Mother Ocean

From a very young age, I learned about the power and danger of Mother Ocean. Not from personal experience, mind you, but from an event that hit very close to home. In the early years of my life, my father was owner and captain of two groundfishing boats. When I was about five years old my dad lost a boat and two of his crew members at sea. It was a devastating event for the family of the two victims, who were brothers, as well as my own family. Since then my parents worry a great deal about me, their only child, being on the water.

There have been two instances in particular when I realized how much my parents worry about my safety on the water, understandably so. The first was a few year ago when a handsome young fisherman took me out fishing and to dinner on his boat. I had gone down to the Cove with the intention of rowing out to the mouth of the Harbor and catching a mackerel when he offered to take me. So off we went for a fun evening on the water. When we were motoring back into the Cove we came across my parents on my dad's boat. They were just sitting in the boat and looking into the water when we first saw them from a distance. They followed us in and I met up with them at the dock. I asked my dad giddily "What were you looking for?" My dad said angrily "You!" and then gave me a big hug and promptly stormed home. Later he told me that he'd gone down to the Cove and found my shoes in the boathouse. He thought that I was swimming, but I was nowhere to be found. That's when he thought something horrible had happened.

The other instance, I'm embarrassed to say, took place not too long ago. I was an apprentice at a local boatbuilding school. Each apprentice had the opportunity to go for a "solo," which entailed spending the weekend on an island alone as a time to reflect on one's life. My solo took place in November. I went out to Marsh Island with another apprentice, but we were to stay in different cabins and interact very little. We rowed a dinghy out to the island on a beautiful, calm day and spent a lovely but cold weekend out there independently. When it came time to return to the mainland on Sunday afternoon, the northerly wind had picked up considerably. We were determined to get back, so we set out. Instead of rowing around the north end of Loud's Island, I had the brilliant idea to row around the southern tip and continue on to New Harbor. I figured it would be easier to row with the wind than against it. What I didn't consider was that the wind would be more intense to the south, which is more exposed to the open ocean. We got half way across the Sound and panicked. It was choppy. I called my dad on my cell phone and then the battery died. So we pushed on, our hearts racing. After we had crossed the Sound, it was smooth sailing under the lee of the shore. We sped along, rowing in unison and singing all the way to Back Cove. I was exuberant when we finally reached my home port. The harbormaster and my fishermen friends were all in a bustle on the dock when we pulled in to the float, but I didn't yet realize that it was because of me. My parents had been panicking and asking for help to find me. They were out on the harbormaster's boat of the harbor that we departed from looking for us when we reached land. Again I realized the consequences of my actions and how little knowledge I had of the ocean. It was a humbling experience for sure.

Luckily neither case was life-threatening. Perhaps my parents are a little over-protective of me, but they, unlike me, have witnessed and experienced the grief that ensues when loved ones are lost to the sea. Although the ocean can be a fun setting in the summer, one must always have an awareness of potential dangers. As I've seen time after time, things can go in a hurry with boats, equipment, and weather. There are plenty of opportunities for misfortune or tragedy. Every wise seafarer must have a healthy respect of the Ocean. A human can't outsmart her or beat her strength. She is all-powerful and as unpredictable as the wind.

The Eagle Family

Whenever we haul the string of traps on the west side of Haddock Island, I am amazed by all of the bird songs that drift our way. Haddock is a small island, but has a dense forest growing on it, unlike other local islands. It is neighbored by Pond Island that has no trees at all. Not only do we see the usual gull and shag (cormorant) on the shore of Haddock Island, but there are many songbirds that call that island home. I've started to think of it as a sort of bird sanctuary.

The first day that we set traps by the island, I noticed an American bald eagle perched at the very pinnacle of a spruce tree. I watched it for a while and then observed why he was sitting so confidently on that topmost branch. He was watching over his family. Directly below the male eagle, an enormous nest sat securely in the forking branches of a maple. A female eagle sat very close to the nest. Cap and I stared at the nest while the hauler was at work, and eventually we spotted two little heads peaking up over the rim of the nest. Now the whole picture made sense: Mama Eagle was close-by protecting the nest while Papa Eagle was keeping watch from a higher vantage point.

The second time that we passed by the Eagle residence things were more active. The two fledglings were now standing in the nest and becoming more restless, moving around aplenty. Mrs. Eagle still watched over them, but from further away. And Dad was gone. Soon he returned to the nest with food. Most of his time was probably consumed with finding lots of food for his fast growing offspring!

Today we hauled the Haddock Island traps yet again. This time the babies had grown enough to be teenagers. The parents kept watch from yet a greater distance, their trust growing. At one point, Mrs. Eagle brought them something and they fought over it. Her children are starting to get sassy.

Next time we haul maybe we'll see some flying lessons. Or maybe the little ones will already be gone!

Preferred (Pro)nouns

When I graduated from Smith College (a "women's college"), the transgender movement was gaining a voice among the institution's beaurocracy. Talk of "ze" (the gender-neutral pronoun used instead of "he" or "she) buzzed in the air. I sometimes wasn't sure about the preferred pronouns of my classmates. My girlfriends were thinking that they might rather be guyfriends. Voices were lowering a full octave with the help of "T" (self-administered testosterone shots). And biological transformations were occuring via gender-altering surgery. Transgender students were protesting the feminine image of the college and demanding that the constitution be altered to account for them. Gender was a touchy subject, to say the least.

As I have mentioned before, I am still involved in a community defined greatly by gender, but at the opposite end of the spectrum. In a culture that is largely masculine, I sometimes feel that there is a particular sensitivity toward women. The guys make an effort not to offend me. Older members of the male-dominated fishing community sometimes aren't sure what to think of a young lady, who isn't directly affiliated with lobstering via marriage or bloodline, wanting to participate in their profession. Elders in particular are sometimes awkward when referring to my title, unsure of my preferred noun.

One day this winter a retired fisherman stopped by the dock to hob-nob with Cap as we were pulping shrimp bait. As he was getting ready to leave, he dismissed himself, saying something like "Think I'll go have a beeah in my yahd." I commented "Nice day for it." He chuckled saying to Cap "Listen to your sternma-- . . . sternlady!" I smiled at his indecision.

Another time on the boat, one of Cap's friends and colleagues pulled up alongside us to chat. As he left he gave me a little sideways grin and said to Cap "Where'd you get such a cute sternperson anyway?" This guy had thought it over already and decided on a gender-neutral noun. Not surprising since his daughter was his sternlady for years.

There are also subtleties that distinguish myself from the guys. One day we were visiting with another fisherman who's my father's age in Cap's workshop as we worked on gear. This gentleman was talking about the oil spill and getting quite disgusted the more he talked about it. His tone was angry, but he was using very tame expletives to punctuate his statements. He stopped to explain with a grin that he was toning his swearing down on account of me. I told him that I didn't give a damn whether he swore or not. But his traditional views held and he wouldn't ease up on censoring himself in my presence.

As the title of this blog implies I am proud to be a woman and like to be recognized as such. My preferred noun is "sternlady." Linda Greenlaw, on the other hand, has the opposite stance: she doesn't want to be distinguished as a woman and would rather be called the masculine form of the noun (but, in her case, there's no distinguishing gender in her title: "captain"). However, I certainly am not offended by the title of "sternman." Frankly, I'm receptive to whatever the boys want call me as long as it isn't vulgar.

Born Again

I finally gathered up my balls and went for it this afternoon. The Cove was beckoning me and so I went to it. I changed into my swimsuit in our boathouse and meandered down to the footbridge. The sharp rocks were a rude awakening to my bare feet, reminding me of how soft my feet have become from wearing rubber boots. I used to brazenly jump in the water in one fell swoop from our dock, but I was feeling cowardly today and slowly eased into the chilly water. First a toe, then a leg, a few drops here and there, and finally SPLASH!

It is a shock initially. But after a few moments, once my body acclimates, I remember why this personal ritual lives on from year to year. My dad tells about a guest at our family cottages who used to swim to Little Island and back every year into his old age. I've always wanted to follow that example. I hope to still be doing this when I am well into my seventies.

I have always preferred salt water to fresh. While my friends often go to the local pond to swim, I gravitate towards the Cove. There's something about salt water that awakens every aspect of your being. At first, I awaken from the wariness of summer heat. Every pore alert. I become more aware of my surroundings. Then as my muscles relax from the initial shock, I indulge in my buoyancy, swimming, splashing, twirling, and diving to my heart's content. I literally laughed out loud out of the joy of being immersed in the Cove once again as I was swimming today. Only labs, seals and otters can relate to the freedom of salty bliss.

As I emerged from the saltwater I felt incredibly refreshed. They say that saltwater will disinfect a fresh wound. I think it cleanses more than just cuts. Swimming in the Cove continues to be a purifying ritual for me, 25 years after my baptism in the same water. It's as if I'm reborn each time I emerge from the frigid seawater. The ocean reawakens my spirit every time I dive in. I am born again.

Breathless

Today was the calmest day that we've had out on the water so far this year. The buoys pointed every which way, whereas they usually point unanimously away from the wind. There wasn't a breath of wind. Not even a puff or breeze. It was breathless.

The surface of the water was glassy offering a mirror image of everything above it. Each buoy floated atop a reflection of its bold colors. Only the boats escaped their reflections since their movement disturbed the water, creating waves and wake. The sunlight refracted in the fine mist that flew from the bow as it displaced seawater, creating a small rainbow in the spray.

I gazed out at the horizon and saw the Friendship Sloops sailing south to Boothbay Harbor for Windjammer Days. I couldn't imagine how those mighty vessels were actually moving. Their sails were like sharp mountain peaks, jutting up into the hazy sky. There must have been some wind further off shore to propel them.

I was also out of breath. We set 30 traps that still had tailer warps tied to their bridles from their days of fishing as pairs in deeper waters. I had to remove the tailer warp in addition to doing all of the usual tasks. This simple extra step made my routine quite a bit more challenging. I was frantically baiting, tying and untying knots, fetching more buoys and rope, cinching cable ties and running for and aft to grab the next trap as the last buoy hit the water. It was exhausting. Luckily, the rest of the day was relatively mellow, since we didn't catch many lobsters. I had a few moments to catch my breath.

Drive-by

Today we had a drive-by. A drive-by sale that is, not a shooting.

We were in the groove of setting traps, cranking along, right in the middle of a string (a line of 10 traps), when a motor boat sped up to us. At first it looked like he was going to pass by, but then at the last minute he veered toward us, like he was going to run us over instead. He held up a red bucket flailing it around for Cap to see. I thought he wanted to give us a bucket that he didn't have any use for. Then he put the bucket down and held up ten fingers, yelling "Can I have 10?" He wanted to buy lobsters from us.

We were kinda in an awkward position. Yes, we had lobsters, and yes they were for sale. It was a hard time to say no, even though it was an obnoxious request, for several reasons. First of all, he was interrupting our work. We had to stop what we were doing, turn off the pump to the lobster tank, drain the tank, pick out 10 lobsters and then restore everything in it's rightful place again.

Secondly, the request was just plain demeaning. It wouldn't be so unreasonable if he was a friend who came to meet us at the dock when we were done with work. But this man was a complete stranger and was clearly looking for a deal. He was well-aware that the lobster co-ops are where you buy lobster. He didn't even bother to make small talk. Cap, being the too-nice man that he is, charged the man a quarter over the dock price when he could have ripped the guy off. I would have charged much more for the inconvenience of the arrangement. We were both quite bitter about the encounter. The man forked over the dough and sped off just as abruptly as he had approached us.

Tourists.

Hard Work

Just the other day I was talking with a friend, who was curious about my job. She started asking questions and became increasingly intrigued with each response. Eventually she asked "Is it hard work?" I looked at her thinking: If you are asking me that question then you clearly have no idea what I do. Snobby, perhaps. Instead I answered: "Yes, Sara, it is hard work."

Where to begin? Well how about at 6 am in the morning. Cap pulls up and parks his truck next to my car by the dock. We trudge down to the bait cooler still sleepy-eyed, exchanging curt greetings. Cap picks a barrel of herring and goes to fetch the boat. I know my job. Mission: transfer bait. I use the communal pitchfork and shovel to transfer one barrel (5 bushels) of bait into four fish trays. This isn't clean work. I'm already covered in smelly fish juice.

Cap pulls the boat up to the dock. We load the boat with bait, bundles of rope, and buoys. Then we motor over to his float and load the stern with 30 traps. Lobster traps typically have 3 or 4 bricks in them. They aren't light and they feel even heavier at 6:30 in the morning. This is our morning workout. By the time we are steaming out of the harbor I've already worked up a sweat.

Then we begin the long haul. Hauling a trap consists of the following: Cap gaffs the buoy and pulls the trap onto the rail. He opens the door. I remove the old bait bag and thread a full bag onto the bait line. He removes the lobsters, putting them in buckets. I close the trap door and push it ahead on the rail, positioning it for him to set. Then I measure and band lobsters, determining if they are hardshells or shedders. One band per claw for shedders, and two bands per claw for hardshells. Then I fill the next bait bag, piercing it with the bait iron.

Multiply that routine by 200.

Eventually, after what sometimes feels like eons, Cap calls for "last trap." I am relieved, since my back and feet hurt, but I'm not done with work yet. I have to scrub fish grease and mud off of the boat, making it shine before we reach the dock to sell lobsters. These days, we aren't hauling far from the Harbor, so I have to hurry to clean the boat in time. Cap helps out, scrubbing his console.

We reach the dock and I prepare for unloading lobsters (clearing a path to the lobster tank, shutting off the pump that fills the tank, and draining the tank). We unload the lobsters individually, making sure that each one is alive and segregating them into hardshells and shedders, since there is a different price for each. Then we motor over to the mooring, Cap moors us, I cover up bait, turn the tank valve off, and (finally!) take my oilpants off. We take the skiff to the dock. My day is officially over when I remove my rubber boots at my car. It is 4 or 5 pm by that time. We are both exhausted. A hard day's work is complete.

Warfare

Politically speaking, I consider myself to be a pacifist. My only 2 bumper stickers (granted, artifacts of my more idealistic college days) read: "Teach Peace" and "An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Go Blind--Gandhi." I don't believe in justified war. I prefer non-violent means of making statements.

However, my job has led me to be a war monger among the population of gnarly fish that inhabit Cap's traps. Sculpin and hornpout are perhaps the ugliest and toughest fish that you'll encounter in a lobster trap. We catch them frequently. When the trap surfaces, the fish are bloated, their air bladders

inflated, and they are unable to descend to the bottom again if we throw them back. So we use them as bait.

This entails first killing them so that they don't thrash around violently, splashing herring brine all over me. But I've been having trouble killing them. I pierce their head with the bait iron and slit their belly with a knife and they still thrash around as if I had just poked them in the eye. They are indestructible fish. Little tanks of the sea floor.

Today Cap demonstrated his methods of warfare against sculpin and hornpouts alike. It is archaic, really. Akin to the warfare of the cavemen. First, you hold the fish by the tail. Get a good grasp on that sucker. Then you thump it with all your might so that it's head hits a corner, knocking it out. At this point Cap slits the stomach and sticks the bait iron through the head. He made a point of stringing it on the bait line upside down, saying that if a lobster walks into a trap and sees a huge sculpin head looking at him, he might be startled and walk right back out. Apparently lobsters can tell that the sculpin is dead when its upside down (?).

I must say, this form of warfare was very effective. The remnants of fish no longer splashed bait juice in my face in their last throws of life and the lobsters are eating them. Mission accomplished!

The Bait Coolah

The bait cooler is a place in the working harbor with which every sternman is well-acquainted. Sternmen are responsible for the bait and most likely pay a visit to the cooler once daily. Let's just say that it doesn't exactly smell like flowers.

When most people walk within 20 ft of the bait cooler door, they hold their nose and grimace. This is a natural reaction, because by holding your nose, you are forcing yourself to breathe through your mouth. Once you've spent some time in the bait cooler, however, you eventually lose the holding-your-nose-and-grimacing part and just automatically breathe through your mouth. In fact I breathe through my mouth all day, since I am leaning over smelly herring while I work. It's really a blessing that humans can't smell with their mouth.

While I don't particularly enjoy the smell of rotten herring, I must confess that it is a familiar smell. It is among other comforting smells, such as engine oil and Gojo, that I associate with my dad from my early childhood. It has been kind of a background odor throughout my life really and it continues to be. I find the smell of bait so "comforting" that now I bring it home with/on me every day!

The summer after I graduated from college I fled to the central Cascades of Oregon to do a forestry internship. I missed the ocean so much during those 3 months in the old growth forests, that I treated myself to a roadtrip down the coast for my birthday. I ended up on the docks of Crescent City, California where all the crab-fishing boats were tied up. It smelled of bait. The lapping of the water rocked the floats gently. One of the boats even bore my name. I felt at home.

I became especially familiar with the cooler this winter when we spent many hours in it preparing shrimp bait. The bait cooler provided shelter from the bitter northerly wind in January and February. We pulped and stuffed bags in the bait cooler throughout shrimping season. We had the cooler all to ourselves, since no other fishermen who work off of that dock were shrimp trapping.

One day I was stuffing bags merrily (ok, maybe this is an exaggeration) when I spotted a black flash out of the corner of my eye. By the time I looked it had vanished, but I did notice that there was a hole in the corner of the cooler where it had disappeared. The plywood wall and foam insulation had been gnawed through and bits of fish were scattered about. Turned out there is a full-time resident in the bait cooler! Mr. Rat! Every day after that I noticed that the fish on top of our barrels full of herring were nibbled at. The bait cooler wasn't only a place to store herring, but it was a food pantry for the Rat family! I found this comical. We managed to cohabitate the cooler in peaceful harmony and share the bait.

Now the bait cooler provides a refreshing escape from the scalding June sun. I was actually eager to get a barrel of bait this morning so that I could feel the cold air on my sunburned back. The cool condensation poured out of the cooler like a think fog bank when I opened the heavy door. I dug my hands into the cold fish throughout the morning sometimes leaving them there for a minute before stuffing a bait bag, so that it would cool me down a bit. Thank God for the bait cooler!

My Uniform

This morning when I was getting ready for work at 5 am, I was thinking about what to wear, what to wear. . . green t-shirt? No, that's too nice. Favorite summer jeans with holes in knees? No, I don't want them to smell like bait. It seemed that I didn't have any clothes ratty enough to wear to work. All of my designated work clothes were so smelly that I couldn't stand the thought of putting them on my clean body. What an interesting dilemma, I thought to myself. Most normal people have the opposite problem. The average American looks in their closet at their sneakers and jeans thinking that these casual clothes aren't formal enough for their office job. That's a problem that I hope never to encounter.

Here's a sampling of my morning mental checklist:

1.) Hair tie.

Very important. No, seriously. A ponytail is an essential part of my uniform for both practical and personal reasons. First of all, my ponytail sticks out of the adjuster strap hole in my baseball cap and keeps my hat on when it's windy. One day I forgot my hairtie and tried using a cable tie to retain my hair. Not advisable. My hair was too slippery, the tie fell out within 5 minutes and my hair was everywhere. It drove me crazy all day, distracting me from my work. Secondly, a ponytail is one of the only physical attributes that distinguishes me from a little boy when I'm on the boat. While I don't want my work ethic to be any different than that of a sternman's, I do want to retain some feminine qualities in my physical appearance. In other words, I want to work like a man, but not to look like one. I also like to wear earrings in the summer (in the winter having metal in my ears was too cold) for this reason.

2.) Rubbah Boots.

Pretty self-explanatory. They keep my feet dry. I have insulated boots for winter and regular ones for summer. I had a helluva time finding ones that fit me. I wear men's size 5 and most of the boots start at size 6. I searched everywhere before I was successful. They've served me well.

3.) Rubbah Gloves.

Hence my glaring glove tan (pasty white lower half of forearm and dark brown upper half). Believe it or not, my gloves can make or break my day. Wet, leaky gloves= bad day. Soft, dry gloves= good day. When your hands are steeped in bait juice all day, you don't really want leaky gloves. Enough said.

4.) Oil Gear.

Also called oil skins, foul weather gear, foulies, or just plain Grundens (the famous Swedish

brand). This consists of overalls and a coat with hood. I also had a hard time finding the size of these that fit me (extra-small). The little boy's ones are too thin and don't last long. I had to special order them in the mail. These are the most valuable part of my daily attire. They cost close to $100 a piece (overalls and coat each). Don't lose them.

A good friend saw a picture of me donning all of my oil gear and commented that I looked like an "orange eskimo." This look was accentuated by the ski mask that I wore to protect my face from the bitter wind.

5.) Ball Cap.

Also essential. Keeps the sun out of my eyes and my hair out of my face. When there's a lot of splash on a rough day, the bill of the cap shields my face if I look down, thereby keeping saltwater out of my eyes. Also makes me feel cool. :)

6.) Contact Lenses.

My glasses get hopelessly streaked with salt water when I wear them on the boat. Cap wears glasses and has to wash them with windex a couple times a day. I think contacts are just easier.

7.) Layers.

If you've visited Maine for more than a day, then you know how predictable the weather is: it can drastically change in the span of minutes, and often does. Even today consisted of a beautiful, calm morning which changed to a chilly, gusty afternoon as the southerly wind picked up. I actually had to put on two more shirts. This is why layers are so crutial to my uniform. These days my layers are: a tank top, a thin cotton long-sleeved shirt, and a sweatshirt. On a particularly cold day shrimping this winter I counted 7 top layers. I appeared quite stalky and buff, but in reality my bulk was mostly wool and fleece. I was like a little toddler in their first snow suit with arms straight out, barely able to maneuver. Comfy, though.

When my checklist is complete, off I go for another day as sternlady. I must confess, it's the best uniform I've ever worn.

Summahtime

May the catching begin! The shedders have arrived! We finally caught something today.

It was our first hot day on the water, and it all started drifting back to me. Summer fishing, that is. I remembered how the greasy herring oil from our bait seems to melt all over everything in the heat. How the same hot tank that was essential for my warmth just 3 months ago is now so repulsively. . . well, hot. I remembered the feel of a newly-molted lobster squishing in your hands. And how amazingly delectable a PB&J tastes after endless hours of hauling traps in the heat. I now officially pronounce it summer.

The heat seems to bring out the smell in everything. The smell of balsam fir was so sweet that you would have thought your nose was stuck in a balsam candle. And the scent of roses was so overbearing that you would think your Grandma was leaning over your shoulder, her perfume permeating the air. Of course, all of the odors on board weren't pleasant. The smell of bait was also amplified, even though our herring was quite fresh. But it's a small price to pay for a beautiful ride around the islands all day.

After banding the 100th male shedder I started to notice a pattern. I asked Cap if the males molt first. Sho' nuff they do. Cap said (with a sheepish little grin) "It's all about breeding. The males shed first so that they are ready to mate when the females arrive. The males have to be a little firmer to get it on." I was amused by this very practical explanation.

After a 12-hour (6am-6pm) day of smelling and catching, I'm pretty tuckered out. I'd better rest up for picking up our last load of traps offshore tomorrow! Nighty-night.

Comfort

Today the part for the boat arrived. Cap spent all afternoon deep in the bowels of the boat installing it. Cap is a tall, lanky man and I still hardly believe that he can scrunch into that tiny space let alone maneuver well enough to fix things down there. He clinked and clanked around for hours occasionally requesting that I hand him tools or parts from above. I sat close by so that we were within arm's length.

I felt like Cap's little henchwoman today. Like one of the Oogy Boogy Man's little henchmen from Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas. But I am not a henchman who does her job out of fear as they did. No, I assist Cap because we are a team and we help eachother out. This was also my role as his divetender. My job was to support him. He was doing the hard work, and I was there to ease his work and make sure that he is safe.

As he directed me to various tools, I hung half in and half out of the engine compartment through a hatch door in the wheelhouse. The compartment is well-insulated, padded with egg-crate foam. It is warm since it retains the heat from the engine. I find the smell of engine oil and Gojo comforting and familiar, reminiscent of my dad's days as a captain repairing his boats.

Today I was wearing the over-sized wool pull-over that my dad used to wear fishing. Now it is my cold weather boat coat. I have worn it for the past two winters working on the water oystering and lobstering. It served me well this winter. Not only did it keep me warm, but it made me feel safe when the weather was dicey or things got challenging. I felt the comfort of my father's strong arms reassuring me that everything would be alright.

A boat motored by in the harbor and the wake reached us, gently rocking the boat back and forth on the mooring. A soothing sprinkle pattered on the wheelhouse roof. "All is well," whispered the rain, "You are home."

The Cove

Back Cove is my favorite place on Earth. Granted I haven't seen all of Earth, but I can say this pretty confidently given that other places which might be equally or perhaps even more beautiful than the Cove don't have the sentimental value that Back Cove has for me.

You see I have played in and around the Cove all of my life. In fact, I was baptized in Back Cove. I don't remember it, but my mom tells me that when the minister dripped cove water on my forehead, my eyes opened wide and I smiled. Not much has changed in 24 years. :)

As a young child I played under the footbridge catching crabs with summer kids. I didn't know then that we were catching and feeding green crabs, a very invasive species of crab. Regardless, we had a ball and widdled away many hours learning about intertidal marine life via exploration.

Back Cove was also the setting of my second love. He is a fisherman who still lives and lobsters out of there, whom I now consider to be a good friend. He is one of the few other people who appreciate the Cove as much as I do.

Just a few weeks ago, my mom had some extra pansies that I planted in front of where the fishermen park their huge pick-ups in Back Cove. The guys liked that. One of them encouraged me when I was planting them saying: "That'll fancy it up a bit."

My family's business is also located there. We have three cottages and a dock where guests can row around in our rowboats. My father and I are in charge of keeping up the dock. I gel coat the fiberglass skiffs when they need it. I made the signs and maintain those. I decked the dock with cedar and the ramp with pressure-treated decking a few years ago. Daddy and I take turns bailing out the skiffs after a hard rain. I usually help Daddy with the annual spring ritual of riding the float down from "The Pound," under the footbridge, and tying it to the float for summer use. Then in the fall we ride the float up the Cove to park it on a bank for the winter. The float is kept on the bank so that the ice doesn't push it around and do damage in the winter.

"The Pound" is the section of the Cove on the other side of the footbridge. It is called this because it used to be a lobster pound. There are still old stubs of pilings that supported the

pound house at the turn of the 20th century. Grandpa remembers when the pound keeper used to live there. Now there is just a footbridge for people to walk across. My father and a handful of fishermen have been responsible for maintaining the footbridge for as long as I remember.

Just today I went down to the Cove to eat my lunch on my family's dock and "hob-nob" with my fishermen friends. I helped one lobsterman unload traps from his truck (barefoot). The boys were worried that I'd drop a trap on my toes. After that, I put on my bathing suit and jumped in the Cove for an exhilarating dip. One sternman looked on in awe saying that I am "crazy." I had intended to go for a full-on swim, but I seem to be getting wimpy as I grow up. Just two years ago I was swimming in the Cove in May. Now it's mid-June and I can't even stay in for more than five seconds.

Swimming in the Cove used to be a daily ritual throughout my high school and college years. I would swim the length of the Cove and the Pound. Sometimes I brought my faithful lab friend, Liza, along to enjoy the briny taste and refreshing feel of saltwater immersion. We had a grand time cooling off together.

Now that I live in Town, my visits to the Cove aren't as frequent, but are every bit as cherished. It is just as easy for me to lose hours down at the Cove now as it was when I was eight years old. I enjoy talking with the locals to find out how the fishing is, chatting with artists painting on our dock, and going for an evening boat ride with my dad.

I look forward to swimming with my parent's 4-month-old chocolate lab pup, Zipper, this summer. Zipper was also recently baptized in the cold cove water. My dad brought Zip in the rowboat to row out to his motor boat on the mooring. On the way back, Zip was sitting behind my dad as he rowed, and Daddy heard a SPLASH! Zipper had taken a dunk and was swimming around cheerily. My dad scooped him back into the boat. It's hard to keep a good lab dry. So I have a feeling that I'll have a swimming partner once again before long!

(Photos by AOK)

The Case of the Cursed Coveralls

Today Cap and I learned an important lesson that won't be easily forgotten.

We set 30 traps and were at the mouth of the Harbor gearing up to haul some traps. I was filling bait bags (as usual) when I looked up to find Cap searching all over for something. I asked what it was that he was looking for and it seemed that he was missing his oil pants (or "coveralls," as he calls them). I helped him look and, being unsuccessful, suggested that perhaps he left them at the dock the previous day. It was easy enough to "run in to the dock" and get them before we started to haul traps, as we were only a short distance away. But Cap, being easily frustrated with himself, became agitated. Turned out the tide was down and there wasn't enough water to pull in to the dock, so he'd have to put the boat on the mooring and motor to the dock in the skiff. An added step made him even more irritable. By the time he climbed on to the bow and tied off the boat, he was all flustered and dropped the bow line. The skiff drifted off in the strong nor'west breeze, gently bumping off of other boats. Cap's instinct was to kick the boat into gear and fetch the skiff, but at this moment, the boat stalled. She couldn't be persuaded to start up again. The screens went blank. Both of our stomachs sank.

Cap tinkered with wires, switches, and fuses all afternoon. Luckily he is a gear-head and has a mind for figuring out problems as well as much knowledge about engines. The most help that I could offer was handing him tools and flipping switches at his request. He figured out the part that was defective and ordered a new one. Meanwhile, I learned about fuses and how to trouble-shoot. The first thing we did when we reached land was to grab Cap's oil pants from the dock. They were right there waiting for him. All of that trouble for a pair of Grundens!

At times like that, I can't help but think of the name of Cap's boat. The proud word on her transom represents the feminine spirit of enlightenment in Tibetan Buddhism. The word translates to "sky walker" or "sky dancer" (Wikipedia). However, one of her terrestrial embodiments is the trickster spirit. Boats are inherently unpredictable and unreliable. She has certainly lived up to her name today and in the past.

The lesson of the day was: have patience with oneself. It is all too easy to be quick-tempered and disgusted with yourself, especially when your goal is to do everything as quickly as possible. But the fact is: we are human. We aren't perfect. We make mistakes. Therefore, we must do our best and accept the fact that we might not meet our expectations for the day.

Summer Fishing: The First Haul

Today was officially the first day of summer fishing. It was the first haul close to shore. While things were easier and the scenery was much more enjoyable, I'd forgotten how fast and furious summer fishing is.

We're fishing singles instead of pairs now, so there's less to do per buoy, but it has to happen afap (as fast as possible). There's generally less time. There's no hour-long steam out to the fishing site. As soon as we reach the mouth of the Harbor we're there. There's also no time in between buoys, since they are set closer together. And there is very little delay between gaffing the buoy and the trap breaking the surface, because we're fishing the shoals (shallow water) and the lines are short. In other words, there is very little time to rest.

There is also less thrill factor fishing this time of year, which I'm ok with after the most intense winter's work that I've ever experienced. Instead of catching huge, thrashing cusk, a puny little rock gunnel can occasionally be found in the bait bag. Gnarly spider crabs that resemble crustaceans out of the Bering Sea are replaced with baby rock crabs the size of your pinky toe nail. Not much of our summer by-catch is worth eating. My attitude towards summer marine life has changed considerably since my first summer lobstering.

The first summer that I fished with Cap, six years ago now, I was very excited by the new marine life in his traps. We caught some whelks that I was so fascinated by that I had to take them home and try eating them. So I steamed them up at my folks house. Those things were so rubbery that I couldn't even chew them into small enough pieces to swallow. That was the last time I tried eating whelks.

However, we did find some neat inedible marine life today. We caught fish representing all three primary colors: a brilliant red lump fish, a yellow/goldish sculpin, and another lump fish that was brilliant blue. Unfortunately, the idea of taking a picture of all three fish together didn't cross my mind until I had thrown them back. . .

Summer fishing is just different. I am straining to remember the ropes since the last time I lobstered with Cap in the summer was six years ago. I have to re-learn how to differentiate shedders from hardshells. The extremes are easy to distinguish: the very soft shedders will squish in your hands, the hardest hardshells are growing barnacles on their shell and have dark undersides to their claws. But it isn't all black and white. The hard shedders and the young hardshells constitute the grey area. Cap's test is holding the claw out straight so that the joints are locked and squeezing the claw itself. If the membrane between segments bulges with the movement of fluids inside the claw, then it's a shedder. This is a very subtle indicator, but it does work. We double band hardshells (2 rubber bands/claw) and single band shedders. It's important to differentiate since shedders are worth a dollar less ($2.75) per pound than hardshells ($3.75). Today Cap went through the lobsters that I designated as hardshells, picked out four and called the rest shedders. I have much to re-learn.

Despite the change of routine and lack of adventure, I am very grateful that it's summer. This is the time of year that is truly inspiring to me. My focus isn't distracted by numb fingers or lobsters freezing. We probably won't be weathering 10 ft seas this time of year. I am able to appreciate the beauty of my surroundings and indulge in a more social setting. Summer has come and I am glad of it.

Practice Makes Perfect

Cap and I were on the water all day enjoying the glassy smooth ocean and taking up a load of traps "down below." First thing this morning I told Cap about the silly dream that I had about being able to fillet a cusk with two swipes of the knife blade. Cap and I periodically catch cusk in lobster traps offshore, but I've never filleted them on my own; I usually have Cap or my dad do it for me. Even they--two experienced fishermen--struggle to fillet cusk, since it has a thick and slimy skin that is very difficult to get ahold of. My dream was clearly a fantasy.

The first buoy that we hauled was one that had been "hung down" for a while and was recently showing. Another fisherman gave Cap a heads up as to its location a few days before. Turned out it was entangled in a huge snarl of 10 traps. Cap must have spent a half hour getting the mess aboard. I could have sworn that his line was going to part in the hauler from all of the pressure with such a weight on the other end. But, miraculously, Cap managed to reveal the ball of traps and I got to working on it. To my pleasant surprise, we caught 3 big cusks in those traps. Upon catching the first, I said "I guess my dream came true!" Cap replied "I was just thinking the very same thing." Each time he pulled a trap over the rail to find a huge cusk flipping violently he said: "Livin' the dream!" Their air bladders were inflated from the dramatic pressure difference as they surfaced, so I didn't even feel bad about keeping them.

When we got to the harbor, I saw my good friend sailing in on her brother's sail boat. Today is her birthday. I rushed to Back Cove where I decided to prepare the fish myself and give some to my friend for her birthday. My dream had somehow given me the confidence to go for it. I'd watched Cap and my dad many times, so I knew the steps, but decided that I just needed to get the feel for it myself by doing the action. The filleting itself was actually a lot easier than I expected, but the slippery skin did make the fish difficult to handle. My fillets aren't perfect.

There are plenty of bones and rough edges. But it worked and now I feel capable of tackling the task again.

My dad and my ex-boyfriend stopped by for moral support while I worked the fish. Both

demonstrated techniques that eased the process. I haven't been so proud of something possibly since my first "A" on a test! I found this newly-learned skill so satisfying because it enables me to process what we catch in the ocean so that I can eat it. It completes the cycle from trap to plate. Catch, fillet, cook, and eat!

I gave some of the fish away to my loved ones. Two fillets went to my farmer friend for her birthday present. My dad took two. And I plan on frying up a fillet for my fisherman friend as a thank you for all of the seafood he's given me. That leaves one fillet for myself, which will be a good three meal's worth. Plenty to go around. I love sharing the fruits of my labor.

Out and About

Today was a good day to be a sternlady. Although I'm tired and sore from our long (9-day) stretch of setting traps, I was refreshed after a good night's sleep. Our current goal is to prepare for summer fishing.

Yesterday we put the cage on the boat. The "cage" is literally a metal cage that keeps lines and buoys from getting entangled in the propellor in the summertime. Fishermen remove the cage when they shift traps offshore in the fall. The cage increases the boat's drag in the water, which decreases fuel efficiency. Since the fall fishing sites are a long steam and the buoys are fewer and further apart, it makes sense to take the cage off for the winter.

We're currently focused on getting our "gang" of traps in the water and preparing for the shedders to migrate close to shore. We have all but 22 of the brand new traps built. That will give Cap a total of 200 blindingly-yellow new traps. The other goal is to shift the 400 traps that are 10 miles to the southard in close to land. We only have 2 more loads to get to accomplish this, one of which we'll get tomorrow. Today's goal was to set 110 traps (2 boat-loads worth).

Enough with logistics! Today was one of those days when I remember why I'm lobstering. It was sunny, warm and flat-calm on the water. All creatures large and small seemed to be out and about, indulging in glorious summer. We worked around the islands all day. I thought I smelled watermelon in the southerly breeze drifting to the boat from Loud's Island. On Haddock Island, we spotted an eagle family. First I saw the dad. He was a brutish bird perched high in a spruce, overlooking his domain. Below him roosted a huge nest that I think I could comfortably sleep in if I could reach it. Mom was sitting defensively next to the nest watching over two fledglings whose heads just cleared the nest's edge. They looked like a happy family.

North of Haddock we crossed a school of what was probably herring. Ironically, the seiners were working just up the Sound, but it seemed that the birds had found the motherload just south of the seining site. Cap pointed out three harbor porpoises surfacing in unison, no doubt having quite a meal. Shags (cormorants) plunged into the water from a good height and emerged from with fish wiggling in their bills. Gulls squacked and scirmished over the fresh fish. Nearby some seals sunned on a ledge, taking advantage of the dry breeze and the warm sun.

Even the banter on the VHF radio seemed a little more light-hearted than it has been. The general feeling around the harbor is anticipation of the shedders arriving. The guys are discussing sports, little league, and are exercising their good will more than ever to bring eachothers traps in from offshore. Everyone's a little cheerier. My favorite comment on the radio today was:"What a couple of bookends!" I missed the context, but I believe he was referring to some lazy folks who were just sitting around-- maybe even on a shelf!

Summer has finally arrived and, boy, am I glad. It's been a long winter. Now for the fun part of fishing! You're not likely to find me on shore much from now on. I'm most likely out and about on the water.

Right Where I Should Be

Despite my periodic campaigns to find a more routine and intellectually-stimulating job, I sometimes wonder if maybe I'm right where I should be. Maybe the fact that Cap called me on my second to last day of my lobster research internship last fall looking for a sternman wasn't so coincidental after all. And maybe, by very slim chance, the fact that I actually answered the lab phone when he called was yet another "non-coincidence."

I have recently been offered a lucrative position as fisheries observer. I've been thinking a lot about it lately. I've had many reservations regarding this job, one being that it involves a lot of travel, and I want to continue living on the Peninsula. The other day when I became motion sick from writing on the boat, I realized that I probably won't be able to be a fisheries observer for exactly that reason. The job description boils down to recording data (writing) on boats. This conclusion in addition to many other factors made me grateful for my current job. I have committed to work with Cap at least for the summer and possibly the fall.

Silly as it may sound, watching the Disney movie "Walle" tonight reminded me of the importance of living off of the land and the sea as opposed to becoming swept up in the movement to develop and modernize. Cap has told me on numerous occasions in an attempt to keep me on as his sternlady that "fishermen are needed" in the world today. I don't think I quite grasped the full meaning of this statement until this evening. Not only is fishing preserving a local tradition, but it is carrying on a way of life.

My closest friend is a farmer. I often feel like I can relate to her for this reason. We have the same schedule (early to bed, early to rise) as well as the same sense of tedium (whether it's baiting traps or sowing seeds) and satisfaction (harvesting fish or vegetables). Our common values have led us to choose similar lifestyles. We speak the same language.

It is an ongoing struggle for me to choose between "climbing the ladder" (returning to school in order to qualify for bigger jobs with more rewards) versus "back to the land" (or the sea in my case). In some ways it's a conflict between the old way of life and the new. But what it really comes down to is values. The "new" life represents money, luxury, and prestige. The "old" life represents . . . doing what you love and what feels right. When the choices are cast in these terms, there's no question in my mind which path I need to take right now. And it doesn't involve puking over the rail of trawlers all summer.

In-Seine

After setting a load of traps yesterday, Cap informed me that we wouldn't be heading "down below" to the southard to pick up any traps due to the dense fog and increasing wind. Instead we headed up the Sound to check out the herring operation.

In "Practicing Forgiveness" I described a dragger that passed us heading north to pick up herring. Turns out this was only the beginning of a procession of ships. A very odd looking sardine carrier passed us during the day yesterday. It had minimal freeboard, sitting very low in the water, an aft wheelhouse and outriggers that seemed to dwarf the narrow craft.

Upon our arrival on the scene, I was surprised to see a dragger that must have been 100 ft in length. We didn't see them in action since they had just finished a set. Cap has described how the operation works here. There is an island that sits close to shore and this is used as a barrier to contain the herring. The northern and southern ends of the island are "shut off" with a seine (stretching from shore to island). The fish are heading south, so when the northern net is opened, the fish are contained in the southern net. Then the seine is hauled back to harvest the fish.

However, this site is also a spot of contention by the local lobstermen. It has been an unwritten rule traditionally, that whoever seines in this area has the right to fish there. In other words, it's a designated fishing grounds (due to the convenient geography) and whoever claims it is entitled to stay there and fish as long as herring are present. However, times are hard and fishermen are contentious. Someone recently stove up the purse seine out of jealousy and ruined a set. Luckily the damage was repairable and the operation has resumed.

When I got back to the landing, I ran into an old classmate who is involved with the process. She enlightened me a bit as to the workings of purse seining. Apparently the huge vessels that we've witnessed passing to and from the site have fish pumps aboard. They lower a huge shute of some sort into the middle of the seine after a set and suck the fish right out of it. Afterward, there are still herring left in the sein. At this point, (wo)man power is required to empty the net. That's when the ol' heave ho comes in and they pull the net aboard, emptying the remaining fish into fish trays.

As we were talking a small plane passed overhead, piloted by a local man who scouts for herring from the air. You can actually see where the fish are from above, since they agitate the water's surface. He can call in to fishermen once he finds a school and report where it is.

There's a local seining boat that's named "In Seine Yo." It's kinda silly, but I like the pun. It seems that the whole town has gone in-seine over herring!

Nicknames

Today when I went to visit Grandpa in The Home, another local old-timer had beat me to it. He was sitting next to Grandpa reading a list: "Spareribs, Tadpole, Skeet . . . " You'd 'a' thought they were practicing vocab to take the SAT or some such nonsense. But Grandpa wasn't replying with definitions or synonyms. Nope, his responses were names. You see "Don" was testing how well Grandpa knew nicknames of the locals. Grandpa can't remember appointments or mealtimes very well, but by gosh I'd say he knew a good 90% of the nicknames listed on that sheet. Don gave him an A on the nickname test.

Nicknames, like boat names and bouy colors, are a form of local identification. But unlike boats and buoys, people don't commonly take pride in their nickname. It isn't a self-appointed pronoun. In fact others often pick the humorous identifying words from humiliating past events or physical/character flaws. Sometimes a person is dubbed as a mere child and the nickname sticks for life. Grandpa told stories behind the names as Don read them: "Yard." "Yahd was small for his age. When he got that name he was just a yahd long." These names may describe a person physically (Wimpy, Pinhead, Barnsmell, Lardass) or might allude their personality (Silent, Hurricane (my great-grandpa), Weasel).

Other names recall a particular situation. I don't think "By the hopping" should count as a nickname due to it's length. Apparently this fellah was a Monheganer who came to the mainland to fish for smelts. He was told off since he was from the Island. His reply was "By the hoppin' Jesus, my mother was from here. I can fish if I want!" A good friend of my Grandpa's and a real character was "Biscuits." Grandpa has a picture of this rather portly fellow in waders next to his armchair. I learned how Biscuits got his name today, even though I've heard talk of him most of my life. It was a rather anticlimactic story, actually. Biscuits brought biscuit sandwiches to school as a child. They coulda done better on that one.

Some other good ones: Bedbug, Tinker, Potty, Pooch, Banjo. Fossett (a common local name) is also a surname providing many golden opportunities for nicknames such as Drippy Fossett and his son Leaky.

For the first time in my life, I learned that my father himself has a nickname. I've always been amused by local nicknames, but it never crossed my mind to ask if Daddy had one. I was disappointed that he wouldn't tell me. I guess, like all the others, it isn't especially flattering. I think I would know by now if I had one. Or would I . . . ?

The Old Folks' Home

About three months ago now, my Grandpa moved from his lonely house to an assisted living home. Being a stubborn 91-yr-old Mainer, he didn't like the idea one bit at first. My folks recommended that he stay there while they went on vacation for a few weeks. My dad's his primary caretaker and didn't want to worry about him while they were gone. So Grandpa reluctantly succumbed to the idea. We all said it would be a temporary thing. But sure enough when my folks returned home and went to take him back to his house he announced that he had decided to stay there.

To our surprise he seemed to be enjoying life there immensely. He participated in all of the group activities and had countless visitors come in to see him. His peaceful and seemingly content outlook was a stark contrast to his lonely depression when he lived at home after my Grandma passed. When we ask how he likes it at The Home he replied "Oh, it's ok." When I ask what activities he did today he says "Oh, nothin'. Us old people don't do much." But his ho-hummness was contradicted by his dramatic change in attitude about life as well as the nurses' raving reviews of his enthusiasm for events.

Selfishly, I'm rather glad that he's there. I can literally see The Home across the river from my apartment. It is very close by and easy for me to visit him. I am comforted knowing he's near-by. I visit him every coulple days. It's also a more central location for the rest of the family. My dad brings our chocolate lab puppy, Zipper, in to visit. My uncle stops by every day after work. Some evenings I go over and watch Wheel and Jeopardy with him. Now that the weather is warming up we go on walks down the road to a church where we can sit on the steps and rest before heading back. He huffs and puffs in the humid air saying "Getting old isn't for sissies, you know." But I know that he will be fine once he catches his breath.

I also ask Grandpa if he has made any friends at The Home. He replies that "they're all old farts," although my dad says that 90% of them are younger than him. Regardless of age, it's true that Grandpa seems more agile and younger-at-heart than many of the residents. He walked daily and helped me load firewood into his garage before moving there. He is lucky to still be so physically capable.

Not all of the residents there are so fit. I have meals with Grandpa once in a while and visit with the group of men with whom he sits every day. They are either wheelchair-bound or use a walker. One table-mate of Grandpa's is particularly feeble. He isn't very old at all, maybe in his 60's, but he has a disease that has caused him to slow down significantly. He actually used to live right down the road from Grandpa, so they knew eachother previously. I'll call him "Hal." Every motion and word of Hal's is painstakenly slow and deliberate. He eats at a snail's pace. When he speaks his reaction time is delayed and his words escape his mouth one at a time or in pairs with a deep breath punctuating the spaces. One has to enter a different mindset when interacting with Hal. A state of loving patience.

I periodically talk about my day of work on the water when Grandpa asks how my day was. I bring relics of my work in to show Grandpa, such as the pictures I've been taking on the boat. This winter I even brought him his favorite fish: smelts. Grandpa can only take so much information, but when Hal is present he becomes alert, appearing thirsty to hear more about fishing. Hal asks many questions. They come slowly and by the time he's finished I struggle to piece together a whole sentence. But once I repeat his words as a question in my head, I am often blown away by how thoughtful and insightful they are. He has asked me the best questions about lobstering that I can recall. I answer to the best of my ability and then he begins another great question. I don't believe he's ever been lobstering, but he has very sharp inquiries about it. He is incredibly mentally acute.

Hal was especially intrigued by the idea of shrimp trapping. He asked many questions about shrimping and professed his deep love for shrimp. He suggested that I bring some in and they could have a shrimp-picking competition. I couldn't help but smile at the thought of how slow their race would be.

I never did bring shrimp in to Hal. Shrimping was so strenuous that I didn't have the energy by the day's end. The other factor is that I couldn't imagine how to do it logistically so that it made sense for the elderly residents. I thought about bringing a bucket of live shrimp to The Home and having them cook it there in the kitchen, but that seemed to be asking too much of the kitchen staff. Then I considered cooking the shrimp for them and letting them pick them out, but the shrimp are prickery and hard on the hands. I wondered if the sharp bills would puncture the old folks' fragile skin. Picking the shrimp for them was beyond my energy capacity.

Lately I've been regretting not fulfilling Hal's simple request. I still have quite a bit of frozen shrimp in my freezer. I think the best way to do it is to make a dish with the frozen shrimp and bring it in for Grandpa and Hal to nibble on. I might even make the lobster-shrimp cakes that seem to top everyone's favorite food list when I cook it for them. Anyhow, don't give up on me, Hal! I have a surprise brewing for you.

Practicing Forgiveness

Today was full of mistakes and regret. Fishermen, being self-employed and prideful, are very hard on themselves when they make a mistake. Cap and I are no exception to this statement.

We are beginning the June ritual of shifting Cap's "gang" of traps in close to the shore. The routine goes like this: "pick up" (or bring aboard) a boatload of 60 traps from where they have been for the past two months roughly 12 miles offshore. We leave these traps right aboard the boat for 2 days to dry. Apparently drying them is a good idea this time of year since it kills the barnacles before leaving them in the water for the whole summer. The next day we are on the water we set these 60 traps close to shore and then go fetch another 60 from a ways off to set the next day out.

The day actually started off just dandy. Cap and I were setting the "dried" traps this morning and I couldn't help but think how safe and easy summer fishing is compared to being on the water in the dead of winter. You don't have to worry about 80 fathom (480 ft) of coiled rope catching your foot as it whizzes over the rail. Instead, we are fishing with single coils of sink rope (about 8 fathom or 48 ft). Even if you do fall in the water, the water temperature is tolerable and there is less danger of getting hypothermic. Just this January a 27-yr-old sternman in Harpswell died from hypothermia when he fell off the boat. It's definitely a concern here in the winter. And if there is trouble on the boat, assistance is ready at hand, since there is plenty of company in the Bay and our traps are just a stone's throw from shore. I am glad to usher in summer.

The morning entertainment consisted first of a wildlife sighting. There was a seal nearby with head, flippers, and tail raised in the air supported by a ledge just beneath the water's surface, so it looked like he was just sitting on top of the water. I thought that was pretty cute. He was clearly enjoying the warmer weather.

When the seal dove in, a looming figure on the horizon distracted my attention. It approached quickly and appeared to be headed right for us, unwavering in its navigational course. I jokingly said to Cap "It looks like they're gonna run right over us!" with a sarcastic smile. But Cap merely grunted in reply. He didn't seem so amused. As the hulk neared us, the ship continued

to head straight for us and then shifted very slightly in it's course at the last minute to miss us. I couldn't help but stare at it dumbfounded by the size of this vessel while Cap tried to stay out of it's way. It was a huge dragger of maybe 80 feet in length appropriately named "Fishermen's Pride." We later learned that it was headed up the Sound to pick up some herring that some fellow lobstermen are seining.

We then motored along and set a string at the mouth of the Harbor. This is when things started going downhill. Cap was so intently focused on avoiding the bouys, since he doesn't have the "cage" (that protects the boat's propellor) on yet, that he hit a ledge close to shore. It was minor but it made a god-awful sound and Cap made some not-so-pleasant sounds to go along with it.

Then it was my turn. When we shift the traps in, we are setting them as "singles" (one trap per bouy) as opposed to "pairs" (two traps per bouy), which they were previously. Therefore, the tailer traps have a short line tied to the bridles, which we tie directly to the buoy to make a single and the lead traps have no line, so we add coils to those bridles. We were setting a string of lead (empty) traps and somehow I neglected to tie the rope to the bridle of one of them before setting it. In other words, I lost one of Cap's traps. This time I made some not-so-pleasant sounds and apologized profusely to Cap for my negligence. Luckily, it was in shallow water and it would be possible to dive and recover the trap.

Finally, I had the brilliant idea of bringing pencil and paper along with me today to write a blog post the old-fashioned way on the steam out to pick up our next load of traps. I've gotten carsick all my life when I read or write in a moving vehicle, but for some reason it never crossed my mind that I might also get motion sickness while writing on a moving boat. Well, I did. I was sea sick for a few hours as we loaded the boat with traps. I gotta say, it isn't much fun. We picked up half a load (30 traps) and Cap said that it was time to head in. I told him I was feeling better, which I was although I couldn't even think about eating, and that we shouldn't cut the day short on account of me. So we plugged on and managed to load the boat. Once again, I was kicking myself for not thinking.

The lesson today was forgiveness. I often hear fishermen all but lashing their own backs, agonizing over mistakes and deeply regretting past moves. It's easy for me to sympathize and then tell them that they learned from the experience and that it's time to move on. But somehow that isn't so easy to tell yourself. Today was the epitome of physical challenge for me (working on an empty belly, an upset tummy, and very little water), but the biggest challenge was to forgive myself for my mistakes and to learn from them. The ability to forgive oneself is an important skill in life, just as long as the mistake is transformed into a learning experience and isn't simply forgotten.

The Landing

Round Pond Harbor, like many Maine harbors, is becoming increasingly segregated by class. As well-off people from away are drawn to this quaint, beautiful little port, they bring their enormous SUVs and yachts along with them on vacation. There are some harbors where the juxtaposition of wealthy and working-class isn't so obvious, such as Camden where all of the boats are yachts. But somehow when you see an 80 ft sailboat with mechanized sails moored next to a smelly old "Novey boat" (a particular build of hull from Nova Scotia that is especially clumsy-looking, but very steady on the sea) the disparity in class is rather glaring.

This segregation is only reinforced by the two docks at the town landing. The docks are practically right beside eachother, separated only by two boat ramps. Yet to inspect them individually, you would expect them to be from hundreds of miles apart (one from Long Island and the other from Downeast Maine). These docks are markedly different in that one is utilized primarily by people from away and summer folks, while the other is used by the fishermen.

A good friend of mine refers to the summer people's dock as the "bourgeois dock" since it represents the upper class in the Harbor. This is where the yachties tie their skiffs used to motor or row to their towering, perfectly-polished and manicured yachts. At this float you see graceful, freshly varnished and painted wooden skiffs as well as Zodiacs (little inflatable rafts with a small outboard motor that are commonly used to get to and from shore from a pleasure boat). This float has a foot rail with little numbers that denote "parking spaces" where one can tie the painter of one's skiff. I assume that these parking spaces are rented for the summer, but I wouldn't know.

Just to the north of the bourgeois dock sits the dock belonging to the common-folk and locals. It isn't difficult to notice some differences. The fishermen's float is over-crowded and populated with little run-down skiffs used to ferry to and from lobster boats. Fishermen employ all sorts of gnarly craft to get from dock to mooring and back. These nobel vessels are often a display of a lobsterman's two most prominent characteristics: ingenuity and thriftiness. Lobstermen's skiffs are often rough fiberglass or aluminum with a small horsepower outboard or oars to power them. Boaters from the neighboring dock probably think of the fishermen's skiffs as eyesores. But, personally, I think they display character. You can tell a lot about a man by looking at his skiff.

One of my favorite local skiffs is a rectangular punt with an old garden hose stapled around the perimeter as a makeshift rubrail. The owner is known as one of the cheapest guys in the harbor, yet he isn't poor. My dad says it looks like he picked his punt up at the dump. Not unlikely. It's a wonder that the thing still floats. But sure enough it gets "Tuba" back and forth from his WWII Coast Guard boat and probably has done so for 50 years.

Some fishermen are even so fond of their skiff that they name it. A cute one is a little yellow skiff named "Spud" that accompanies the lobster boat "Potatoe." There are a few aluminum skiffs with endearing names scratched crudely on the transom including "Little 'N'."

Cap's skiff is appropriately practical and modest, like the captain himself. It is a 12 foot flat-

bottomed skiff built of plywood with a fiberglass coating and a 25 hp motor. This skiff ferries bundles of rope, trays full of bait and us to the boat every morning that we haul traps. It even breaks through the ice in a bitter January freeze. It lives at the latter-mentioned dock amidst a claustrophobic cluster of others. We literally have to push and shove the other skiffs aside to wedge in between them and get close enough to tie the painter to the rail. It's an ongoing struggle. But I don't suppose Cap's skiff would fit in at the other dock. It would be an ugly duck amongst the others even if Cap was willing to pay to tie up there.