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.
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