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-20^th 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.