Keepin' it Local

Lately, I have been in a retrospective mindset. I've been thinking about my past experiences and what I gained from them. I've also been pondering what all of these diverse adventures are leading to. In other words, if I have a path, then what place do all of those jobs have in that path? What does it all mean?!

Today was a typical day in Cap's workshop. Were were intently building traps and listening to WERU, a local, liberal community-based radio station. Raj Patel was speaking about "The Art of Democracy" and had some interesting points to make in his thick Brittish accent. It was when he was talking about the "tragedy of the commons" theory that I realized the theme of my experiences. What do deforestation in the community of Igarape-Acu, Alto Moju, Brazil and lobstering in Pemaquid, Maine, USA have in common? Community resource management! How about boatbuilding and oyster aquaculture? I think you get my drift. . .

My interests throughout my academic and working career have flip-flopped between forestry and fisheries for years now. I attributed the the commonality between these disciplines being their scientific basis, therefore explaining my interest in them. This is certainly true, but it goes deeper than that. What really fires me up is seeing how community members cooperate and compete as they harvest the natural resources on which they are economically dependent. I am also intrigued by how the community manipulates the market to which it sells resources. These are prominent themes in both forestry and fisheries.

I am also growing increasingly aware of how important it is for communities to turn to local markets and not depend on large-scale distributors. Keeping resources in local circulation is economically and environmentally more sustainable. It is more economically efficient, since it decreases the number of "middlemen" that a product passes through before reaching the consumer. It cuts down on resources that are required to transport the product (such as gas or diesel) far away. And it facilitates social/economic networking within the community, building a web of interdependence closer to home that is potentially more dependable than being subject to the peaks and plummets of the greater economy.

These are some of the motivations behind my dream to facilitate building a local market for our seafood. There is one excellent example of this right here on the Damariscotta River. There are 5 or 6 oyster aquaculture companies on the River, most of which sell their oysters to large-scale distributors or to big seafood restaurants in far-away cities. They are able to sell large quantities this way, but receive a lower profit, since the product is passing through many hands along the way. Pemaquid Oyster Co., on the other hand, does most of their marketing locally. They sell their oysters to local restaurants and stores. It is more work to interact directly with business owners and deliver their oysters to multiple locations, however they are able to fetch a better price for their product.

Some day I would like to enact this concept with multiple fisheries on the Peninsula, perhaps even creating a local market for some seafood, such as spider crabs. However, my dream is still in the making. It's important to have patience with big dreams.

A Surprise Visit

Today I was filling bait bags and merrily singing country tunes to myself. This is a common past time since we don't listen to any music while we work. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something falling to the deck from above. It was as sudden a descent as a wet leaf falling from a tree on a stormy day. At first I thought that perhaps it was indeed a leaf. But then I remembered where we were: 10 miles off shore on the ocean! The only time that anything falls from the sky out there is if it's raining or snowing.

When I looked down to see what it was I was surprised to discover a wee goldfinch. He was a sweet little fellah, hopping around the deck pecking curiously at seaweed and barnacles that fell from the traps. He was a bit scruffy looking, as if he had been on a long journey (perhaps migrating from thousands of miles away) and looked fatigued. I promptly named him Herb.

I watched Herb closely as he jumped inside and around the traps, clearly unphased by us humans. He didn't even seem to notice when I set more traps in the stern right next to the one he sat in! I was appalled by his confidence. Herb brazenly approached us a few times. He hopped along the rail directly behind me a few times. He even stood right next to Cap at one point. I warned Cap to watch his step as he lunged for a buoy with Herb right under him. But Herb promptly flew away and escaped through Cap's window.

Herb stuck around with us for as long as five hours or so. He somehow strayed from us at one point and I looked back to see him flying in the typical goldfinch flight pattern of fast wing beating punctuated by soaring. He was flying furiously trying to catch up with the boat. I watched him for a while curious about whether he'd make it. To my horror, a gull swooped down and barely missed him. Herb swerved slickly away from the gull and continued his frantic flight. A few more narrow escapes later he finally reached the boat and once again plummeted to the deck.

I thought that perhaps Herb was hungry and offered him a few bites of my sandwich, placing them in strategic places where he might feel comfortable dining. But he wasn't in the least bit interested in human food. He much preferred to nibble on marine debris.

At the end of the day when we were steaming home, Herb perched in the wheelhouse, perhaps to stay out of the wind. I went up forward to get some nourishment and I startled him at first. But then he just sat there maybe a foot away from me. I reached my hand out to see if he'd hop into it, since he seemed trusting enough to do so. He thought about it. His beady black eyes darted between me and his surroundings, assessing the situation. But he thought the better of it.

He stayed with us until we got close to shore and then he just disappeared as quickly as he had showed up. It's as if he knew that we were landward bound from the minute he set his scrawny little bird feet on deck. He clearly associated us with safety, knowing that the gulls wouldn't harass him on board. He had hitchhiked a ride to land! Just another summer visitor safely arriving to the lovely Maine coast after a long journey.

Summer's a Comin'

After a long month of trap building, Cap and I finally returned to work on the water today. There's a lot to catch up on with 400 traps that have been setting while Cap went on a wild goose chase to get his boat computer repaired. Today was a good start.

We began by setting 40 traps in the Bay. Rumors of shedders have been flying around town lately, so Cap is beginning to think about shifting his traps shoreward. This is the time of year when the lobsters are migrating toward shore as the water temperature warms up to molt and reproduce. The peak of shedder season is usually in July. It's early yet, but there might be a few molts out there.

I could tell that Cap was disgusted with the idea of moving closer to shore. Summer fishing isn't his favorite. During the summer, there are more fishermen and a more restricted area (in shallow waters) in which to catch lobsters. That's a recipe for over-crowded fishing. Traps are closer together, so there are lots of snarls. And boat traffic is heavier close to shore, so there's a higher chance of buoys being cut off by propellers. It's a frustrating season.

Cap is also a thinker. He enjoys the strategizing component of fishing. Summer is the season when any idiot can catch a lobster. All you have to do is throw a trap off the rocks and there you have your dinner. The fall is a more challenging and lucrative time of year. Fall fishing is the game that Cap likes to play.

Personally, I don't mind summer fishing one bit. See thinking isn't exactly in my job description. Not to imply that sternmen are stupid by any means. But my job simply isn't to strategize where to set traps and when to shift them. That's Cap's job. My responsibilities are: bait management, measuring and banding lobsters, trap handling, rope coiling, etc. If it's grunt work, I do it. I perform the same tasks whether we're 20 miles or 20 feet off shore. The only difference is that when we're 20 miles off shore there's nothing to look at except very small islands in the distance. Summer fishing is more enjoyable for me because there's nice scenery to look at all day. We fish in and around the islands outside of Round Pond. There are summer mansions and yachts to oogle at. I marvel at the extravagance of summer people partly out of fascination and partly out of disgust. They marvel at our simplicity.

I also indulge in the simple summery pleasures that accompany summer fishing. Smelling Rosa rigosa in the westerly breeze as it drifts from the shore. Seeing great blue herons, harbor porpoise, seals, and various fish jumping. Feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin. Hearing . . . people! Human life nearby! Work on the water isn't nearly as solitary in the summer months as is off shore fishing. Suddenly fishing doesn't seem so impossibly hard anymore.

Raising the Roof

Lately, Cap's home has been abustle with activity. Besides the trap factory in the workshop and sprawling into his driveway, they have had a local roofing crew replacing the asphault shingles on his house. As you can imagine, this has stirred up the entire household. The cat and dog are all worked up, having to bear nailguns pounding their roof all day. Mrs. Cap is equally as upset with her flower gardens being trampled and peppered with asphault shards. In my opinion, it's nice to have fellow hard workers keeping us company and maintaining our drive. They do good work and they're some of the friendliest fellahs I ever did meet. And they keep things interesting.

Cap is friends with the head roofer and the crew stops by to visit with us frequently, their round, mahogany beer bellies dripping with sweat from the sudden heat wave. I was a bit surprised by their display of skin initially, but now I don't mind at all. With so many half-naked men around I sometimes feel overdressed in a tank top and shorts!

The roofing crew certainly is rich in character. Confession #52: Just a few weeks ago I entertained the wild idea of getting a tattoo for my 25th birthday this fall. I came up with a design of a ginko leaf to ink on my back. To my mother's relief, this far-fetched fantasy was easily cured when I spotted a rather conspicuous tat on one of the roofers. I haven't even been able to look long enough to distinguish what it is a tattoo of out of embarrassment (and it takes a lot to embarrass me). You see, this fellah has a tat right on his ass crack, part of his anatomy that is often visible, unfortunately. I've been considering an alternative plan to celebrate a quarter century of life ever since.

One of the vehicles that fills up Cap's driveway these days has a bumper sticker that I haven't seen before. It's unique alright. It reads: "My other toy has tits." I certainly hope that his wife is flattered by her husband's statement, but somehow I don't think I would be. I haven't met her yet to ask her, but I'll know who she is when I see a sports car bumper reading "My other toy has balls!"

Tomorrow morning the work will resume, pounding on roof and trap alike at the noisiest house in the neighborhood. I swear the neighbors must have had it with us by now. At least we play some good radio tunes for them!

An Ode to Armchairs

Furniture is a commodity that doesn't go unappreciated in rural Maine. There are few luxuries in which middle class Mainers will indulge. Beer and recliners are two of them. An especially important living room furnishing is the overstuffed armchair. This is a part of the household that is valued perhaps even more than the toilet; it's a necessity. It isn't uncommon for folks to fall asleep in their armchair while watching the Sox game late at night, so it has to be comfortable. When pops is out working during the day, the dog is quick to take the opportunity to snatch up the comfort of his cushy seat.

As long as I've been alive and visiting my grandparents, I've known to sit on the couch and not in either Grandma's or Grandpa's armchairs. The two armchairs sit across the room from each other and my grandparents would sit in them like royal thrones overseeing the rest of the house and with a good view of the TV. In later years, when my grandparents became wealthier from being in the tourism business, Grandpa upgraded to a leather recliner. He rarely budged from it, so it must have been comfy. My grandmother actually took her last breath in that recliner last November. I know that she passed in comfort.

. . .

When an old couch or chair has been peed on by the cat one too many times or pops has ground cheese doodles into the upholstry to the point where the seat is orange, the trusty old armchair isn't taken to the dump. Someone else might snatch it up there! No, instead it is simply relocated to the backyard. There was an older fellow on Route 32 who used to spend his days planted in his recliner in the front yard, beer in hand, watching the trucks speed by, and waving to his neighbors and friends. I can think of worse ways to spend my time.

In Cap's case, his old armchair was moved into the workshop. In the afternoon, the sun shines in through the garage door and that armchair is a very pleasing place to sit and meditate on life. When Cap or I need a break from trap building or what-have-you, we "take a kink" in the worn recliner. It's pretty hard to get out of it once you're in. I think it's a brilliant addition to the power tools and trap materials. Every workshop should have one.

We even have an armchair altar here on the Peninsula! If you

are boating through The Gut in South Bristol you will encounter an unusual marker for the ledge just south of Witch Island. There is a teddy bear reclining sleepily in an armchair atop a pole on the ledge. I still don't know the story behind this local landmark, but I know it was placed there by a lobsterman as a joke of some kind. Or maybe he just figured he was done with it and didn't have a backyard to move it into. . . why not just stick it on the ledge? Ya never know around here.

(Photo by Mark Carl, 8/1/08, http://makarl.wordpress.com/2008/08/01/kayak-trip-to-south-bristol-maine/)

"She's Gone Country"

Confession #50: I like country music almost as much as I like green Toyota Tacomas.

Whether it be the old favorites such as Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash or the new pop stars like Brad Paisley and Kenny Chesney, I love them all.

The truth is I'm an unusual mix between hippy and hick as far as culture goes. I'd be just as blissful country line dancing to French-Canadian fiddle tunes as I would be to contra dance to Tim McGraw. I wear rubber boots and kneeless jeans, yet I drink water from a mason jar all day. The fishermen find my mason jar a bit peculiar. They cock their head and ask if I'm drinking moonshine. I don't know how many times I've been asked that question down to the shoah. Yesterday I was over at a very granola boatbuilding school and commented to my friend how nice it is to be in a place where drinking from a mason jar is the norm. I explained how I like to drink from jars both to avoid toxin-releasing plastic containers as well as to keep my drink covered so that hogrings don't jump into it while I'm working. He replied that he didn't know what hogrings were, but he wouldn't want them in his drink either!

I've always enjoyed the country classics, but haven't always been a fan of modern country. I have an ex-boyfriend, a lobsterman none-the-less, to thank for this conversion. Modern country wasn't my music of choice when "Lars" and I started dating. I was horrified to find out that he couldn't fall asleep without 99.9 "The Moose" (our local country station) playing as background music all night. I never thought of "I Wanna Check You for Ticks" as a lullaby before, but apparently he did. I tried to negotiate on the genre, but this was inconceivable. We reached a compromise that the country could be played softly. I succumbed to wearing earplugs, but I'm used to dead quiet at night and I could still hear the twang of that darn steel guitar and the idiodic southern drawl. I fought it, but eventually it grew on me. I still couldn't get any sleep between "The Moose" and Lars snoring, but it didn't take long before I memorized the lyrics and got to liking those heartache tunes in an ironic, half-joking way.

Now I'm hopelessly hooked. My earthy friends aren't shy to poke fun at me for my pride at loving cheesy country pop. When I stopped laughing derisively at modern country, I realized that I can actually relate to some of those corny lyrics. Billy Currington's "That's How Country Boys Roll" nails 3 of my exes to a T. Brad Paisley's "Catch All the Fish" fires me up for hauling traps on the early morning drive to work. And Gretchen Wilson's "Work Hard, Play Harder!" is the philosophy that I try to live by these days.

So next time you hear "Country Boy" (Alan Jackson) on the radio, give it a chance and listen to the lyrics. You might hear this sternlady singing along!

Mulish Mainahs

Both Mainers and fishermen are infamous for their stubbornness. That would make the Maine lobsterman the epitome of obstinacy. This is logical, since a fisherman with a weak will would have a very difficult time making a living on the ocean. In other words, you must have a strong will to survive a winter working on the water.

I don't exclude myself from this sweeping generalization. I have one story in particular that illustrates this. One afternoon after a long, cold day of shrimping this past January, Cap and I pulled in to the dock to sell our shrimp, fuel up, and load empty shrimp trays on board to fill the next day. I was tired and grumpy when I crawled up the ladder to grab some trays on the dock. Cap was aboard fueling up. Another sternman, rather rolly-polly young fellah, happened to be on the dock shootin' the shit with the dock hands. I counted out 11 trays and went through them to make sure they didn't have gaping holes that the shrimp would fall through. When I went to lift them and pass them down to Cap, the sternman offered to give me a hand. I 'magine he was just being courteous, since 11 trays is quite an armful for someone my size, but at the time I thought he was questioning my strength. In response, I swept up the trays and lowered them down to Cap in one fell swoop. Cap looked up smirking. I'm still not sure if it was the sternman's chivalry or my bull-headedness that amused him. Perhaps it was both. I still can't help but smile when I think of that interaction.

Just about all of the captains I know (including my father) would rather die working than take a sick day when they feel under-the-weather. This winter Cap had an infliction that rendered him weak and feverish. He didn't know that it was serious until a few days later. Meanwhile, we were out hauling shrimp traps. One day on the steam home I noticed Cap sitting down while he drove the boat, looking pale and weak. I asked if he felt alright and he gruffly replied that he was fine. Come to find out that he had a kidney infection, which can get quite serious if left untreated.

Ask any fisherman and they will tell a story of how they continued hauling traps in a gale warning after they lost a hand in the hauler and blood was spurting everywhere, or some such foolery. One should keep in mind that this is most likely hyperbole, but there is probably some truth to their heroic epic. A fisherman would rather keep working through pain and suffering than stop on account of him any day. This is thought of as selfless, yet it is actually quite selfish, in my opinion. You see by not taking care of yourself, you are putting others at risk. And, needless to say, the others are worried sick about your well-being.

Aside from being stubborn about one's health, I do think there's some merit to possessing a strong will. It gets us through hard times and long winters up here in "Vacationland." I gotta say, I'm warming up to letting others lend me a helping hand once in a while. . . only if they ask first. After all, a girl's gotta have her pride.

Balls and Chains

Most days I'm either a sternlady or a trap builder and Cap is, well, a captain. Today Cap and I mixed things up a little and went on an adventure. He was the diver and I was the divetender. I drove the boat out to and back from the dive site while Cap prepared and dismantled his gear. I handed him things, cleated off lines, greased shackles, and took his gear when he was done. Cap did all of the hard work.

It was a foggy day on the water. It was beautiful and sunny one minute and the next we'd be immersed in fog so thick that it wet your hair. The fog bank drifted to and from shore all day, teasing us. I don't imagine the visibility was much better underneath the boat either. Visibility in New England waters is pretty poor in general and it certainly isn't improved by grovelling in the mud while tending moorings. This time of year is actually some of the best range of vision that one will find in coastal waters, since the water is still cold and phytoplankton isn't prolific yet. But, again, this makes no difference when one stirs up the mud.

I gotta say, Cap shone his true colors today. He was a star. He was replacing shackles, chains, mooring balls left and right. This is very simple work really. . . when you do it above-water. But even the simplest of tasks is next to impossible when performed underwater. The difficulty level is tripled when you are wearing gloves and a bulky exposure suit, both necessary in cold water diving.

I learned this lesson last summer, during my lobster-research diving internship. My boss would explain the field work that we were to perform after descending to the ocean bottom and I was surprised that he even found a need to explain the details, it was so straightforward. Minutes later I'd splash into the water, as stiff-limbed as a toddler in her first snow suit, so bulky that it renders the poor child immobile, and the boat person would hand me armfuls of gear. By the time I reached the sea floor, I had so many details to pay attention to that I found myself thinking "Now what was it that Boss said to do first?" This phenomenon is called "task-loading" and can actually be dangerous if an inexperienced diver is designated too many tasks to execute, thereby distracting them from safety precautions. But I am just exaggerating my situation last summer. Boss was very good about allowing me to work up to the point where I was comfortable performing the full work load underwater.

At the end of the day, when we pulled into his driveway and turned off the truck, Cap sunk into his seat, hair salty and cheeks red, with a look of satisfied exhaustion that I could relate to as a fellow diver. He said, "There's nothing I'd rather do than dive. I just love it." Cap used to be an urchin diver. I can tell that he loved it by the way he lights up when he talks about the "good ol' days" when urchins were bountiful. The only money to be made diving these days is tending moorings of rich summer people. It can be arduous dealing with some pretty demanding outa-staters, but it's a good excuse for Cap to jump in the water and make a dollar. As for me, I enjoy diving too, but I would just be in the way of Cap. He has a routine and he gets it done efficiently. He sure does it well.

Realizing My Dream

I have a dream. Realizing what I feel passionate about has taken much processing and many conversations with a dear friend. It has been swimming in the back of my mind for some time, but recently it came to the front like a revelation at the end of a treasure hunt.

Lately I have been chasing my tail again with regard to the endless job search. Here's my biggest confession: there are many things about lobstering that I love (working on the water and with Cap, catching sea creatures and learning more about boats), but there are also things that are lacking, such as intellectual stimulation. This fact has led me on periodic job searches throughout the winter and much agonizing about what to do with my life.

Last week I woke up after a particularly poignant dreamtime singing a recognizable fiddle tune. Once in a while I do this, wake up singing a song I mean, but often it takes me a while to identify the tune. This time I knew immediately: "The Gale." Naturally, I went directly to my fiddle, pulled out the sheet music and paused. At the top of the sheet I had scribbled "Herring Gut Learning Center, Port Clyde." A friend had told me about a job opportunity teaching aquaculture there about two years ago now. I had completely forgotten about it. The same dear friend who has helped me process, encouraged me to pursue this message. I looked up the HGLC website to find the same teaching position posted, starting at the end of this year. I emailed them immediately to find out if I had a chance at getting the job without a teaching certificate. But that would have been much too easy. The answer on the other end of the line boiled down to: "No." They were currently negotiating with other applicants who had teaching certs. Dead end.

Yesterday I awoke to rain streaming down the windows and Cap advising me to "take a day." I invited my mother to see the Wyeth exhibit at the Farnsworth. On the drive to Rockland, I was distracted by the Herring Gut Learning Center sign in Thomaston pointing south down the St. George Peninsula. So we took a little detour to Port Clyde. 17 miles later we reached the sweet little fishing village. It seemed that the town had never seen a tourist before. Restaurants and galleries that are typical of a coastal fishing town in Maine were strangely absent and in their place we found lobster co-ops and cozy homes. My kinda place.

The HGLC was small and unimpressive, but we wandered down the road past it to find a lovely little lighthouse. On the way back I noticed a discrete sign right next to HGLC that read "Fresh Catch." I had read about this Community Share Fishery (CSF), but still didn't know much about it. I turned down the dirt road to find a large facility that I'm guessing was filled with walk-in coolers to keep the fish chilled. I was intrigued by the operation.

The Wyeth exhibit was refreshing on a rainy day. All three generations (N. C., Andrew, and Jamie) were represented in their artwork. One painting in particular by N. C. really struck me.

It is entitled "Herring Gut." It's a painting of Port Clyde from the spot that my mother and I had just explored. That's when it hit me that "Herring Gut" is the place where HGLC and Fresh Catch are both located. I later learned that it is the original name for the harbor of Port Clyde.

This leads me (finally!) to my dream. Today it dawned on me that perhaps "The Gale" was leading me to Fresh Catch and not to HGLC at all. The idea of starting a CSF here on the Pemaquid Peninsula has been brewing in my mind with the encouragement of others for a few years now. When I ask myself what I feel passionate about, the answer is: promoting local fisheries. Back in my college days I wanted to save the Amazonian rainforest . . . and the world, for that matter! My current ambitions are on a smaller scale, but more realistic. Now all I want is for local fisheries to have a local market with a reasonable price. My dream is to own a fish store where a CSF is based. I will buy seafood from fishermen and aquaculture farms on the Peninsula for the CSF. I could also cook and smoke seafood to sell in the store along with fresh products. It's a simple idea really, but it entails a high initial investment. The operation would require seawater tanks, large-scale refrigeration, and a commercial kitchen. The fish store in Town came to mind. I would pick up seafood directly from the source, so I would need a cooler truck. When it comes down to logistics, I'm not sure how profitable the operation would actually be. But it's certainly worth looking into. Perhaps starting with a simpler model would be wise. My farmer friend has suggested selling seafood this summer at her produce stand. Maybe this would be a good beginning. At any rate, it is a dream worth pursuing. There's no doubt in my mind about that.

Life is full of non-coincidences. Last fall I realized that perhaps all of the coincidences around my grandmother's death weren't really coincidences after all. Prior to that event, I held some sort of faith dictating that some things were "meant to be" and others weren't. A loose form of believing in destiny. However, now I am aware of a greater sense of purpose. I realize that if one listens, there are messages to pick up on. Little treasures along the path of life. Treasures leading to one's dream.

The Bristol Road

If the Pemaquid Peninsula is the body of land that my life revolves around, then the Bristol Road is the main aorta. Known as Route 130 to outa towners, this road is a prominent vein connecting Pemaquid Lighthouse, a tourist landmark and the symbol on the Maine state quarter, to the rest of the world. My friends often poke fun at me for never leaving The Peninsula. Indeed, sometimes it feels like the 100 k miles that I've put on my Camry since I've owned her were tallied by driving up and down The Peninsula millions of times a week. But you just can't understand the reason behind that until you've seen this place. Why would you ever want to go anywhere else?

You see my world is quite simple really. I live on the northern end of the Bristol Road. My folks live on the southern end. My street address is merely a smaller number than that of my folks on the same road. My aunt and uncle and my best friend also live to the southard. My grandma's house is on a fork off of the very same road and my grandpa resides just a stone's throw across the river from me. One could say that the Bristol Road is metaphorically (and quite literally, actually) a representation of my family tree. We need not waste jet fuel to visit one another. It makes family reunions less complicated.

My work destination is on the east side of the Peninsula, also accessible via the road in question. On the way to work I often pass and wave to my 65-yr-old friend who bikes 10 miles round trip down the Bristol Road and back every other day. He probably knows that road even better than I, having a more intimate perspective of it from a bicycle.

There is only one person who is even more familiar with the Bristol Road than my biker friend. "Fred" is a long-time resident who walks this road daily from his home half way down the Peninsula to Town year round. (Locals rarely utter the word "Damariscotta," the town constituting the origin of the BR, instead calling it "Town." As in: "I'm headed up Town today.") Practically the sole reason for going to Town is to go grocery shopping. This is precisely the motivation for Fred's pilgrimage. Fred is an elderly fellow with few teeth and a whopping Maine accent. He never sticks his thumb out or asks for a ride, but locals routinely pull over to offer Fred a lift, since they know his two destinations according to the direction in which he's walking: Town or Home. I give Fred a lift whenever we're headed the same way on the BR. To listen to Fred talk, any outa towner would hear garbled consonants. But I've grown to understand his friendly chit chat and I enjoy his company on the sometimes redundant ride.

In addition to family, friends, and work, my education is also represented on this road as it is the location of my grammar school. Even before I was able to drive, I travelled deep into the recesses of the Peninsula's every capillary on the school bus. I never did figure out why I had to ride on the bus for a painful hour and a half every morning and afternoon to get to school, when it was only three miles from my house. I was the first and last on the bus. Needless to say, I hated riding the bus.

The only asset that one could say that we're lacking on the Peninsula is a little something called "cultchah." I mean we have plenty of culture, but not in the refined sense of the term as urban folks tend to think of it. The nice thing about coastal Maine is that right when you think that you're gonna strangle your neighbor for blowing his leaves onto your lawn for the bagillionth time (in other words, when you're starting to go a little stir crazy after a long winter) the cultchahed folk start filtering in. And in order to keep them entertained, we start importing entertainment: reggae concerts, wine tastings, ethnic dishes at local restaurants, etc. So if you are feeling cooped-up, all you have to do is wait for summer to roll around!

In other words, I have everything I need and want right here, somewhere along the Bristol Road. Occasionally I venture beyond it to find night life, but I'm rarely moved to do so. Hey, if I can live happily within a 12 mile stretch of pavement, then so be it. There's something to be said for simplicity in life. And why burn fuel if you don't have to?!

Miss-Givings

Linda Greenlaw expresses misgivings about the integrity of seafarers in her title "All Fishermen are Liars." While there is a certain amount of truth to this statement, it is an arguable point. It is advantangeous for fishermen to be discrete on some level so as not to reveal all of their secret weapons, but I don't believe that they're inherently dishonest.

On the other hand, there are some matters in the world fishing about which it is healthy to be apprehensive. Call me old-fashioned, but when it comes to technology, I can't help but be dubious. Perhaps it's the simple fact that I know nothing about the inner workings of boats and computers that leads me distrust them so. But these misgivings don't go unfounded.

Cap and I have been delayed from hauling traps for over a month now due to technical difficulties. See the computer that acts as a plotter on board hasn't been up to par. We are literally at the mercy of the computer repairman, which is never a good thing. Luckily we have plenty of work to keep us occupied building traps in the meantime. But building traps isn't what brings in the dough.

Just yesterday, a local fisherman was "s*** outa luck" when his engine failed him. Clear out of the blue, she started to clank and hammer so that the captain had the good sense to shut her off and drift. Cap gave him a tow into the Harbor. It's not gonna be a cheap repair job either.

In fact, it's a wonder that I'm in this world at all. Luckily love prevailed over my mother's short fuse when it came to my father's boat troubles during their courtship. A failed engine was near the end of any preconceived notions of baby Katherine! I guess a life at sea puts us to the test in more ways than simply challenging physical hardiness. Mother Ocean teaches us to be on our guard all the time and never be too trusting or confident. Some miss-givings are warranted.

Coasties

Today when Cap turned on the VHF radio, it was tuned in to channel 16, the Coast Guard Channel, as usual. We listened to it for a bit before he had a chance to change it to the local channel.

The local fishermen communicate on Channel 6. Most boats have it blaring all day so that they can hear the bitching and banter over the whine of the hydraulic hauler. Anyone unaccustomed to listening will most likely have trouble interpreting the exchanges of the fishermen for two reasons:

1.) their accents are thicker than crude oil

2.) fishing lingo is a different language.

I've alluded to typical conversations on the radio several times in my blog. Even a friend of mine, who was born and raised in southern Maine, said she "couldn't understand a word they said" on the radio upon her first day out hauling.

After many long days of being captive audience to channel 6 , I am now able to decipher local radio talk. I've been told that I have an accent myself, so I am accustomed to the local tongue. I also know many of the local boat names, captains, and common topics, so I know what to expect when I'm listening.

The funny thing that struck me today when channel 16 came on was that I couldn't understand a word that they said. I couldn't even begin to understand what was going on. The gravelly voice on the dispatcher could have been calling a square dance for all I knew.

I think it's safe to say that the Coasties are the unfriendliest people that I've met on the water. Last fall we were approached by the Coast Guard twice while we were hauling traps. The first time they came whizzing up in their little inflatable zodiac that looked so overloaded with the eight of them that I thought they might need Coast Guard assistance. I met them first, since they approached from the stern. I stopped stuffing bait bags to walk aft and greet them, saying "Hey, how's it goin'? " or something along those lines. They completely disregarded me and went straight for Cap. They asked him if the boat had been boarded in the past year for inspection. Upon his affirmative reply, they promptly headed back to their Mother Ship without further delay. We watched in the distance as they moved on to heckle the next innocent victims.

The second time that they encountered us, they were in a fancy triple-decked hulk of steel that looked more like a governmental rig. (I'm sure there's an official name for this type of vessel, but it's beyond me.) This time I decided not to bother going out of my way to greet them and I went right on working, letting Cap deal with them. The exchange was practically identical, except this time they had the decency of parting with good wishes, saying "Have a good day" or some such nonsense.

I asked Cap why the Coasties are so unfriendly and he said they're probably from Nebraska or another land-locked state that's never before seen a drop of saltwater or a fisherman, for that matter. They certainly didn't know how to treat a sternlady, that's for sure.

Outa Towners

Welcome to Round Pond Harbor: a quaint fishing village that is a ghost town for nine months out of the year and overrun with tourists during the summer months. Every fall the summer folks recede back into their metropolises and the locals revel in peace and quiet. Come spring, signs of the "outside world" start trickling back in ever-so-slowly.

First, a few out-of-state plates begin to slow down our commute on the Peninsula, actually going the speed limit. Sometimes they poke along the shore, fingers pointing out the driver's window at the "pretty boats." Other times they just creep along swerving to avoid potholes and frost heaves from as if these imperfections in the road might rattle their Lexus to pieces.

Next, the Harbor starts feeling crowded as the yachts appear; big beautiful, shiny sailboats that swing proudly on their moorings, dwarfing the lobsterboats. This isn't such a bad thing, as it creates jobs for the locals, raising and tending moorings, as well as launching and maintaining boats. This is easy work for the fishermen and business for the local shipyards.

As the temperature of the ocean gradually climbs, the kayakers arrive. The fishermen dread their arrival, since sea kayakers are a hazard to lobstermen; they are easily masked by the slightest swell and can be very difficult to see on the water. However, I enjoy a periodic paddle myself, so I can empathize with both parties. Bright colors are always helpful.

Next we start to see nice cars and unfamiliar faces on the docks looking out of place. Before long, people will start asking the fishermen questions. Just the other day, a clean-cut man in suspiciously white sneakers and a pastel, collared shirt strolled leisurely down the dock to inquire about where he could buy lobsters. We pointed in the other direction. Questions are fine with me so long as I'm not in the middle of working and expected to drop everything to talk. I admit that sometimes I lose patience with the really obvious inquiries though. My favorite was when a tourist asked how the fishermen manage to park all of the boats facing in the same direction . . .

And, finally, enters The Village Improvement Society. The VIS is a group of outa towners (folks who have either summered here for years or have moved here from away). They state their goal as "community promotion" and "combating community deterioration." The lobstermen refer to this prestigious institution in jest, I admit. What's to be "improved?" It's a working waterfront. More often than not it seems as though the VIS is policing the aesthetic appeal of the Harbor for tourism instead of bettering the community. One fishermen shook his head at mention of the VIS saying "When the VIS paved the parking lot [of the town landing] I knew that everything was gonna go downhill from there."

Locals don't appreciate change. Pavement signifies both change and urbanization. But after a year or two people stop complaining and quietly prefer paved roads to dusty dirt ones.

There are certain "improvements" that could be useful and appreciated in the community, though. Like installing a mirror to improve visibility on a deadly corner near the town center. I swear every day some poor soul's life flashes before their eyes when they have a near miss with the school bus as it comes careening on two wheels around that corner.

Instead the VIS focuses their attention on keeping the shore tidy. This spring the VIS has already made an appearance when a deteriorating dinghy dared rear its rotting bow at the town landing. They had a heyday with that one. It didn't rest there for long.

Personally, I think that the VIS would be better appreciated in Christmas Cove, a posh harbor on the next peninsula west of us. But then again, I guess there wouldn't be much to "improve" over there, without any slovenly lobstermen to pick up after.