We rented kayaks one night and as dusk fell we paddled out from the reeds at the water’s edge

We rented kayaks one night, and as dusk fell we paddled out from the reeds at the water’s edge. Every marking post and buoy seemed to have an osprey nest perched on top, with up to five birds glowering down at us as we sploshed past. Others swooped and soared overhead, searching for fish to feed their offspring. Osprey numbers have risen fivefold in the past two decades, we later learned.And then there are the ubiquitous blue crabs, still thriving at sea only to be bashed to bits by the thousand when hauled onto land.

Last year, only 30,000 bushels of oysters were pulled out of the Chesapeake waters, compared with 80,000 a * * decade earlier and 15 million in the 19th- century glory days. The beds have been destroyed by water extraction, pollution, parasites and over-fishing. To demonstrate the problem, the captain threw his oyster bucket overboard and, a few minutes later, dredged up a sorry-looking collection of diseased and stunted creatures.When we docked back in Tilghman Island, Wade’s son was there to collect his father. He immediately got my son hauling up the huge sails, and soon had me steering the vessel. Meanwhile, he told his life story while cracking jokes and raging at the politicians – both national and local – who were destroying the ecology of his beloved bay.Chesapeake is derived from a Native American phrase meaning “great shellfish bay”. Only a handful now remain in service, mostly sailing from Dogwood Harbour, 12 miles down the coast on Tilghman Island, where life is lived in the slow lane and fishing boats still outnumber pleasure craft.The leathery captain, Wade Murphy, was straight out of central casting – a third-generation waterman whose gift of the gab betrayed his Irish heritage. These wooden-masted sailing ships used to crowd Chesapeake in their hundreds, catching eel in spring, crab in the summer and dredging oysters in winter.

Next door, boats were being lifted out of the water at a shipyard as we chatted to our fellow guests at the table.It seemed foolish not to go out on the water, so we opted for the Rebbecca T Ruark, the oldest skipjack on the bay. One lobbyist told me over drinks that today’s townspeople include Donald Rumsfeld, the defence secretary, who has a holiday home there, while the local paper claimed Dick Cheney, the Vice President, was looking at properties in the area. Presumably, it could then be “The Town That Fooled the World”.For all the money and carefully preserved charm, however, this remains at heart a working, seafaring community, even if the catch is as likely to be tourists these days as it is the crabs and oysters hauled out at dawn from the waters of the huge estuary.Breakfasting on crumbly apricot muffins and coffee on the lawn at our harbourside inn, we watched a procession of ships sliding in and out of the harbour in front of us. Having fought our way round Washington’s nightmarish ring road, we were soon cruising down the Maryland coast. Entering St Michaels, our next destination, we were greeted by signs proclaiming “The Town That Fooled the British”.