It’s just first come, first served.”
Herbert did repairs only when absolutely necessary. But he’d always be painting, using just one color: white. The exception was the wrap-around front porch, lined with rocking chairs, which had a gray floor and ceiling along with knob and tube wiring. Throughout the house, guests used it to hang clothes since there were no closets.
In the early to mid 1980s, Paradise thrived as a money making machine — a bathhouse on the beach. As the number of gay-owned restaurants and bars multiplied along with accompanying media attention, more gay men vacationed at Rehoboth and visited Paradise. “There was a routine,” one recounts. “You’d get up late. Get yourself down to the gay beach. Do a day at the ocean, getting too much sun. Then there was happy hour at the Moon. You had to be there and have a nice look. Then you’d go back, take a nap, and then go to dinner. Then, onto the Renegade!”
Herbert provided a weekend shuttle to the Renegade. About 10 o’clock, he’d drive up in his light colored blue and white ’60s VW van, hop out and, as a regular recollects, “Scream down the hallways: ’Get your asses down here!’” He shuttled guests back-and-forth, with the last pick-up at 1. ”I remember Herbert telling people in his heavy accent, ‘If you miss the last bus, you have to walk the fuck home!” But his gruffness masked protectiveness. ”He’d warn them he was going and he would even count!” Another frequent visitor remembers Herbert “as the kind of guy you’d call at 3 o’clock in the morning to say, ‘I’m in jail.’ And he’d be there.”
Paradise Lost
In 1980, reports surfaced about clusters of young gay men contacting Pneumocystis pneumonia. Granted the majority of infections and deaths from this “gay cancer” were in New York City and San Francisco, but the Washington Blade published a landmark front-page story, “Rare, Fatal Pneumonia Hits Gay Men,” inJuly 1981.
Herbert began to worry. One guest, living in New York City and volunteering as an AIDS buddy, remembers porch conversations with Herbert. ”He was talking about buying a second one. Then he said, ’I’m concerned since so many people are getting AIDS, I’m not sure whether or not I’ll have a clientele.’”
For many gays, Paradise was a rare time to be themselves and to enjoy the camaraderie and support from other men at a beach resort. Sadly, for some, it was also a death sentence. Sexual desire and psychological denial coupled with governmental inaction and public apathy fueled the AIDS pandemic.
After the 1986 summer season, Herbert and Mami sojourned, as usual, to Key West; Herbert never returned. ”I can remember being surprised to hear that he was ill,” laments a longtime patron. ”He went quickly; we had no indications he was ill.”
Herbert died a week before Bill and Bob opened on Memorial Day weekend. Mami was with him until the end. Like Paradise, he disappeared into history and, along with Herbert and many of his guests, would be remembered by few.
James Sears’ latest book, “Behind the Boardwalk: Queering the History of Rehoboth Beach” will be published next year. Tom Kelch, manger of the Rehoboth Beach Guest House, contributed research to this article.
a&e features
Looking back at 50 years of Pride in D.C
Washington Blade’s unique archives chronicle highs, lows of our movement
To celebrate the 50th anniversary of LGBTQ Pride in Washington, D.C., the Washington Blade team combed our archives and put together a glossy magazine showcasing five decades of celebrations in the city. Below is a sampling of images from the magazine but be sure to find a print copy starting this week.
The magazine is being distributed now and is complimentary. You can find copies at LGBTQ bars and restaurants across the city. Or visit the Blade booth at the Pride festival on June 7 and 8 where we will distribute copies.
Thank you to our advertisers and sponsors, whose support has enabled us to distribute the magazine free of charge. And thanks to our dedicated team at the Blade, especially Photo Editor Michael Key, who spent many hours searching the archives for the best images, many of which are unique to the Blade and cannot be found elsewhere. And thanks to our dynamic production team of Meaghan Juba, who designed the magazine, and Phil Rockstroh who managed the process. Stephen Rutgers and Brian Pitts handled sales and marketing and staff writers Lou Chibbaro Jr., Christopher Kane, Michael K. Lavers, Joe Reberkenny along with freelancer and former Blade staffer Joey DiGuglielmo wrote the essays.
The magazine represents more than 50 years of hard work by countless reporters, editors, advertising sales reps, photographers, and other media professionals who have brought you the Washington Blade since 1969.
We hope you enjoy the magazine and keep it as a reminder of all the many ups and downs our local LGBTQ community has experienced over the past 50 years.
I hope you will consider supporting our vital mission by becoming a Blade member today. At a time when reliable, accurate LGBTQ news is more essential than ever, your contribution helps make it possible. With a monthly gift starting at just $7, you’ll ensure that the Blade remains a trusted, free resource for the community — now and for years to come. Click here to help fund LGBTQ journalism.
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In stressful times, escape to Rehoboth Beach
Here’s what’s new in D.C.’s favorite beach town for 2025
At last, after an uncharacteristically cold and snowy winter, another Rehoboth Beach season is upon us. I have been going to Rehoboth Beach since 1984, and it was the first place I went where people only knew me as a gay man. It was the year I came out. It was a summer community back then. Today it really is an exciting year-round community. But it’s still the summer season when Rehoboth shines, and when the businesses make most of their money.
The summer brings out tens of thousands of tourists, from day-trippers, to those with second homes at the beach. Everyone comes to the beach for the sun and sand, food, and drink. Some like to relax, others to party, and you can do both in Rehoboth Beach, Del.
Stop by CAMP Rehoboth, the LGBTQ community center on Baltimore Avenue, to get the latest updates on what is happening. CAMP sponsors Sunfestival each Labor Day weekend, and a huge block party on Baltimore Avenue in October. They train the Rehoboth Beach police on how to work with the LGBTQ community, and have all kinds of special and regularly scheduled events. Pick up a copy of their publication, Letters, which is distributed around town.
I asked Kim Leisey, CAMP’s executive director, for her thoughts, and she said, “CAMP Rehoboth looks forward to welcoming our friends and visitors to Rehoboth Beach. We are a safe space for our community and will be sponsoring social opportunities, art receptions, concerts, and art exhibits, throughout the summer. If you are planning a wedding, shower, reception, or business meeting, our beautiful atrium is available for rental. We look forward to a summer of solidarity and fun.” While at CAMP stop in the courtyard at a favorite place of mine, Lori’s Oy Vey! Café, and tryher famous chicken salad.
There’s something for everyone at the beach, from walking the boardwalk and eating Thrasher’s fries, to visiting Funland, or playing a game of miniature golf. Or head to some of the world-class restaurants like Drift, Eden, Blue Moon, or Back Porch.
Some random bits on the summer 2025 season. Prices are going up like everywhere else. Your parking meter will cost you $4 an hour. Meters are in effect May 15-Sept. 15. Parking permits for all the non-metered spaces in town are also expensive. Transferable permits are $365,non-transferable $295, or after Aug. 1 if you only come for the end of summer, it’s $165. Detailed information is available on the town’s website.
Rehoboth lost one of its best restaurant this off-season, JAM, but Freddie’s Beach Bar and Restaurant is open for its fourth season. Owner Freddie Lutz told the Blade, “We are looking forward to a fabulous season. Freddie’s has a dance floor and is the only music video bar in town.” There is also live entertainment, karaoke, and Freddie’s Follies drag show Friday nights.
My favorite happy hour bar is Aqua Grill, which has reopened for the season. I recommend taking advantage of their great Tuesday Taco night, and Thursday burger night. Then there is The Pines and Top of the Pines. Bob Suppies of Second Block Hospitality told me, “Come, relax, and play. We are ready! I have been spending summers here since the mid-90’s, and Rehoboth Beach seems to age like a fine wine. Between the new, and favorite restaurants opening back up, the shops bursting with incredible finds, and all the great LGBTQ+ bars to entertain everyone, nowhere beats the Delaware beaches this summer.”
Head down the block on Baltimore Avenue and you get to La Fable restaurant. Go all the way to the beach and you will see the new lifeguard station, which is slated to open later this month. Also, demolition of the old hotel and north boardwalk Grotto Pizza has happened. The site will become a new four-story, 60-room hotel, with ground level retail space.
Then join me at my favorite morning place at the beach, The Coffee Mill, in the mews between Rehoboth and Baltimore Avenues, open every morning at 7 a.m. Owners Mel and Bob also have the Mill Creamery, the ice cream parlor in the mews, and Brashhh! on 1st street, where Mel sells his own clothing line, called FEARLESS! Then there is the ever-popular Purple Parrot, celebrating its 26th year, now with new owners Tyler Townsend and Drew Mitchell, who welcome you to their iconic place. It has only gotten better. If you head farther down Rehoboth Avenue you will find the Summer House with its upscale Libation Room, and a nice garden looking out on Rehoboth Avenue. Also on Rehoboth Avenue is Gidget’s Gadgets owned by the fabulous Steve Fallon. With the renewed interest in vinyl records you may want to stop in at Extended Play.
Then there is the always busy and fun, Diego’s Bar and Nightclub. Joe Zuber of Diego’s told the Blade, “Get ready for a great gay ole time in Rehoboth Beach. Plenty of entertainment, dancing and fun as we seem to be the next Stonewall generation with this newest administration. Each election brings its concerns about how our gay community will be affected. Come to Rehoboth Beach to escape this summer season!”
If you are in town for Sunday happy hour, make sure to stop there to hear the talented Pamala Stanley who is celebrating her 20th season entertaining in Rehoboth.And on Mondays, Stanley plays Broadway and other classics on the piano at Diego’s.
If you are looking for culture Rehoboth has some of that as well. There is the Clear Space Theatre on Baltimore Avenue. Rumors abound that Clear Space will move out of town. But I can’t believe the commissioners and mayor would be dumb enough to let that happen. This year’s shows include “Spring Awakening,” “Buyer + Cellar,” “Hairspray,” “Beautiful: The Carole King Musical,” and “RENT.”Tickets sell fast so I suggest you book early and they are available online. Then mark your calendars for Saturday, July 19 for Rehoboth Beach Pride 2025 at the Rehoboth Beach Convention Center.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention some of the other fine restaurants and clubs in town. Just a reminder, during season you often need dinner reservations. Come to the beach often enough, and you can try them all: Café Azafran, Dos Locos, Goolee’s Grille, Rigby’s, Frank and Louie’s, Above the Dunes, Mariachi, and Henlopen City Oyster House, and Red, White & Basil. And take a short drive to Dewey for breakfast or lunch at the Starboard; popular bartender Doug Moore (winner of the Blade’s Best Rehoboth-Area Bartender 2024 award) holds court at one of the inside bars, which has become a de facto gay bar on Saturdays.
One major development in the local dining scene last summer was the purchase of the Big Fish Restaurant Group by Baltimore-based Atlas Restaurant Group. Nearly a year later, not much has changed at the many Big Fish restaurants, although many locals are hoping for a renovation of Obie’s along with a gay night at the ocean-front bar/restaurant.
These are only a few of the fantastic places to eat and drink at the beach. Remember, book your reservations for hotels and restaurants, early. Rehoboth is a happening place and gets very busy.
We are living in stressful times. A visit to Rehoboth is a nice way to escape them for a while. Take the time to destress, enjoy the sun and sand. Take a stroll on the boardwalk and listen to the sound of the ocean, and people having fun. Enjoy good times, good food, good friends, and remember that life can still be good. Recharge your batteries for the rest of the year, by enjoying some summer fun in Rehoboth Beach.
a&e features
Down to shuck!
Oyster farmers Jordan Nally and fiancé Jimmy Kane on caring for Delaware’s waters — and sharing something special with customers
Although I didn’t come out to my family until my 20s, they should have seen the signs. During one of our annual trips to Indian Shores Beach in Florida, my parents splurged on a Polynesian dining adventure at the only tourist spot in town – Tiki Gardens. While waiting for our table, my sisters found a saltwater tank lined with oysters. For what felt like a fortune to an eight-year-old, a fisherman would shuck a pair and sift through the contents. Dressed in my floral Hawaiian shirt, my excitement turned to desperation when both of my sisters’ oysters revealed pearls. After much begging, my father reluctantly paid to have the small, oddly shaped gems mounted in rings. Watching my sisters flaunt their new jewelry, I seethed with envy and secretly vowed to return one day to claim my own treasure from the sea.
Nearly 50 years later, I’m a full-time resident of Rehoboth Beach, Del. It’s the Atlantic Ocean, not the Gulf of Mexico, but it’s close enough to Florida for me. As a local in a small coastal town, I’m keenly interested in how entrepreneurs are capitalizing on the growing tourism industry with innovative business ideas, so when I stumble across an Instagram page featuring two gay oyster farmers, Jordan Nally and his fiancé Jimmy Kane operating just a few miles away on Rehoboth Bay, my curiosity is piqued. After liking all the posts on the page, I slip into their DMs and ask whether we can meet for an interview. I’m delighted and a little nervous when they agree and invite me out on the boat to tour the farm and talk shellfish. Since everything I know about oysters came from a restaurant menu, I did some research.
Less than a week later, I arrive at the marina on Collins Avenue in Dewey on a picture-perfect morning in early May. Nally is waiting by his pickup truck, casually chatting up a couple of tourists. He’s a Delaware native and looks every bit like an oyster farmer in a long-sleeve, sweat-wicking shirt, PVC-coated shorts, and a branded baseball cap for sun protection. That’s all the more surprising given that Nally spent more than a decade working for JPMorgan Chase and had run for election to the Delaware House of Representatives in 2020.
As a good reporter, I’ve done my research: I know that the Inland Bays (made up of Rehoboth, Indian River, and Little Assawoman Bays) were once prolific oyster producers, with peak annual harvests reaching up to two million bushels. However, by the mid-20th century, overharvesting and a parasitic fungus drastically reduced the oyster populations. By 1960, the annual harvest had plummeted to just 49,000 bushels, marking a low point for the industry. In 2013, former Gov. Jack Markell signed legislation, and the commercial shellfish industry was reborn.
As we unload the flatbed of his EV pickup truck and transport the contents to the waiting boat, a retrofitted pontoon, “The Mullet,” Nally fills me in on his origin story. He came up with the idea to dive into aquaculture while he was quarantined in a hotel in Vermont with nothing but a TV and a local magazine with a cover story on oyster farming. He pitched the idea to his partner Jimmy Kane over the phone, and together they started planning how to make it happen. Nally jokes that what began as a fun “COVID project” quickly bloomed into a thriving business: “Some people did sourdough starter, but we decided to start an oyster farm.”
Although Kane is always there to lend a helping hand, Nally is the one who’s usually out tending the farm. Still, Nally stresses that Kane plays a critical support role: “He’s in charge of merchandising, running sales at the market, and grounding me when I have too many wild ideas.”
In April 2023, the couple planted their first batch of “oyster babies,” provided by the hatchery at the University of Delaware. At the time, they were still living full time in Wilmington, so the first year on the farm meant long drives, managing their day jobs from the car, launching the boat, and working for hours out on the bay before heading back home. Eventually, the capital investment and 14-hour days paid off; now, just two years later, they have 50 floating bags, each holding about 2,000 oysters.
Out on the open water, we see a half-dozen other oyster farms off in the distance. Despite the great weather, we’re the only boat on the bay. Standing confidently at the helm with his eyes fixed on the horizon, Nally gives me a quick biology tutorial on how oysters make it from the bay to the bar. Growers trigger spawning by adjusting water conditions to mimic spring, then feed the larvae specialized algae. After two to three weeks, the larvae develop an “eyespot” and are transferred to grow-out areas on the seabed or suspended bags. Oysters generally reach market size in 18 to 36 months, but the ideal conditions in Rehoboth Bay cut that time down to less than six months.
Nally opens the throttle and, in less time than I expected, we reach the place where the magic happens – the acre of water designated for Nancy James Oysters. Unconventional and bordering on camp, the couple came up with the moniker to honor their late parents. When I ask Nally to explain why they’ve stuck with the venture, his answer, like the name of their business, is personal: “Every single day, we learn something new. And every single oyster reminds us why we started: to grow sustainably, care deeply for our waters, and share something truly special with our customers.”
As we arrive at the oyster farm, Nally cuts the engines and explains the innovative farming technique Nancy James uses to grow its oysters; picture a series of mesh bags, buoyed by floats, and attached to a main line stretching across a tract of water and anchored at both ends. Growing oysters at the water’s surface allows Nally and Kane to capitalize on natural currents and food availability, resulting in faster growth rates and enhanced flavor profiles. The only downside to this growing technique is that the guys never find pearls because the insides of their oysters are cleaner than those of the bottom dwellers.
The farm is directly across from Bird Island, and the cacophony of 10,000 birds is even louder than the whirring sound from the propellers. After anchoring the boat, Nally casually strips down to his bathing suit and surf shoes and jumps into the 60-degree water without a second thought. It’s the ultimate cold plunge, but if he feels the cold, he doesn’t show it; there’s too much work to do.
“You ready to get dirty?”
The waters of Rehoboth Bay may be pristine, but Nally’s question and smirking grin reinforce the message that oyster farming is a messy business. The first order of the day is to change out the older bags to address biofouling — the attachment of seaweed and algae that can affect the health and inhibit growth of new oysters. Nally selects three gnarly bags and hauls them over to the boat. I pull one onto the deck. Once he’s back on board, we empty the first bag onto the cleaning table, and I feel my stomach lurch. Mixed in with small crabs and tiny shrimp, the oysters are covered in muck. Suddenly, I’m glad to be wearing a pair of rubber gloves.
Following instructions, I start sorting; chefs prefer smaller oysters with well-shaped shells. Trying not to get distracted by Nally’s stories and the ravenous flock of waiting sea birds floating above me, I count out four batches of 100 oysters for same-day delivery. Nally and Kane care about how their oysters taste and look. The boat has a portable generator, sump pump, and pressure washer to clean the shells thoroughly. Always ready to quote DNREC requirements scripture and verse, Nally explains that he has to use approved water, and the easiest way is to clean them with water from where they’re growing.
When I ask if it’s hard to comply with the federal and state requirements, like logging the exact time oysters go in and come out of the water, Nally shrugs and offers a surprisingly pragmatic answer: “Everyone on the bay is aware of safety and works together to comply. If anyone gets sick from shellfish, they don’t care where it came from; it will affect all of us. When you are eating oysters in Delaware that came from Delaware, I feel really confident about safety.”
After harvesting and storing the oysters on ice, Nally checks the currents and wind direction before jumping back into the water; he regularly inspects the bags, floats, securing lines, and clips to ensure everything is in working order. As the oysters grow, Nally and Kane move them into bags with progressively larger mesh sizes and mark each with color-coded zip ties to indicate their growth stage. As they mature, the oysters are thinned out and spread across more bags to prevent overcrowding. It’s hard work, but at the end of the day, the two men are proud of what they’ve built together.
Nally explains that the warm temperatures, sandy bottoms, and high salinity of Rehoboth Bay are ideal. Still, not all farm sites are created equal: “The water here tastes different than the water on that side of the bay. It’s the fetch you’re getting from waves, all the swell, and the current. We have a really strong current on this side, and that side doesn’t, so they’re not as salty.”
Although Rehoboth Bay is known for its shallow depths and typically calm waters, aquafarming is still risky. Nally recalled a harrowing incident last winter when his lines got tangled in the boat’s propeller. Rough weather and a hefty chop made it hard to keep the boat steady. Determined to free the line, he put on his wetsuit and plunged into the frigid water. As a safety measure, he shared his location via iPhone with Kane and told him that if the location stopped moving, Nally was in the water and Kane should call the Coast Guard.
On another occasion, Nally slipped on a wet deck and hit his head — an accident reminiscent of what happened to poor Jennifer Coolidge in “White Lotus.” Fortunately, he fell into the boat rather than overboard. He takes no chances now, wearing a special life vest that automatically inflates if he falls into the bay.
Nally and Kane are the only local farmers offering premium catering services, bringing the freshest oysters and top-notch shuckers to events such as weddings and birthday parties. Nancy James Oysters can also be enjoyed at local restaurants, including Drift Seafood & Raw Bar and Lewes Oyster House. You can find them in person at the Bethany Farmers Market and the Historic Lewes Farmers Market. This summer, the couple will be shucking oysters live every Sunday afternoon at Aqua Bar & Grill. Oysters are always available for purchase online at nancyjamesoysters.com.
It’s another beautiful day when I make the short trip to town and park just outside Drift on Baltimore Avenue. Grabbing an empty seat at the outside bar window, I order without looking at the menu (at Drift, ask for the “Rehoboth Rose” oyster). In less time than it takes to check my phone, there are a dozen premium oysters in front of me — bedded in a tray of crushed ice, just waiting to be devoured.
Savoring the poetry of the presentation, I lift a shell to my mouth and slurp down the meat in one swallow. The taste is pure Delaware. Tom Wiswell, the former executive chef at Drift, describes it best: “It reminds me of being a kid at Rehoboth Beach and like a wave splashing you in the face. It’s fresh, briny, and salty.”
As I enjoy a swallow of a good glass of Cava and reach for another oyster, I realize why these exotic delicacies were dubbed “white gold.” Nearly a half-century older and wiser than that kid in the Hawaiian shirt at Tiki Gardens, I’ve finally realized that the hidden treasure inside the oyster was never the pearl.
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