In Eastport, a waterfront neighborhood in Annapolis, spring arrives with an unusual celebration: the Annapolis Oyster Roast & Sock Burning. Timed to the vernal equinox, the annual gathering draws hundreds who come for oysters, live music and a communal bonfire where old socks are ceremonially tossed into the flames.
The custom goes back to the winter of 1977, one of the coldest on record for the Chesapeake Bay, when the harbor froze and a local boatyard worker, Bob Turner, fed up with the cold and with wearing socks, flung a pair into a fire and declared, ‘I’m not putting them on again until next winter.’ Kelly Swartout, vice president of development at the Annapolis Maritime Museum & Park, says that spontaneous gesture evolved into the yearly event.
This year’s roast followed another harsh winter that even forced a delay in the Annapolis Yacht Club’s long-running ‘Frostbite’ race series after Spa Creek and the Severn River iced over. When warmer weather finally returned, people filled the museum grounds to celebrate the end of winter and the return of boating season.
Music from the Eastport Oyster Boys and the Naptown Brass Band set a festive tone. Attendees arrived with socks destined for the fire: holey work socks, dress socks made redundant by remote work, and novelty pairs chosen for their entertainment value. Longtime participant Scot Labin joked about his picks, saying the Egyptian cotton socks his mom bought him were definitely headed for the flames.
Oysters—an essential Chesapeake Bay staple—were in abundance. Veteran shucker Mike Dicus, who has been opening oysters for 35 years, estimated he’d already shucked ‘a couple thousand’ and demonstrated his preferred ‘Eastern Shore stabbing style’—working from the front, giving the shell a wiggle, and cutting the two muscles to free the meat.
As the afternoon moved toward its climax, Annapolis poet laureate Jefferson Holland read his ‘Ode to the Equinox.’ The poem’s closing lines prompt the burning: revelers ‘burn their socks at the equinox’ so they can spend spring and summer ‘not wearin’ any socks at all—just stinky bare feet stuck in old deck shoes.’ On cue, the crowd cheered and began hurling socks into the blaze. Some landed directly in the flames, others were nudged in by helpers—more a raucous, communal free-for-all than a solemn ritual.
For many, the event mixes the practical and the symbolic: it’s an easy way to dispose of worn-out socks and a noisy marker of winter’s end. Lifelong Annapolis resident Mary Keller summed it up simply: ‘I like to watch the socks burn, something about that.’ Labin, beer in hand, admitted the gathering is ‘really just an excuse to drink’—but it is one centered on oysters, music and a communal letting-go that draws people back each spring.