Sea Eyes

Just a few days ago, I was informed that a good fisherman friend of mine has a disability. I was certain that this was nonsense and replied with slight amusement at how rumors can be blown out of proportion in the small village that we call home. When a town is practically dormant for 7 months out of the year, people get creative at generating gossip. I'm used to "local news" being bogus or, at best, partial truth.

I ran into the aforementioned fisherman a few days later and inquired about this rumor, practically chuckling while doing so, because it seemed so preposterous. You see this man is one of the most graceful boat handlers I know and to think that he has a vision impairment is unthinkable. Sure enough, he confirmed it. I was dumbstruck and embarrassed for my insensitivity at bringing up the subject. I said as much.

Sight is indeed a valuable sense on the water. I'll never forget the first summer that I sterned in 2004. The boat was brand new and Cap was just adjusting to her; learning the feel for driving her, the new curves and corners and, generally, adapting his entire work routine to her. Most challenging of all, he was learning the ropes of the electronics. He had a novel new computer and navigational/plotting program that was nothing but trouble that entire season. In fact, the plotter didn't work for a good portion of the season, and we relied on Cap's memory and our combined eyesight to locate buoys the old fashioned way. It was also one of the foggiest summers that I can remember. Cap relied on me to watch the port side of the boat for buoys, since the wheelhouse blocks his line of vision from his station at the wheel. Unfortunately, I was wearing glasses at the time and the salty fog made it almost impossible for me to spot buoys. I've worn contacts when working on the water ever since.

But "sea eyes" are more than just being able to see clearly. Cap recently commented "When you've worked on the water for some time, you start to see things that others don't." This isn't to say that fishermen become delusional from working on the water. Rather, he meant that one develops a 6th sense: an awareness of your surroundings on the water and a new dimension in which one visually perceives danger. You catch a fleeting glimpse of day-glow pink off the stern and, knowing the direction in which the boat's drifting, you know whether there's a chance of the wheel (the boat's propellor) catching the buoy or not. While watching the line escape over the rail as you set a pair of traps, you can tell when it is going to catch the rest of the coil and create a hopeless snarl.

It's true that sight is the primary sense with which we experience the world as humans. But there is more than just sight to vision. There is a deeper perception of one's environment when a person is really in tune with their surroundings. This is what has enabled my fisherman friend to be such a good lobsterman over the years. He has his "sea eyes" about him.

Another Season Come and Gone

Glancing back over my posts, I feel a lack of closure with regard to shrimping season.

The last few days of the season were hell. I'm not sure what I was expecting really. A surprise catch? Lighter traps? Deep satisfaction pulling each trap from the water for the last time? Well, none of these miracles took place. I'm sorry to say that I was uncharacteristically sour about the whole business. I even chugged some caffeine to give me a little kick in the pants, but even that didn't serve to boost my motivation.

On the first day of the trap-pulling marathon (March 17), we were over-ambitious and brought in 80 traps (two loads of 40). Cap and I knew that we were in for a doozy when the first trap surfaced. It was about half full of vein shrimp. Vein shrimp are small and taste like iodine compared to the more desirable Northern shrimp. You can't sell them and if there are too many in a tray, the buyer will either bitch or reject the tray altogether. In other words, they are bad news. It wasn't surprising that the vein shrimp descended on us like a plague of locusts. The traps had set for 5 nights of rough seas, which often bring out the "veiners" (or the "veinous ones," as I dubbed them).

Now, if we had been wise, we probably would have dumped half of the traps that day. But once you start saving the contents and picking out the vein shrimp, it is addictive. Cap and I both suffer from a dangerous combination of perfectionism and frugality. At first, we had the mindset that we would just pick out enough buckets to fill our shrimp orders for the last day of the season. We both had friends who wanted shrimp and we had procrastinated until then to bring them some. Once we started picking those buggers out, we couldn't stop.

We actually came out alright in the end with a not-too-shabby 9 trays of good shrimp. However, each tray was painstakingly picked over. We put in a full 12 hour day by the time we returned from trucking the shrimp to South Bristol for sale and cleaned up the dock.

On day 2 of pulling traps, we wised up a bit and only endeavored to land 40 traps, but it felt just as painful somehow. We returned with 4 trays and decided to pick out the vein shrimp on Cap's "sorting table" on the dock. Some fishermen came down to help us and chatted, which made the process altogether more pleasant.

By day 3, I was a sore, grumpy mess to the point where it was probably amusing to watch me growl and scowl at inanimate objects. At one point Cap even turned to me with the hint of a smile and said: "No one enjoys pulling shrimp traps for the season. It just isn't fun." This actually made me chuckle and made me realize how bitter I had been.

I daresay that I didn't find closure or satisfaction with the whole shrimping business until we landed the last unwieldy shrimp trap atop the pile in Cap's backyard. These traps won't be touched again until January of 2011. And I am am content to say that it won't be by my hand! Been there, done that. It was a great experience learning the ropes of shrimp trapping. I learned a ton and it made great writing material, but I certainly don't find the need to experience it ever again. I guess I'll leave it to the pros.

Looking Up from Rock Bottom

Today when we were rigging traps, Cap started designating the lighter (3 Ergo-brick) traps as "tailers" and the heavier (4 Ergo-brick) traps as "lead traps" by adding tailer warps to the lighter traps. I asked what his thinking was behind this. He carefully explained how he believes the lead traps fish better when they have more weight. He said "Well, you've probably seen this diving. . ." and went on to reason how rough seas will pull the line taught and tug on the buoy, thereby making the lead trap "dance around." Cap argues that lobsters probably don't want to enter a moving trap and that it might in fact scare them away.

After this mini-lesson, I got to thinking that I like how Cap thinks from the perspective of our prey. We are both SCUBA divers and I think that having this (underwater) perspective as a frame of reference is very helpful to fishing. First of all, it is helpful to putting yourself in the mindset of a lobster. Secondly, it is a means of directly observing how lobster gear works and behaves when submerged. All kinds of crazy experiments have been done with underwater cameras and fancy computers to monitor how rope and traps act in the water. For example, the DMR (Department of Marine Resources) has studied how float rope and sink rope behave in the water column as background for the constantly changing legislation that attempts to promote "whale safe" gear. But when you dive, you can actually see the profile of your lines, how much slack there is, how the traps are sitting on the bottom, etc. No computers necessary. This is valuable information to a fisherman.

In fact, my experience diving locally drastically changed how I think of ghost traps. "Ghost traps" are abandoned traps. They no longer have a buoy and therefore don't fish any more. They were lost when someone cut the buoy either intentionally out of vengeance or unintentionally in a propeller (or "wheel," as the fishermen call it). I previously thought of ghost traps as junk littering the ocean floor that should be cleaned up. Scrap metal. But then I went diving just off the rocks in front of my parents' cottages and witnessed ghost traps in action. They aren't trash! They are lobster habitat! I witnessed countless traps that had long since lost their vents creating large openings for lobsters, fish and crabs to enter and leave as they pleased. These wire mesh sanctuaries were overgrown with gently swaying monstrous blades of kelp and rock weed forests. It was lobster heaven! Ships are sunk to create artificial reefs. Traps are cut to create lobster hotels! Now I scoff when I read about efforts to recover ghost traps in an attempt to beautify the ocean bottom. It's a waste of money in my opinion. And where would the lobster's live?!

On my first open water dive when I was getting certified I was absolutely dumbfounded by the beauty of our New England waters. I played with lobsters to see how they moved underwater and watched them flip their tail to swim away. I marveled at the colorful diversity of algae and its graceful sway with the gentle current. At one point I looked up through the water column and was awestruck by how magnificent the sunlight looked filtering down through the waves thirty feet above. I just sat there on the sand and thought: I would be quite content dying right here right now. This is not to say that I was feeling suicidal or even that I was contemplating death at all. I was just so overcome by a feeling of peace that I could actually imagine leaving my body in that moment.

This is the world in which lobsters live. I think of that peaceful state of submerged bliss often when I am on the boat watching the traps emerge from the deep. I try to imagine the movement underwater. Everything synchronized by the ebb and flow of the ocean. All life undulating with the same pulse as the waves. I hear the sound of the underworld and see the ocean's landscape through green, irridescent, filtered light. I can't imagine how blinding the pure sunlight is to the lobsters as they wait to be plucked from the traps on the rail. How dry the air. How loud the engine sounds. If we couldn't even attempt to think like lobsters or imagine their underwater reality, how would we ever catch them?

"Articulate Hands"

Yesterday marked the commencement of spring lobstering for Cap and I. We pulled out this year's tags and the rusty hogrings and began to work on gear. Cap's 21" wide lobster traps are a dream to handle after those awkward shrimp traps. It's like breathing fresh sea air after suffocating in urban smog to just poke your fingers through that nice wide lobster trap mesh and lift it any ol' way after struggling to lift shrimp traps all season with their small impenetrable mesh.

Working on gear is mindless, monotonous work (like most of the tasks that go into fishing) and is conducive to good discussion. Cap and I got a lot of talking done yesterday. We made small talk, we made tall talk. Cap made a proposal. He informed me that he intends to replace 200 traps this season. He did some research and found that building traps from a kit is much more economical than buying the finished product. One can save about $10/trap by building them as opposed to buying prefabricated lobster traps.

Cap tried to sell this idea to me by attempting to market the skill of building traps as a useful one. Honestly, I found this difficult to swallow, but Cap said something else that resonated within me. He referred to a phrase that he had heard mentioned before:

"Building traps is slow going at first, but after about 10 traps, you begin to have articulate hands and the process speeds up. Not many people have articulate hands these days."

In "Go with the Flow," I wrote of the practice required to bait traps gracefully and efficiently. Well, in my mind, this is directly related to having articulate hands. As is learning to play the violin. It took years upon years before I could place my fingers on the fingerboard without thinking about it or looking at the instrument and successfully express the notes in my head or on the sheet music. When I play the fiddle I am literally articulating notes with my hands. The meaning of this phrase isn't quite so literal when used to describe physical labor. In this case, one is articulating physical structures with one's hand motions. None the less, one is learning to effectively and eloquently express something, whether it be a sound or a lobster trap, with one's hands, just as intellectuals vie to articulate ideas with words.

My hands are constantly learning new ways to articulate. Right now they are articulating thoughts on my keyboard. Every day I learn a new way of articulating a meal, a tune, a bait iron, or a trap. My hands aspire to be capable, creative and self-sufficient. And I do well by them.

Greetings

Something I've never understood is why waving and even just acknowledging another's presence is so offensive to city folks. I know that urban life is a very different social culture than that of the fishing community in which I grew up. That there is an undercurrent of fear and distrust of strangers in a small area with so many people crammed in. That not all city-dwellers share my opinion that humans are essentially good when it comes down to it and that strangers deserve to be treated as such. Yet what is the harm in a little wave of acknowledgement? And why is a friendly "Hello" to a stranger so suspicious? One thing's for sure: I was never cut out to live in the city.

My parents used to take me to New York City for a few days in the winter when I was younger. Being the happy-go-lucky country folks that we are, my father and I used to derive great amusement from walking the sidewalks and hailing complete strangers with boisterous greetings. As we drove the streets, Daddy would do his best to wave at every car we passed just like he does back home, although this was an insurmountable task.

Waving is considered common courtesy at home. Driving down the main road that runs north and south along the Peninsula in the dead of winter, a local can recognize most passer-bys. Salutations from behind the steering wheel can range from lifting one finger in indifference to flailing both hands wildly, scaring the receiver of such an enthusiastic greeting. It is considered rude not to return a wave, regardless of its nature.

The same etiquette is true on the water. Captains tend to know every boat on the water and if one doesn't wave it is either because he knows the other cut his buoys or because he is too engrossed in untangling a snarl to acknowledge other human life at that moment. I wouldn't call my Cap an over-enthusiastic waver. A stoic, low-profile sweep of the hand is a warm greeting from Cap. I, on the other hand, lack the complicated history and, often times, knowledge of bad reputations and so I hail all crafts with a friendly wave and a smile.

If my hands are busy at work when another seafarer waves at me, I give them the nod and a smile. The nod is an abrupt upward motion of the head accentuated by the bill of one's cap. It can also be a conservative greeting when someone's "too cool" to wave. I admit that sometimes when a tourist waves at me and I don't feel in the mood to be friendly to strangers, I nod in reply. That way I am still acknowledging them, without being insincere with an artificially enthusiastic wave. The nod is a happy compromise.

Upon my return to the water this winter I noticed that the fishermen recognized my child-like stature and pony-tailed cap on the stern of Cap's boat. They had either heard rumor of me working for Cap again or recognized me, which isn't surprising since I was the only woman on the water at the time. I waved in my usual manner and in return received some very bubbly responses. These waves were different than the ones John received. I daresay they were girly waves. Not just a low-down sweep of the arm, but rapid hand gestures flexing at the wrist held above the head so that I wouldn't miss them. Once I was even greeted by a sternman, who I consider a good friend, flailing both arms wildly in the air to my slight embarassment and amusement.

Waving, in my opinion, is not just common courtesy in these parts, but a form of personal acknowledgement. Some fishermen have distinctive greetings that they only share with one another. For example, my father and a local lobsterman have a sort of nasal growl that they exchange, which apparently is an imitation of a long-deceased old timer who used to emit a similar noise.

So next time you drive or walk through New Harbor, Maine, wave. You might be surprised at who you meet and how they greet.

Down to the Shoah

The average person "from away" sees fishermen and old-timers loafing down on the wharf and probably thinks they are lazy loiterers. Little do they know that the shorefront, commonly known as "the shore" is the common grounds for the exchange of valuable knowledge. Whether it's a work day or not, one will find trucks pulled up alongside each other in the parking lot of the local boat landings with windows rolled down and often smoke dissipating out of them. Young'uns and old-timers alike convene to discuss the weather, the local fishing politics, the catch, the market, etc. This information is usually exchanged in the form of bitching, a valuable skill in the world of fishing.

My grandpa is one of the regulars down at the local fishermen's co-op. Going down to the shore to drink his morning coffee and "hob nob" with the fishermen is his daily ritual. Every day he reports the marine conditions and how many boats left the Harbor. Grandpa was never a fisherman, yet he is a local celebrity of sorts and loves to socialize. The shore is where he gathers local news and tells stories about the "good ol' days." Wherever he goes, he leaves a wake of smiles and laughter behind him.

When I first started working with Cap I was initially impatient with the ancient ritual of hob-nobbing. As an eager greenhorn, I found it idle time that could be spent working. However, I can now better appreciate "shooting the shit" as informative to both our daily and seasonal schedule. I slowly learned that Cap was gathering information during this seemingly aimless banter. He learned valuable information, not only gossip, that helped him to make decisions. And in turn he shared words of wisdom with those less experienced members of the fishing community. They sometimes go to him for advice and pointers. I imagine that this, in addition to learning from his own experience of course, is how Cap started off learning to lobster.

This is true for the gossip that takes place on the VHF radio as well. Technically, the radio is meant to be used as a mode for fishermen to communicate urgent or helpful information in a curt manner. If a long casual conversation takes place on Channel 6, it could prevent another fisherman from making an emergency call. Therefore, it is courteous and respectful to keep things brief when relaying a message on the radio. However, once in a while you'll overhear a not-so-urgent exchange regarding the market price that day or about the conditions of the catch. I learned the importance of this kind of information when I first started working with Cap. I noticed that he slowed the hauler down periodically so as to better hear the conversation taking place on the radio.

So next time you see some fishermen loitering around a truck bed, sipping their Bud Lite, and complaining about their day, don't be so quick to judge. The last thing one can call them is lazy. Although this is their leisure time after work, they aren't necessarily off duty. They are simply having a very casual conference. Their rubber boots are the polished black shoes of the fishing world. Grundens are their suits. And if you haven't noticed, they wear their work shoes all the time, whether at work or at leisure. A lobsterman never stops thinking about his work. I suppose this is one of the curses of being self-employed. Yet I can't name one of them who would trade their spot down to the shoah for even the most lucrative of office jobs.

The Hot Tank

The hot tank is a coveted accomodation on a lobster boat in the winter. For that matter, any source of heat is cherished during the winter months. On Cap's boat it is a fiberglass tank that is attached to the wheelhouse alongside the lobster tank. At the base of the tank is a coil that conducts heat released from the engine and warms water in the tank. It is one of my duties to screw in the drain plug at the base and fill it with seawater from the deck hose first thing every morning. This way the water has time to heat up as we steam out to the first buoy.

During lobstering season, the hot tank has multiple uses. It can be used to clean the "foul" off of the buoy and lines. When gear sits in the water for an extended period of time, brown stringy algae begins to grow on it. This algae makes the lines slippery and heavy. It dulls the bright colors on the buoys so that they are hard to spot. This algae grows predominantly on the upper 5 fathoms (30 ft) of line, since this is the portion of the water column that receives the most light thereby fueling algal photosynthesis. By simply dropping the line and buoy into the hot tank, the hot water will cook the algae off and have the effect of cleaning your gear.

Another purpose of the hot tank is to redeem a withered buoy. When a buoy sinks deep under water often due to another fisherman setting his traps over your line, the air in the foam condenses under the water pressure having the effect of shrivelling the buoy. This can also be fixed by throwing the buoy in the hot tank where the air bubbles within expand and the foam returns to its original smooth, rounded shape.

During shrimping season the water is so cold and the sunlight so pale that algae doesn't have a chance of growing on our gear. The principal purpose of the hot tank during shrimping is to wash our gloves off. This may sound prissy, but when you are turning greasy pogies inside out and handling pulverized herring all day, your gloves get quite greasy. Slimy gloves make it exceedingly hard to tie or untie rope and do other tasks requiring grip and dexterity.

However, the hot tank also acts as a kind of black void. It is conveniently located in the center of my daily activities, but sometimes this location isn't so desirable. Once something drops in the hot tank, there is no recovering it. I've dropped the bait iron, full bait bags, and innumerable helpless marine victims in that black hole. Luckily Cap has Neoprene cuffs on his oil coat, so he is able to reach in to rescue large items without swamping his gloves. However, when it comes to critters, there is no hope of survival. When Cap pops open the door to empty the shrimp trap, sometimes a pathetic shrimp that was caught on the trap door plops into the hot tank. Fish have landed there, not to be seen again until I drain the hot tank at the end of the day. By then they are boiled to smithereens.

At the end the day towards the beginning of the season I thought I was going crazy because I kept whiffing the tempting yet sickeningly greasy smell of fried fish. The thought crossed my mind that maybe the wind was wafting the smell of Shaw's fried seafood our way. But then I realized that Shaw's wouldn't be open for another few months and that the wind was coming from the wrong direction. I traced the smell to the hot tank and realized the cause. I had been washing fish particles off of my gloves all day and they had accumulated in the hot tank and cooked. It was the hot tank that smelled of cooked fish!

Sometimes it's interesting to observe the

colors that different critters turn when they are cooked in the hot tank. For instance, there is a peculiar shrimp that is spiky and striped (picture at top of photo). Unfortunately I don't know the common name for it. When it is alive it is clear with brown stripes. However, when the hot tank's through with it, the shrimp looks like a candy cane: white with red stripes! I find this fascinating.

Inspired Chaos

My kitchen is a seafood processing plant tonight. One very time-consuming, messy, yet genius recipe is the cause of such chaos. That recipe is for lobster-shrimp cakes. Cap and I both spotted the dish on channel 6's program "207" a few weeks ago. Rodger Griswald and a chef somehow condensed this recipe into 10 minutes. Isn't it outrageous how they can do that on TV?

I cooked this for my date last night and got such a sweet kiss in return that I set my mind to freezing more lobster and shrimp for another meal down the road! It was a little less overwhelming when I froze the seafood beforehand and then had it all ready to go for this dish. Today we caught a few more lobsters in some ghost traps that we brought ashore. Cap offered them to me and I gladly took them with visions of eating lobster-shrimp cakes some day this summer when shrimping is but a hazy memory (that'll be the day!). And of course we caught plenty of shrimp, so I swiped a few handfuls to take home.

The recipe for "Cal Hancock's Maine Lobster and Shrimp Cakes" can be viewed at the following address:

www.wcsh6.com/life/programming/local/207/recipes/story.aspx?storyid=114722&catid=140

Vital Essence

Today Cap made an interesting observation about the shrimp we were catching. All season, when we dump shrimp out of the traps, their eyes are aglow with an orange luminescence. It looks like if you turned the lights off that they would glow in the dark (and maybe they do underwater!). Today however, Cap noticed that only roughly half of the shrimp had glowing eyes. He commented that he'd heard of this phenomenon marking the end of the season: that their eyes glow less just before they head south. There are many tales in fishing and it's difficult to know which ones are true until you witness them. Sure enough, the shrimp are losing their glow.

I jokingly replied, once I'd turned this idea over in my mind looking for a biological explanation, "Well, they say that women "glow" when they are pregnant. Maybe the shrimp lose their glow after they drop their eggs!" I drew a parallel in my mind between women giving birth and shrimp "dropping their eggs" (essentially giving birth to their eggs).

I hope my comparing women to marine crustaceans isn't an offensive thought. I've been known to do make this connection before. One can often tell when a lobster is a "seeder" or an egg-bearing female by looking at her tail alone. A wide tail means that a female has held eggs before. Of course this isn't enforced by law. By stringent regulation, the second tail flipper from the right must be notched if a fisherman sees eggs on her, thereby protecting her from being sold at the dock. But none-the-less a wide tail is a telltale indication of a seeder. In my mind, this is comparable to a woman's hips widening after she gives birth.

I make these analogies neither to demean womankind as mere "egg-bearers" nor to personify marine critters, but simply to support my belief that all forms of life have similarities. I wonder if the "glow" of a pregnant woman is a sign of a spirit, a vital essence, taking hold of a small body within her? Who's to say that shrimp don't also glow when they give life to many little eggs? Perhaps humans and shrimp aren't so far removed after all.

Go with the Flow

As someone who enjoys dancing, I am always thinking about how I can move more efficiently and in a way that is healthy for my body. When you work on a surface that is in perpetual motion, such as the deck of a boat, it is important to be aware of how you're moving. This, in my opinion, isn't a capacity that can be taught in a classroom setting like Pilates or Thai Chi. It is a way of moving and holding oneself that can only be learned from experience at sea.

When I first started working on boats, I was clumsy and awkward. I tired easily since I was investing so much energy in fighting the motion of the boat and trying to stay upright. When a person is uncomfortable on a boat, all of the muscles in their body seize up in tension in an attempt to remain static and to hold onto things. I still feel this happen on really rough days when it is hard to stay standing.

I soon figured out how to stand on a boat. A person can stand comfortably even in rough seas with bent knees and a wide stance that is oriented diagonally in relation to the fore-aft axis of the boat. This enables you to stand independently on deck without grasping onto things to stay upright. That way, your hands are freed to work. Bending your knees and lowering your center of weight alone helps this cause.

Next I learned how to move with the motion of the boat instead of fighting it. By tuning into the feeling of the waves, whether it is an infrequent and rolling swell or an abrupt chop, one can predict the motion of the boat and move accordingly. I don't think I can describe this phenomenon in words any better than that.

Dolphin is an animal symbol that helped me learn to be comfortable on rough seas. My father gave me a necklace with a dolphin pendant that I wear on stormy days. It helps remind me to breathe, go with the flow (move with the motion of the boat), and to think of big waves as adventurous instead of scary.

Working on a boat requires much awareness of movement not only to conserve energy, but also to save time. It takes much experience, believe it or not, to bait a trap quickly, which is essential to hauling enough traps in order to fetch a decent catch. I've watched fishermen bait a trap with such grace and technique that you would swear they'd taken ballet as a child!

Spring Fever

What a glorious day. We weren't out hauling since we ran out of bait and it seems that anything less than 3 nights' set isn't really worth hauling (when they still have bait left). Yesterday was one of those days that I am glad to be working on a boat. It felt like summer fishing. The boys were bitching on the radio about how few shrimp there were on 1 or 2 nights' set. We were hauling traps that had been sitting for 3 nights and had nothing to complain about. Our second best catch actually. The shrimp are still trapping, but they should be headed south soon.

Yesterday morning as we loaded the skiff up with bait, an excited quacking across the Cove stole my attention. I saw a male mallard on the shore quacking loudly and persistently. I commented to Cap that it sounded like someone was laying an egg, but I think it was probably really a male trying to find a date.

We rode out to the mooring after that and as I was donning my oil gear and gazing dreamily (half asleep) out the Cove, I noticed something flopping around in the water between some boats. I watched it for a while an realized that it was a baby seal swimming around! I saw it's smooth black head followed by a rounded shiny back. It dove before I had the chance to point it out to Cap. Mating rituals and babies are everywhere!

Funny story. I was strolling down to the bait cooler today to set up the wood chippah while I waited for Cap. There were 3 trucks pulled up side by side in the parking lot having a Sunday morning toke at the shore. As I left my car I waved to them. In response I got blasted by the chorus of some heavy metal song about a pretty girl dancing (at least that's what I could decipher from the screaming). I got a kick out of this. I guess my blue rubber gloves smeared in pogie guts and my rubber boots did it for them. I think the boys have spring fever. Aaaahh, Maine. . .

I've been feeling a little frisky myself lately, in the midst of a budding romance. I don't suppose it's a shock to you that the subject of my affection is a sailor and a former lobsterman. Any man of mine has to be rugged so he can keep up with me! Those who work on the water year 'round display a hardiness that is unmatched in any other profession, in my opinion. But more than that, the Ocean is clearly very close to my heart and I feel a connection with others who are able to value it's power and beauty. It is especially important for me to share this appreciation of the sea with a significant other. Spring fever seems to have possessed everyone!

From Smith to Sternlady

My mom says she's gonna write a book someday and call it "From Smith to Sternlady." I think it's kind of an ironic title, because you would think that it would be the opposite. I never thought I would find myself pawing through bait all day again after graduating cum laude from Smith College. And yet there is something incredibly empowering about both of these experiences. At Smith I was immersed in radical feminism for four years. On the boat I am immersed in masculine fishing culture every day. Completely different experiences on opposite ends of the gender spectrum, yet they both make me proud to be a woman.

Sometimes I think that I was drawn to Smith because it is so different from the community in which I was raised. It is the most diverse environment that I've ever experienced. Smith represents a broad range of race, sexual orientation, and political views. And the best part about it is that no one is afraid to voice their opinions, even if they don't agree on a topic. I learned a ton from my experience immersed in such a diverse culture.

When I talk about Smith to locals around here they often have an unfavorable reaction to their ideas of the college. They think of it as a freefrawl of radical, man-hating, gay, self-righteous feminists. While Smith is no doubt an extreme example of feminism, it is difficult for me to explain that not all feminists are angry bitches who despise men. I consider myself a feminist, yet I don't hate men and I don't consider myself an angry woman. In my opinion, feminism is the belief that men and women are equals and should be treated as such.

I am aware of being a female at some point every day on the boat. I am empowered by the fact that I am physically and mentally capable of performing this work. I realize that I still have physical limitations. For example, I am not able to lift the same weight as my ex-boyfriend, a shrimp dragger who is twice my weight and, probably, twice my muscle mass. However, I do work to the absolute best of my ability and this is satisfying. After the first summer that I lobstered, my father told me that he was convinced that I could do anything that I set my mind to and he's right. It's all in the mind. If you think you can, then you can.

A fisherman told me that I'm the only woman that he knows of on the peninsula who's shrimping. I'm strangely aware of that when I'm in the harbors with other fishermen around. Yet, on the boat with Cap, I often forget that I'm female. I guess that's because we treat eachother as equals, regardless of gender. This, in my opinion, is how it should be.

Local Color

When I refer to shrimp trays, I'm simply talking about fish trays with holes drilled in all four corners so that they will hold shrimp and drain water, therefore yielding the weight of the shrimp alone (although we wish we could get paid for the weight of the water too!). The trays that we use are owned by the company dock where we sell our shrimp. They are so to speak "communal trays." We trade full trays for empty trays at the end of each day. Although the trays are generally black, green or some shade of blue, the colors range the entire spectrum of the rainbow. One day we came upon a blinding chartreuse tray that Cap described as a "designer shrimp tray." I thought that was cute. It brightened up my dull, cloudy, grey day. Unfortunately we haven't seen it since. Probably some old man's using it for a foot rest in front of his recliner at home. This week we got a pink tray that I don't think should be used for shrimp, because this particular shade of magenta clashed horribly with the bright red shrimp. I know. . . I'm such a girl!

Where I'm going with this is that the trays have passed through many hands by the time they make it aboard Cap's boat. I am often intrigued by the tags that I find on them for different kinds of fish from exotic places like Alaska and Canada (exotic to a Mainer, that is). Sometimes I can tell by their smell alone what they were used for. . . yuck! Some of them appear to have been holding dirt and lead me to wonder what was being grown in them . . . Other paper tags read boat names and captains. Today I came across the boat name "Miss Conception." At first I thought "How clever!" Then I got to thinking about it and wondered what the captain meant after all. Is it named after a woman who conceived a lot. . . or was the captain somehow misconceived his ideas of having his own boat?

This funny name got me thinking today about local color and how it is represented by boat names. There are some clever ones out there ("Miss Behavin'," "Master Baiter," "Somethin' Else"), some lovely names ("Red Lady," "Breezy Dawn," "Hallelujah"), some very macho ones ("Silver Bullet," "Full Tilt," "The Chain,") and some proud names ("Liberty," "Tradition," "R 2 Sons") as well as countless boats named after women and children. These boats are the pride and joy of the captains of our humble fishing community. The boats are pampered and loved almost as much as their owner's wives and children are, sometimes more. Therefore, their names represent a form of identity for the captains. When I hear a boat hailed on the VHF radio I often contemplate the meaning of the name to the captain. What would I name a boat if I had one . . . ? I'm kinda partial to "Miss Fit."

New Harbor, Maine might not be rich in ethnic diversity, but we have plenty of local color. Looking out from the shore towards the open ocean at any time of year one can't help but notice the neon ornaments dotting the water's surface like a brightly decorated Christmas tree. To tourists the buoys just make a pretty picture, but I look at them and associate the different colored bands with specific fishermen. Those buoys represent the hard-working folks of our community and many different life stories. They represent struggle and friendship. They represent the community that is my home. They mark something deeper than what just appears at the surface.

Silence

Cap and I are both serious, quiet, intent workers. We rarely chit chat, but when we do it is either first thing in the morning before we even board the boat, on the steam out, or after we step on land at the end of the day. Our work requires a lot of focus for a few reasons.

One reason is that we have to work as fast as we can to haul the traps and bring the shrimp to the dock before 3pm. This is a purely logistical motivation to focus and keep crankin' as hard as possible.

Another reason to stay focused is that it's practical on a boat; we have to be aware of our surroundings constantly all day for safety reasons. If I step carelessly when the line is screaming over the rail as Cap accelerates while setting traps, line and buoy, my foot could easily be caught and I would be gone in a flash. Not a pretty thought. When were lobstering, we were fishing in 80 fathom (480 feet) of water. Shrimping takes place much closer to shore and we fish in much shallower water, generally around 20-30 fathom (120-180 feet). But it only takes 6 feet of water (or less!) for a person to drown. My father forces me to wear a sharp knife in a sheath on the strap of my oil pants for the sole purpose of cutting myself loose if I go overboard, tangled in a line. The reality is that I probably wouldn't have a chance if this happened this time of year. I am fairly good at keeping my wits about me and I'm a good swimmer, but even if I was able to cut myself loose right away, I would probably be hypothermic by the time I was able to swim to the surface in 40 degree seawater. It is possibly the scariest scenario to be in on a boat and it could happen in one careless step.

Anyway, the whole point of that tangent is that we have to be intently focused all the time on what we're doing. Some fishermen crank country tunes on their radio all day while they work. I don't know how they do it. I would be hopelessly distracted by the temptation to sing along.

Cap and I, on the other hand, work in silence. Well, that is if you call the growl of diesel engine and the blaring exchange of fishermen on the VHF radio "silence." It is the closest to silence that you can get on a lobster boat, unless the boat is turned off at the mooring. We work silently, but that isn't to say that we don't communicate. Working with Cap I have learned that communication doesn't have to be verbal. Handing me two ends of rope means: "Tie these together." He doesn't need to tell me how or why. I already know. When I position the shrimp tray under the trap door it means: "I'm ready to dump the shrimp." No verbal cue is necessary. We are tuned into eachother's movements and thoughts. It isn't all that surprising when once in a while Cap makes a comment observing something that I was thinking about at that moment or vice versa. I sense when he is frustrated or worried and he knows when I'm stressed. By sensing eachother's emotions, we are aware of when the other person needs a helping hand and drop whatever we're doing to help eachother out. It isn't a tense silence nor is it awkward. It simply is. We may work without words, but we work in unison.

The North Wind

I had a bad feeling about today from the start. I woke up hearing the wind howling and feeling the big barn that I live in shaking like an earthquake. I checked the GOMOOS weather report online first thing (4:30 am) to learn that at the nearest weather buoy (Buoy E) it was blowing 25 mph, gusting to 30, and that there was a gale warning in effect. I called Cap to confirm that we were indeed going out. He said he'd like to "go take a look at it." I've learned the hard way that this means we're going out to haul.

On the drive down to Back Cove I took note of whose truck was at their dock and which boats had left New Harbor. Four other boats were out: some of the hardcore fishermen. I found this to be a consolation: at least we weren't the only crazy ones. I later learned that all of those boats had turned around first thing and returned to the mooring.

We rendezvous-ed in the Cove at our usual hour (6 am) and unloaded bait by the footbridge. Cap fetched the skiff and we piled 'er high with 5 trays of bait. The water was surging from the waves and as we went to push the skiff off of the shore, it seemed to be stuck on a rock. We heaved and hoed, to no avail. That is when my bad day really began. I flooded my boots right off. My Carharts were drenched. Luckily, I had a few long johns on and spare socks, so I was all set once I changed.

So the crappy day began. Cap's hat blew off and landed in the water (he snagged it with the gaff, but it was soaked). A huge wave curled off of the hull and splashed right in Caps face when he was leaning over the rail to gaff a buoy, drenching him, which especially sucks if you wear glasses. We encountered snarl after snarl of our lines entangled with other buoys. The bridle end of one trap collapsed under the pressure of a line squeezing the trap against the hull when it was in the hauler with three other traps hanging off it (not ours).

I could barely even do anything on deck without falling over. I literally fell flat on my ass as one wave threw us. I waited until the buoy was in the hauler until I attempted to maneuver any trays. I had to either brace myself or sit down to bait the irons. I must have had a scowl just about as ugly as that "scaregull" at the South Bristol co-op when Cap said:

"Well, we got through the first 10 pair. It's time to make a decision."

I replied: "I can't say I'm having much fun, but the forecast did say that it's supposed to drop out this afternoon. It can only get better from here, right?"

We called the dock and they were buying shrimp, so we decided to stick it out for another 15 pair and head in. By the time we got through those, the wind deceived us into thinking that it was relenting, so we pushed on through yet another 10 pair. Unfortunately, we were headed south along that string and therefore, moving away from land to where we were more exposed to the north wind. The conditions remained about the same until we were through. I was exhausted by the time we got done hauling. It was all I could do to muster the energy to clean the boat and sort shrimp, never mind prepare bait for tomorrow on the ride home. Working on rough seas takes a lot out of you.

Unfortunately, my mood and energy level seem to be dictated by the weather these days. When you work on the water, a good day is glorious, but when the weather is bad, you wonder if you're gonna make it through the day. Today was about our maximum threshold of wind velocity that was barely workable.

To most women in modern day and age, a "bad day" means that their hair is flat or they have cramps. For me, a bad work day means that I can barely stand up on deck all day. But the reality of it is that I probably wouldn't be able to stand up if I had an office job either: I'm terrible at walking in heels! On days like this I question my occupation, but when I consider the alternatives, I realize that maybe I'm doing right what I'm supposed to be doing after all.

Ghosts Up Above

Well it turned out that our "ghosts down under" were very much up above after all. Unfortunately, these ghosts seem to be in human form. The only time that our traps in a specific area aren't shacked (doors opened and bait bags missing) is after a spell of bad weather, when no one has been out fishing for a while. For example, last Saturday when we were among the few boats out hauling, there was no evidence what-so-ever of etherial activity.

Yesterday we discovered once again that traps had been tampered with in the same area. Two more fishermen approached us, sharing our grievances. Hauling empty traps is depressing and frustrating. The guys suspect they know who it is, but there is no way of proving it unless someone sees them in the act. Cap said "shacking shrimp traps is about as low as you can get." It's true. For 44 cents a pound, you're not exactly getting ahead by stealing 20 pounds of shrimp here and there.

Fishing is a very political business. I'm not just talking about legislative politics and the endless battle between scientists, policy-makers, and fishermen. There is a whole political side to the market alone. But local politics are perhaps the most immediately threatening and can become quite heated, brewing grudges and resentment that sometimes lasts for generations.

Turning of the Tide

Yesterday, Cap and I jumped on the boat bushy-tailed and ready to go. It was a nice day out. The water was calm and the horizon was dotted with boats who were also taking advantage of the good weather. We began to haul and were soon in the groove of things. The catch was still plentiful and the shrimp were translucent, lively, and pale pink (a sign that they are not stressed out as opposed to the bright red that they turn when they are in survival mode). Cap and I were feeling hopeful and made plans to haul an "extra" string of traps that had only set for one night and that we normally wouldn't haul until tomorrow. We even heard rumor on the radio that the dragged price increased by 4 cents! Things were looking good.

Then around mid-day, everything began to change. It's amazing how fast a nice day can take a turn when you are on the ocean. The north wind began to pick up, the waves became increasingly choppy, and the prevailing easterly current started ripping. Trays slid around on deck, defying any semblence of order. A rouge wave slapped the hull hard and almost knocked me over while I was watering shrimp to refresh them. Cap and I became less ambitious by the moment about hauling that extra string. The focus of the afternoon shifted to surviving the day and getting through the original plan instead of maximizing our catch.

I overheard a conversation on the radio:

"You on this one, Bob?" (Meaning: "Are you listening to Channel 6?")

"Go ahead."

"Which way's the Tide runnin'?"

"Comin' from the eastard, Bill."

"Comin' on, ain't it."

"Ayuh, that's right."

This is a common exchange between fishermen that occurs on the VHF radio several times a day. The Tide is not referring to the lunar tide. Rather, it is a term used to describe the prevailing ocean current in a locality. I have only recently learned about the tide, so I will summarize what I've learned from Cap, but my knowledge is limited.

The tide generally originates offshore (easterly) and runs toward land. However, the prevailing currents vary drastically in space and time. At one moment the tide may be running NE in one area and SW a mile south. In a given area over the course of the day, the tide might swing right around and flow in the opposite direction.

For this reason, the fishermen are often checking in with eachother with regard to what the tide is doing in an area. Setting ones’ traps in the right direction in relation to the tide is both an act of courtesy to fishermen with nearby buoys as well as a means of preventing frustration when those traps are next hauled. If a trap is set sloppily, a snarl with surrounding lines could ensue, which is an unpleasant mess for all parties involved.

Cap sets traps "against the tide,” meaning the boat is moving in the opposite direction as the current when the traps, line and the buoy are pushed overboard. Ideally, the pathway of the boat while setting will be well clear of surrounding buoys and the buoy that is set will drift straight back, so that it won’t become entangled with another fishermen’s buoy. Setting traps correctly is a way to maintain good relations with your neighbors, but is not as easy as it sounds.

When the fisherman said "Comin' on, ain't it?" in the exchange that I mentioned before, he meant that the tide was increasing in velocity. A strong tide has a few implications for hauling traps. First of all, it makes setting traps more challenging. Shrimp traps especially, just due to the big wooden trough in the middle of the trap, which catches the current, will drift as they are set and can drift quite far with a strong tide. I could tell that Cap was finding it challenging to set the traps where he wanted them to sit.

All in all we did alright. Many of the boats headed in before us due to the snotty weather. But we hung in there and arrived at the dock tired, but with a good catch. Another day done.

The Art of Observation

Today we hauled a pair of traps that dripped black, smelly mud from the runners as they sat on the rail. I noticed it and commented: "Oh, there's the black mud again." Cap replied with a shade of surprise in his voice: "Yep! You know where we are!" There is just one location in all of our 75 pair of traps where this black mud occurs. It is smelly because the anaerobic (living in the absence of oxygen) bacteria that thrive there produce hydrogen sulfide, which is also responsible for sewers and mudflats smelling the way they do. I notice it every time we come to that location, even though I couldn't begin pinpoint where on the chart we are between Haddock Island and Pemaquid Point (a five mile stretch). It is simply by observing the smell, texture and color of that mud that I know it is the same spot.

After that simple exchange today, I got to thinking about how prevalent observation is in fishing. Observation is essentially being aware of one's environment, which is crucial to being a successful fisherman. A captain has to continually be on his toes. (S)He must be aware of where buoys are in relation to the propellor, notice which areas are fishing better, observe what kind of bait is more effective at drawing shrimp, etc.

Anyone who thinks that fishermen are knuckleheads is mistaken. Well, I guess some of them are. Some of them can make a day's pay simply from brute force: tearing through traps and profiting solely on quantity. But the individuals who are good at fishing, good at the game I mean, are keen strategists.

Observation is the first step in the scientific method (observe a phenomenon, design an experiment that isolates it, form a hypothesis, and test the hypothesis). In my opinion a good fisherman is a scientist. (S)He is repeatedly observing a variable and conjecturing that it might influence the catch, devising a way to distinguish this variable, and testing it.

This manner of experimenting has led us to use pogies in addition to ground herring. We started out only using herring and observed that all the other fishermen were swearing by pogies. We tested pogies out by baiting only the northernmost pair on each string of traps with a pogie included. Sure enough, once those girl shrimp started getting hungry, they were really digging the pogies. This is just one example of the many observations of varying factors and experiments that has occured on Cap's boat this season.

Even though fishermen may not be formally testing their hypotheses, they are continually performing some loose version of the scientific method in order to improve the quality of fishing. They do not claim to be scientists, but the art of observation is a powerful tool in fishing and shouldn't be underestimated.

Bait Mongers

Lately I've been noticing the gulls more than ever. It has been hard not to notice them this week.

It's common for there to be 20-30 gulls off of our stern, flying along behind us when we steam between buoys, riding the waves as we haul, and then flocking to the old bait that we toss back as if it is filet mignon. Their high-pitched calls are background noise, blending right in with the roar of diesel and the splash of the waves. They are seen as a nuisance to most fishermen. I've grown to find them entertaining and I enjoy their company.

During the four days of raging seas last week (Wed.-Sat.) the harbors lay practically dormant and only the bravest of the fishermen were out shrimping. The gulls didn't have any bait scraps to scavenge for days. When we were out on Saturday, the gulls acted famished. It was like a scene straight out of Hitchcock's "The Birds." As many as 50-60 gulls were hot on our trail, quick to plunge for even the smallest of herring fragments. Their excited calls were elevated to shrieks and they fought bitterly for any food.

I was surprised at how desperate they acted and found amusement in feeding them at first. However, this soon proved to be a mistake. They quickly became more brazen, sitting on the transom and eyeing our shrimp. One even snatched a shrimp right from an uncovered tray when our backs were turned! I couldn't believe it. Immediately after I finished spraying the mud off of a tray full of shrimp, a gull flew overhead, dispensing a generous stream of shit on my clean shrimp. He's lucky it didn't land on me instead. That was it. I started waving my arms at them and yelling to keep them off of the stern. Cap probably thought that I had finally lost it.

When I told my father he said: "There's only one thing to do about that." He's a former fisherman himself. "I'm not shooting them, Daddy!" "It only takes one to keep them away." This is a common practice at wharves. If the gulls become a nuisance, they'll shoot one and hang it by the feet to keep the others away. Apparently it's quite effective. However, I think my favorite gull scarecrow is at the South Bristol Co-op dock. Atop the mast supporting the boom and hoist sits a very nasty looking plastic fisherman's head. He has some grimace on that salty countenance of his. This seems to be just as effective as a dead gull. I don't blame them; I wouldn't want to mess with that bastard either!