Craig Parker popped his head above the surf, peeled off his dive mask and clambered aboard the Ichiban. We were anchored 50 yards offshore from a fir-lined peninsula that juts into Puget Sound. Sixty feet below, where Parker had spent his morning, the seafloor was flat and sandy—barren, to unschooled eyes, except for the odd flounder or orange sea pen. Parker’s eyes, though, were well trained. Wearing a neoprene dry suit, he stood in the boat surrounded by the morning’s haul: a glistening payload of an absurdly proportioned shellfish defined by a mass of pudgy, lolling flesh.