Dying Eyes

Today I had perhaps the closest thing that I've ever had to a flashback. It didn't jolt my whole body or black out my surroundings to focus solely on one image from the past the way flashbacks do in the movies. It was simply a form of deja vouz. A powerful one.

I was doing a fairly routine activity: butchering a sculpin. We catch sculpin in the traps and then string them on the bait line as fresh bait. I try to kill them as quickly as possible to put them out of their misery. First I pierce the head to, hopefully, kill it. Then I slice open the body to make it more appetizing to the lobsters and finally skewer the head with the bait iron. When the fish first lands in my bait tray, as it thrashes around wildly, its eyes are black and shiny. Sometimes I can even detect anger reflected in them, or maybe it's fear.

Today after I punctured the third or fourth cartilaginous head, I watched the sculpin for a minute. I could see the life fading from its eyes. That piercing, shiny black dulled to a hazy grey. Then the mouth fell open and the body went limp. This reminded me of Liza's last breath.

When I was about nine years old, it hit me that I probably wasn't going to have siblings. I asked my parents if I could have a brother. Instead, they took me to pick out a black lab puppy. The pups were only a few weeks old when we first saw them. Their eyes weren't even open yet. I sat on the ground with them and the runt of the litter crawled over to me and into my lap. She was my new baby sister. I named her Liza Marie.

Liza was the first animal that I witnessed mature from a juvenile to an adult. We wrestled, ran, played, and swam together as sisters do. Needless to say, she was my best friend. She had the biggest heart of any non-human I've ever known. I could that she loved me when she looked at me and, boy, did I love her.

But as we matured, the division between human and non-human became more pronounced. I watched her become a beautiful, athletic, adult dog. And she watched me go away to college. It wasn't fair. I'll never forget the look on her face when I drove out of the driveway, not to return for months. It broke my heart every time.

Eventually Liz grew older. That's the thing that sucks about canine friends: they get old before you do. Liza lived to be fifteen. Her heart became weak in the last few years of her life. She had periodic seizures. One evening Daddy called me up to tell me that Liza was dying. I have never driven so fast on the Bristol Road in my life. This time her seizure was prolonged. It didn't stop. Her head bobbed back and forth and her body moved involuntarily. I laid down on the floor next to her and held her all night like that. In the morning we decided to take her to the vet and put her down. She wasn't happy. She couldn't control her bowels or eat or drink. I certainly wouldn't want to live in that state.

I held Liza's head as the vet injected the poison into her veins. I told her how much I loved her and what a great friend she's been. My mother and I watched the life fade from her eyes. The bright, black pupils dulled to a hazy grey. She stopped seizing. Liz was finally at peace.

Looking back at my calender after work today, I saw that Liza died exactly a year and four days ago today. Somehow my subconscious knew this even though I wasn't aware of it.

Meeting my Hero

Yesterday I met my hero: the best-selling author and well-acclaimed swordfishing captain Linda Greenlaw.

I admit I was pretty nervous when I approached the table where she was signing books. I recognized her sharp brown eyes, weathered face, and winning smile immediately, yet I had never laid eyes on her in person before. My intention had been to tell her about my blog, upon meeting her. However, suddenly in her presence I felt inexperienced and insignificant. How could such a tiny woman have such an enormous presence? I was humbled standing there in front of her. Instead I told her how I am a sternman, careful not to use a gendered noun, since I know she doesn't believe in that. I went on to tell her that I've read all of her books and what an inspiration she's been to me. She signed my dad's copy of her latest book Seaworthy and was moving her focus to the next folks in line when I asked if I could have my picture taken with her. Before I knew it she jumped up

and threw her arm over my shoulder enthusiastically. I was surprised to have to bend toward her to level our shoulders. I was wearing pumps but there was still a difference in height. She's actually shorter than me!

Then she spoke. The room was completely packed--I had to kneel since all of the sitting and standing room was taken. That woman may be mousy in proportions, but her presence and her words are enough to move mountains. To hear her speak it's no wonder that she could command the 70-foot Sea Hawk and three men who are each close to three times her size. She had the whole room roaring in laughter at the story of Uncle Paddy, her only crew member who died on board (from drinking), which she somehow managed to make a funny story. And she had me close to tears several times, when she spoke of her passion for the ocean, simply because I could relate to her words.

Here were some of the highlights from her talk and some of my favorite quotes:

"Seamanship is half experience and half common sense."

"I didn't have anything to do with being born female. I was just lucky." This was with reference to her wanting to be recognized as a great captain and a good writer, independently from being acknowledged as a woman.

5 Points of Advice for Students:

1. "When opportunity knocks, you have to answer the door." In other words, it doesn't just fall into your lap; you have to snatch it up when you get the chance.

2. "Gender isn't an issue."

I wondered what Linda would think of my blog. Would she think that I'm making an issue of gender, when it isn't a big deal? Did attending Smith College give me a gendered view of the world? Is my blog too gender-centric??

While I agree with Linda that the sexes are equally capable, I also don't pretend to ignore the differences between men and women and how they are sometimes still perceived differently. The differences, in my view, are strictly biological. Yet those biological differences can indeed carry greater implications for behavior and experience. This is a topic that I continue to develop my opinion on and probably will be doing so for the remainder of my inhabitance on this planet.

3. "Hard work is my greatest asset. I'm not better than anyone. I just work harder than most."

4. "Education can't be wasted. I use it every day on the boat." This was in response to past comments that she was "wasting" her Colby degree. I could definitely relate to this point and was glad that she addressed it.

5. As a child she asked her mom: "Do I have to be a girl?"

Her mother's response: "No!"

Lesson? You don't have to follow societal gender roles. Be yourself!

It was impossible to oversee Linda's deep passion for fishing. Fishing is clearly what inspires her. She comes alive when she talks about it. Her written words are further evidence of this love. Upon hearing her describe how fishing makes her feel, I realized that while I enjoy the adventure of it, I'm not "consumed" (to use her word) by fishing the way she is. Our attitudes undoubtedly reflect our different positions on the boat. Being a captain is a more fulfilling role: the captain actually thinks. Whereas a good sternman is described as having "a strong back and a weak mind." I have a fairly strong back for my size, but my mind needs to be engaged for me to feel fulfilled with my work. I value diversity and balance in my life and daily activities. It's hard to describe the redundant motions of fishing as "diverse" and it is hardly a balanced lifestyle. This was perhaps my most important conclusion from hearing Linda speak: I don't want to fish for the rest of my life. Power to ya woman, but I could never do what you do!

Afloat

I had an amusing thought today: How would I describe my job to someone who works in a cubicle? I'm not sure why this idea crossed my mind. I don't actually know anyone who works in a cubicle. But there are many such people out there and I guess I thought I should be prepared. :)

Here goes nothin'.

Well, first take your comfy little cubicle and float it on the ocean. You aren't looking at a plastic wall anymore; you're looking out at islands and open ocean. There are other cubicles afloat out there. It is no longer a stable surface. It is constantly in motion and so you must move with it. Not against it, but with it. Hope you don't get seasick. Next replace your sterile air conditioning with a fresh, salty sea breeze. Aaaah, now isn't that better?

OK, now that you think this is a fun picnic, I'm gonna take your padded, lumbar-supporting, twirly chair away. That's right. You can keep your desk, but no chair. You have to stand all day.

I'll spare you the embarrassment of changing your attire in front of me, but I would recommend rubber boots, gloves, and Grundens over your pressed Armani suit and loafers. Besides, I think they might suit you better. ;)

Like your coffee breaks, do you? Well, sorry, bud, but you don't have those anymore. Actually there are no formal breaks at all. You have to hurry to eat, drink, and urinate between strings of traps, when there is a short steam. Oh yeah and there's no bathroom aboard. Your throne is a bucket. So byo-TP.

Hmmm. . . what else? Oh, yes. Instead of your boss and co-workers sending you "memos" on little sticky notes, you get verbal memos on the VHF radio. But the memos are no longer regarding deadlines and important phone conferences. Instead they are about traps that your buddy recovered for you and which way the tide is running. They are regarding your surrounding environment instead of abstract goals.

The end of the day is no longer marked by the hour hand on your Rolex striking 5 o-clock. It is the end of the day when your captain says so. No if's, and's or but's. And certainly no complaining. If your feet hurt, suck it up and bear it. Swearing is permitted if a hardshell pinches you. Yelling is only appropriate for falling overboard. Don't bother with chit-chat. It will fall on deaf ears.

Pogified

Lobstering is a messy business. There's a good reason that it was featured on the Discovery Channel's series "Dirty Jobs" with Mike Rowe. It's dirty.

In my opinion, perhaps the dirtiest part of lobstering is pogies. Herring can be messy, for sure. Especially greasy, rotten herring on a hot day. Everything gets coated with herring oil. Pogies, on the other hand, are a bloody fish. They have deep crimson guts that turn black when oxidized and splatter all over everything. When I first handled pogies I quickly learned to break the heads off away from my face. I don't care to elaborate on the consequences of splitting pogies towards my face. It isn't pretty. I'll leave it at that.

The other evening I was having dinner with my friends, and someone asked pleasantly what everyone did that day.

My friends responded:

"I went canoeing on the lake all day," the first said happily.

"Played with screeching little girls all day," another replied sounding tired.

I came last: "Turned pogies inside-out all day."

They thought I was joking. Then someone asked how you turn a pogie inside-out.

"Well. First, you rip the head off. Then you run your finger down the length of the belly to split it in half. . ."

No joke. That's what I do.

You see, a pogy is a distinct fish. It has a rather thick skin, but the insides are very soft and squishy. If you put a whole, unadultered pogy in a bait bag, even a lobster might have a hard time cracking it. So we help them out a bit. By turning them inside-out, you are exposing the meaty insides to the lobsters, making the bait absolutely irresistible. Turning a pogy inside out is a tricky task, believe it or not. The vertebrae are very sharp and if you run your finger along the belly to split it open, you have to be very careful not to get a spine bone splinter. I've done this countless times and it doesn't feel good.

Pogies, also called menhayden, used to be a big fishery around these parts. I distinctly remember a summer during my youth when a huge school of pogies came up the Damariscotta River and were washed ashore, leaving the whole Town steeped in a heinous odor resembling bad cheese. Little did I know how well-versed I would become in pogy annihilation.

Cap used to go seining for pogies. He told a story of once time when they filled a dory with pogies and one of the fishermen's wives jumped in the boat barefoot, standing on top of the fish exuberantly. Well, she didn't remain standing for long. Unlike other fish, pogies have razor-sharp gill plates. When this woman jumped on the pile of pogies barefoot, the gill plates cut into her feet. Cap said her feet were a bloody mess. Ugh.

But the simple fact is that lobsters like them. Hence why we tolerate the blood and gore of my least favorite bait fish. They catch lobsters. The other day I was trying to picture pogies from a lobster's perspective. They are probably comparable to chocolate for lobsters. Imagine if you were just walking along and encountered a piece of delectable Lindt milk chocolate dangling in mid-air. I would be a goner. Good thing I'm not a lobster!

Choreography

Here I am yet again likening the brutal, dirty work of lobstering to the beautiful, refined art of dance! When I find myself in such fantastical daydreams, I stop and think: Really, Katherine! Alvin Ailey and Nureyev would be outraged by the comparison to look at a lobster boat steeped in mud and pogy blood with brutes of men clobbering around on deck. I suppose it isn't all that surprising given that fishing and dance are two of my passions in life, both of which inspire me.

Regardless of how horrifying the idea may be to a prima ballerina, lobstering does indeed involve quite a bit of carefully calculated choreography. I believe that it takes some degree of awareness of movement to be a good fisherman of any sort. However, when working in a fishery that involves trapping and especially in an industry that is as dependent on quantity as lobstering is, every movement must be meticulously efficient.

Our routine is very methodical. We preform the same sequence over and over again. Once the trap hits the rail, Cap carefully removes lobsters from the trap. The flick of my wrist slides the bait bag onto the bait line. The trap's door slams shut, the bungee fixed in place and -splash!- the trap hits water again. The boat gracefully pirouettes under the direction of Cap's steady hand.

I sashe across the deck as the line rushes overboard, careful not to get my feet entangled in it. Sashe, a glorified shuffle, isn't just a pretty dance move. Who knew?! It is also a practical movement when there's rope on the deck. I used to find it amusing how Cap shuffled about, assuming that it was another endearing quirk in his personality. Turns out shuffling on deck is actually a safety precaution. It didn't take me long to realize that Cap was shuffling so as not to lift his feet and snag a line. Now I do the same.

This isn't to say that every movement on the boat is planned and efficient, although that is the intention. There are plenty of inconsistencies that slow us down. A line snarled with another fishermen's rope. Lobsters pinching us. A trap sliding off the rail when we don't want it to. These are the frustrations and mistakes that make our dance unique. This is the variation that makes life interesting.

Like Father, Unlike Daughter

A few times in the process of being interrogated about lobstering, I have been asked how I like my captain. This is a good question, because one's boss plays a prominent role in whether a person is content with their job. There are innumerable captains who I wouldn't be happy working with. To be honest, I can't imagine working with a better captain, but I guess I'm a little biased. I probably wouldn't still be lobstering today if Cap hadn't been the one inviting me back aboard. My response to their question: "I really enjoy working with him. He's kinda a fatherly figure for me."

In fact a few times other fishermen have made the assumption that I am Cap's daughter.

This winter Cap was talking with another lobsterman on the dock when I came up the ladder from the boat. "Oh look," he remarked pleasantly. "You brought your daughter along."

Cap replied: "No, that's my sternman."

Duh, I thought to myself.

The other instance occurred just last week, also at the dock. Cap went to get the boat and I stayed at the dock, unloading the truck. Another boat pulled up and the captain asked me: "You waiting for your dad?"

"No, just waiting on Cap."

I asked where his helper was.

"Oh, she has the day off. She's 13, my friend's daughter, and I don't think she really likes the smell of the bait."

A sternlady in training! I thought to myself.

"She'll get used to it," I lied.

"Yeaaaah. . ." was his skeptical response.

While Cap and I both have brown, wavy hair and wear glasses, the resemblance ends there. In fact, I don't think we look anything alike at all. He is 6' and lanky, yet muscular. I am 5' 5" and, well, sturdy. Not fat, not thin, just sturdy. The only reason that others might mistaken us for kin is due to our age difference. Cap is 33 years older than me. In other words, he is old enough to be my father. In fact, I grew up with his son, who is just about my age. The other reason that they might assume our association is familial is that there aren't many women who aren't blood relatives, wives, or girlfriends of lobstermen who choose to be sternladies.

Although I don't think we look alike, our working relationship shares some aspects of my relationship with my father. Cap is a thoughtful, considerate and gentle person, as is my dad. He treats me very well and I try to do the same for him. For Christmas I gave him a headlamp, so that he could better see while working in the engine compartment and free up his hands. I watched him use it in the dark bowels of the boat, the headlamp emitting a pinprick of a laser beam that appeared almost impossible to aim at his target. He exclaimed how well it worked, sweetly. He let me take home a few lobsters for the holidays, which I brought to my dad as his Christmas present.

Yet, our relationship is also unlike father and daughter in a good way. I am patient and forgiving with Cap at times when I would have extreme difficulty being so with my own father. There have been many occasions when I have thought to myself: Good thing Cap's teaching me this and not Daddy. Sometimes I am unable to listen to my dad's instructions as I should. And sometimes he is simply unable to teach me things. This isn't to say that I haven't learned anything from my father, as he has taught me a great deal in life and I am very grateful for that. It is simply to acknowledge that I am also grateful to have a fatherly figure who isn't my father and who can teach me many things about the ocean.

Sternlady in Training

This afternoon we were hauling traps at a leisurely tempo, since it was hot and we were both worn out, when an unfamiliar green-hulled boat fell in the same rhythm, hauling a string alongside us. I glanced over while I stuffed bait bags to wave at the captain. He waved back. I was a bit surprised not to see a sternman on a boat that size. Often the bigger boats are owned by fairly serious lobstermen, who need a deck hand to haul all of their gear.

I tended to a trap, and then looked back at the boat while preparing to bait the next trap. This time a little head with a pony-tail popped up over the rail. The head barely cleared the rail when this sternman was standing. He had his little girl sterning for him! A sternlady in training! I thought this was neat and couldn't help but watch her each time I had the chance. I don't think she was more than 5-years-old, but she had her own oil pants and a little baseball cap, just like me! She had a blue bucket that she splashed water around with, keeping the boat tidy while her dad worked. Pretty cute.

This brought me back to the days when I used to "help" my Daddy. My dad was captain of two draggers when I was little,

as I've mentioned before, and he was my hero even back then. I loved it when Mommy took me to the boat to see what Daddy and his crew were working on. I distinctly remember climbing down the huge ladder (which isn't so big now) to get to his boat. I remember the smell of Ritz crackers and Gojo in the wheelhouse. Even though I couldn't really help Daddy work back then (I was only 4 or 5), I was thrilled by the adventure of visiting Daddy's boat.

When my dad stopped fishing (one boat sank and he sold the other in the government buy-out program), he continued to take me to work in the summers. He had his own appliance repair business and took me with him to people's houses. By that age I could actually be of use. I learned the tools that he used so that I could pass them to him. I removed screws and held the flashlight for him when his hands were busy. The customers were charmed that he brought his "little helper" along. I, of course, loved it. I drew Daddy pictures that he put up behind his head in his work van.

To this day, I continue to be my dad's right-hand-woman. On the 4th of July I spent my evening helping Daddy replace a fridge on the third floor of our family inn. It turned out to be quite a challenge. We had to wheel the fridge out to the tiny balcony on a dolly, remove the porch railing, and wheel it down 2 flights of stairs. At that point one of the guests at the cottages appeared and asked if we needed help. My dad said that we were doing fine and that he had a lobsterman helping him. The older man looked at me skeptically. I admit, my attire didn't exactly make me look like a sternlady. I was sporting a skort and tank top with cute little sneakers. I looked more like I was on my way to a tennis match than moving heavy appliances up and down 3 stories. He ended up helping us and the fridge slid into place with ease. It wasn't a very restful day, but it was satisfying none-the-less.

I realized yesterday when I was helping Daddy, that maybe one reason that I am the way that I am is because I am both an only child and a girl. My dad didn't have a son to take out fishing and to teach how to fix and build things. So in some ways I learned

both the skills that are traditionally taught to girls as well as the ones taught to boys. This was reinforced by the fact that I am interested in learning these skills of self-sufficiency. I don't believe that my father would have treated me any differently had I been a boy or if I had a brother. But I think that being an only daughter did in some way shape my self-perception, which ultimately influenced the type of jobs that I've chosen. I think being raised to believe that I can do anything that I put my mind to (without a brother challenging that idea) has encouraged me to do some of the hardest work around: lobstering. This mentality has also instilled a solid work ethic in me. If I am capable of doing anything that I set my mind to, then I am able to do anything! There are no excuses to prove otherwise.

I hope very much to some day have a little girl of my own. I'm gonna show that girl how to do everything.

Slithering Slipknots

My new favorite task on the boat is working with rope. This winter rope-handling often felt burdensome because there was so much rope (one warp could be as long as 80 fathom or 480 ft). It was heavy to handle especially when wet. However, now that shoaler fishing days have arrived, rope is fun to work with. Little 8 fathom warps are light to coil and many of them will fit in a bundle without it getting too heavy to heave around.

I enjoy making neat, symmetrical coils out of it. I have worked up to the speed of the hauler, which makes things much easier. This winter, an unmanagable tangle would fall beneath Cap's feet as the rope fell on the deck faster than I could coil it. Cap would then step on it as he pulled the trap over the rail, which really stressed me out since it kept me from continuing. But now I have coiling down to a "T." I can now coil a nice tidy warp and then tie it off with ease. It has taken a lot of practice for me to get this skill down.

I also greatly enjoy untying a warp and dropping it to the deck to make a satisfying little thud. Our trap-setting routine is punctuated by such thuds, setting the rhythm of the day. But my favorite part of rope is watching it uncoil after Cap pushes the trap over the rail and the line whizzes off the boat behind it. Sometimes I watch it as I stuff bait bags, just to see what the line does. That perfect little coil becomes alive. It has a life of its own; the movement of that nylon is completely unpredictable. Like a serpent swimming freely, twisting, rolling, stretching, then straightening out. Like a snake awakening from napping in a tight coil, slithering away from its resting spot, then spotting prey. . . stalking. . . and *pop* the line jumps over the rail once the buoy is thrown.

However, the lines aren't always agreeable. In fact they can cause great consternation in a matter of seconds. All it takes is a loop of rope emerging from the bottom and protruding up through the top of the coil on deck. As the line runs overboard feeding off of the top of the coil, it can catch that little loop and pull the whole mess overboard in one swoop, creating a horrible tangle. This is why it's important to drop the coil neatly and examine it for possible mishaps before setting the trap. A little loop can cause a whole lot of trouble.

Rope has a life of its own, but as I become more familiar and experienced in handling it, I am learning to guide it and make the process of setting traps much smoother. This isn't to say that we don't still have tangles once in a while. They are just becoming less frequent and more manageable.

My Friend

It's about time that I wrote about something that only sternladies experience. In fact, all women experience it at some point in their lives. No, I'm not talking about perms or even painting your nails red. It's something far more serious and unavoidable than these feminine rituals. I'm referring to menstration. My great-grandmother, after whom I'm named, used to refer to it as "your friend." There have been times when I was so relieved and joyous that it arrived, that indeed it felt like greeting an old friend. However, when I'm working on a boat, I'm not always so elated to see it.

Confession of a Sternlady #84: I menstrate. In a bucket.

OK, so maybe all women don't have their periods in a bucket. But some of us do. Linda Greenlaw might have her period in a bucket. Not likely, though. If she even gets her period anymore, she has sold enough books that she surely could afford a "head" on her boat. Probably has a leather toilet seat too. Maybe that's why Linda decided to go back to swordfishing: because she went through menopause! She figured: "Nothing's keeping me back now! No more bucket for me!"

I admit: I was daunted at the thought of having my period on the boat the first time it happened. That dreaded trickle sneaked up on me and I got all flustered. I looked around frantically. No toilet. No toilet seat. And certainly no little stainless box in which to dispose used sanitary napkins. I didn't even have the luxury of rest stop accomodations! My eyes fell on the bucket. I thought to myself: "Alright, Bucket, one of us is getting off of this boat clean and it ain't gonna be you." Turned out it wasn't so bad. I got used to it by the second time around. Now I even use a bucket at home! (Just kidding.)

Turning pogies inside-out is the last thing that I want to do when I'm bloated and bleeding, but I summoned my energy and kept plugging away. I daydreamed about curling up in my comfy, soft bed and eating a pint of Ben&Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream while watching a cheesy chick flick. Maybe even have a handsome man rub my feet and massage my back. OK, now I'm really dreaming!

I had to settle for sitting on the deck instead. Cap had to reset a trap and didn't need me for 2 short minutes. I scanned around the boat surreptitiously, about to steal a break. I don't like slacking when the boys are watching. The coast was clear so I allowed the weight of my body to slide down the wall of the lobster tank. I sat on a surprisingly comfortable bundle of rope, stretching my sore feet out in front of me. You wouldn't believe the relief that this position brought my feet and back, both of which were quite uncomfortable from working. The shade of the wheelhouse fell on me as the boat pirouetted around at the touch of Cap's steady hand, and I was perfectly content.

Then the trap splashed in the water, and I jumped to my feet to resume pogie annihilation. Cap needed me. And besides, I thought, it'll make a great blog post! This is what my friend Annie said to me when I was complaining about what a miserable day it was going to be on the water at one point this winter. Now it has become my mantra on the most dismal days of lobstering. The more miserable it is, the better the writing will be. So here you have it: a blog post about menstrating on the boat.

Heat Wave

I know it's going to be a hot day when I can wear a tank top at 5:30 am, as I step out the door to my car. It's nice that it is actually light at that hour now, as opposed to this winter when the sun didn't rise until we were steaming south (hours later).

Cap and I convened at the Landing, as usual, leaning against his truck bed to catch up briefly on the holiday before the day commenced. Cap had gone fishing on his day off, go figure. That man just can't get enough fishing! He went looking for groundfish and ended up spending all day on the water.

Today when we walked down the ramp to the skiff, a captain was waiting in his boat at the dock. He said he was waiting on his sternman. This isn't surprising on the morning after Independence Day. Many a fisherman was partying yesterday, the least responsible of whom no doubt paid for it this morning.

However, I shouldn't judge because there was one day this winter when my Cap was the one waiting for me at the dock. It was during shrimping season, when we had a deadline to be at the dock and it was important to start on time. I had a small battery-operated alarm clock that was set for 4:30 am. You can probably guess what happened. The battery died. I woke up at 6 am. My cell phone was in silence mode, so the phone didn't ring when Cap called asking where I was. I was mortified. I called his house frantically. Mrs. Cap informed me that he had left without me. There was only one thing left to do: show up a the Harbor. So I drove (a bit too fast) to Round Pond to find Cap all donned in his full oil gear (which he didn't usually do until 10 miles offshore) aboard a super-organized boat. He'd been delaying for an hour and half waiting for me! I told him I'd never do it again and I didn't. I now rely on my cell phone alarm instead of battery power.

First thing this morning we loaded 10 traps on the boat. I was dripping in sweat before we even left the Harbor. As we hauled some traps along the southern shore, I cringed to hear the piercing buzz of the cicada. I dread that noise in the summer. It means we are bound for a long hot day. However, that whining little insect was deceiving. A cool sea breeze came up in an hour or two and I was quite grateful to be on the water instead of in the stagnant, humid air on land.

A strong, steady breeze had built by the afternoon. It was a good day for sailing. As we hauled up the Sound, a few sailboats were heeled over, rubrail in water, racing by. One even headed straight for us. Cap had to move after we had the trap aboard to avoid one. I thought it a bit rude of them not to change their course, but they did have the right-of-way after all.

At the end of the day, we hauled traps just outside of Round Pond. Looking back at the Harbor, all manner of boaters were indulging in the cool ocean breeze. Little white right triangles darted here and there as part of a sailing class, kids splashing neighboring boats as they sailed by. A father rowed his young son around the harbor in a rowboat. A few paddlers speeded by in kayaks, their paddles rotating like blades of a windmill. A young family took a canoe for a spin around the Harbor, mom and dad sandwiching two little ones protectively.

When we returned to the harbor, there was a hoard of children jumping off of the dock and having a grand ol' time. I longed to join them. I had to wait until we unloaded the lobsters and put the boat "to bed" on the mooring to go swimming. Diving into the cool water was such a relief back in the heat of the harbor. The seawater soothed my sore, swollen feet and my sunburned back. Maybe I'll wear my bathing suit under my work clothes tomorrow in anticipation of this moment at the end of the day!

Love

Today my visit to the old folk's home was especially touching. Grandpa has been in a different home since he had a stroke three weeks ago. The new home is associated with the hospital and has intensive therapy that's helping him to recover his balance and ability to swallow solids.

This afternoon when I went in to visit, the nurse was helping Grandpa, so I sat in the hall until he was finished. An old married couple walked/wheeled to the seat next to me to sit and chat. The wife pushed her husband in his wheelchair. They sat and she asked (loudly) "Do you know who I am today?" His response was a mumble accentuated with consonants, almost discernible, but not quite. Then she asked "Can you speak today?" Another garbled reply. I was near tears listening to them. This is love, I thought. Real love.

The nurse emerged from Grandpa's room to tell me he was ready to visit. Grandpa's roommate, a German fellow, sat outside the door in his wheelchair waiting to get to his bed. I wheeled him over to his side of the room and helped him onto the bed. He sat upright and asked for his accordion. The accordion is the next instrument that I'd like to learn how to play. He slowly put his arms through the straps and began to play beautiful notes that melded into one another gracefully. I was mesmerized. It was so loud that Grandpa and I couldn't talk over the music, but I was quite happy to sit and listen. His notes were soulful. He stared nostalgically out the window as he played, a glimpse of youth in his pale blue eyes.

When he was done, he set the instrument down next to him on his bed. I went to place it back on the table so that he could lie down. He told me the story of it. How he bought it in Germany and brought it over with him. He showed me his hands, his joints knobby with arthritis. He said it was hard to play now because his fingers were stiff. I said you'd never know to hear him. Again, I almost cried to think of playing music being painful.

I told him that I love the accordion and would like to learn how to play. That was when I received my first lesson. He told me how to wear the straps. Then he showed me the motion with his arms and pointed out the bass side, explaining how this was the background sound. Then he explained that he presses two buttons on the other side at the same time to "make a nice sound." My noises didn't sound nearly as soothing as his, more like tripping than waltzing, but the notes that swelled from the bellows struck me even more to hear them escaping from my own hands.

I returned to Grandpa's side of the room to visit for a while after the music lesson. I touched his arm and looked into his eyes without speaking and he returned my gaze accompanied by a cute little sideways smile. Again I felt full of love. Grandpa reminded me that his 92nd birthday is coming up in two weeks. I was sad to think of him not being able to eat his traditional birthday lobster. We always have a big lobster dinner for his birthday. I thought to myself that maybe I could puree some lobster for him this year. Better yet, maybe I could catch it too!

My visit to the old folk's home today was yet another reminder that it's the little things in life that count. Money can't buy you love.

Tuna Fever

I don't know anything about tuna fishing. But I do know one thing: the boys get their panties all tied up in a knot in excitement over it. Lately, the radio has been abuzz with tuna sightings.

A few large lobsterboats in the harbors are sporting mighty rods that jut high above the roof of the wheelhouse. I get a rush just looking at the rods and imaging a fish large enough to cause a rod that size to arch under tension as it swims and fights. Just the other day a young fisherman on the Peninsula caught a decent-sized fish. Hope is contagious after one is caught so close to home.

"Iris L. You on this one, Stew?"

"Go ahead," my ex-boyfriend's great-uncle responds.

"Just spotted some little 'uns off the north end of the Middle Grounds."

"Thanks. I'll check it out."

I was amazing to hear a hint of excitement in his voice. His characteristic grumpy grumble lifts at the mention of tuna, making him sounds 20 years younger.

Cap has all of the equipment to go tuna fishing, but he doesn't feel that it's worth burning the fuel. He explained to me that the Japanese have flooded the market such that only very good-quality fish that are worthy of the sushi market are valuable enough to make it worth your effort. Apparently, fish of this caliber are quite rare around here. But a few of the guys are game for the adventure of it. All fishing is a gamble and they probably figure why not gamble on something exciting?

Lobstering isn't all that exciting at the moment. The shedders are trickling in, but haven't arrived in full force yet. At this point it's a waiting game. It's wise to keep the traps baited so that we know when they hit. But we aren't making money yet and the shedder price has dropped already, which is a bit discouraging for everyone.

But even if I can't experience it for myself, it's neat to hear about it on the radio all day. Tuna fever keeps us entertained through a redundant day of hauling near-empty traps.