Hot 'n' Heavy

It was just one of those days from the get-go. At 4 am I threw my body against all my will out of bed and trudged down the stairs grumpily. I glanced at my calendar while pouring milk on my cereal and sure enough the "30" marking this day of the month was circled. Minutes later "my friend"* arrived. It was that time of the month. All that I wanted to do was wear my night-nights (known by some as jammies or PJs), gorge myself on a chocolate buffet, and have my back massaged. Yet it was my responsibility to handle rotten fish and spiky crustaceans all day. Not exactly an inspiring thought.

Somehow I managed to gather myself together and show up at the landing only 10 minutes late. Cap pulled up right behind me and backed down the dock to unload. I collected my items (water bottle, lunch box, and hat) and put my boots on. Then I realized I'd forgotten a hair tie**. I was pawing frantically through my glove compartment and literally growling when Cap walked up behind me. I saw a figure out of the corner of my eye, turned and chirped "Oh, hi!" in the cheeriest tone I could muster. Cap explained where the bait was (buried deep in the recesses of the smelly bait cooler) and that he was headed out to fetch the boat.

The weather men actually agreed on one thing today: it was gonna be a scorcher. The morning was tolerable and I rather enjoyed myself out there once my cramps were dulled with Ibuprofin. It was another glassy-calm, crystal-clear summer day. Gannets plummeted from the air in the distance, diving for fish. A seal head bobbed amongst some buoys, curious about the human activity above-water. We slowly worked up to our usual pace and plugged along in content silence.

Then around noon the heat hit. My oil gear warmed up like an oven, yet I had a hard time imagining going without the protective layer. My black rubber boots baked my feet within. My hair piled in my baseball cap (since I didn't have a hair tie) acted as an insulating layer, amplifying the heat. All I could think about was plunging into the water and floating on my back for the rest of the day. Perhaps Cap could just tie a line around my waist and tow me along for the duration while he tended the traps. The roar of the boat wouldn't bother me. I'd be just dandy.

It wasn't bad in the shade under the wheelhouse roof, but the sun beat down on deck like it was the African safari. I was dripping in sweat carrying traps fore and aft as we shifted a few strings. Brutal heat. I measured and banded the lobsters as quickly as I could so as to return them to the cool seawater in the tank as soon as possible. I guzzled my water and soon ran out. My skin was still burning even after I smeared sunblock on it. I wore sunglasses all day, but I still got a headache from the blinding glare on the water. Who said they didn't think Maine got hot?!

Twelve hours later, at 5 pm, the second-to-last pair hit the rail. By then I was beyond punchy: I had cracked. This wasn't the first time, nor was it likely to be the last, that I had neared psychosis on the boat. I was probably pretty dehydrated and perhaps nearing the edge of heat stroke when I started to reflect on the day. Suddenly, I started laughing uncontrollably as I thought about how I would describe the day in a blog post. Cap looked at me out of the corner of his eye, but was too tired and grumpy to talk. I also didn't feel like speaking, so we plugged on in silence, this time not so content.

On the steam home, we managed to stir up some air movement as the boat motored at full tilt. I splashed my arms and face with cool saltwater while I cleaned the boat. Life started to look a little better. Somehow, I was relieved to hear that the day had been even more miserable on land. At the dock, Bobby reported that the thermometer had hit 100 degrees. The next few days aren't supposed to be much better. We'll do it all over again tomorrow. I'd better get to bed!

*see "My Friend" posted on July 6 for explanation

**see Item 1 in "My Uniform" posted on June 19 for explanation of importance

Light Show

Somehow, the moon and the sun look more beautiful to me over the ocean. I think it has to do with how the light plays on the water's surface. There is something magical about it. Today I took particular notice of the light and it's tricks. It was quite a show.

This morning when I arrived at the landing at 5 am it was still dark. All that shone ahead of my headlights driving down to the shore was a paper bag lantern with a candle still burning inside left over from a wedding party the night before. Truck headlights of other sternmen and captains lit up the parking lot as they, like myself, waited for their other halves to arrive. I recognized Cap's truck from the orange lights atop his cab. That's what I look for every morning. Luckily, no other fishermen has the same lights. It's Cap's trademark, just as each bell buoy has it's own unique light display to indicate which harbor it is guarding.

The sun was rising over the islands on our steam out. I watched the clouds on the horizon light afire with brilliant fuchsia

highlights. Next, the red orb broke the horizon. Then there was light. As the sun rose, a blinding golden pathway extended from its birthplace (in the east) to the boat where I stood, as if beckoning me to come closer. Gradually, it climbed higher and the path dissipated to dazzling diamonds playing on the water's surface. Cap put his sunglasses on so he could spot the buoys.

We steamed due south and the white buildings on shore picked up the sunlight, including my favorite landmarks: first New Harbor, then the cottages sprinkled on the hillside, and finally the famous Pemaquid Lighthouse. I watched buoys pass by us, their colors especially poignant in the rich morning radiance. Then there was a big splash in the distance! I pointed it out to Cap, in hopes that the fish would jump again. This time the shiny dorsal fin of a bluefin tuna reflected the sunlight.

I like this time of year, because it is still broad daylight when we return to the dock at the end of the day. Last winter we would fish until the very last rays of sunlight were cut off by the horizon. Cap would turn on the deck light so that I could see enough to organize and clean the boat. We did see some magnificent sunsets and moonrisings at the close of those cold, short days, but sometimes I was too tired to notice them. These days the light invigorates me and I am able to better appreciate it. I will indulge in the long summer days on the water while I still can.

Daddy's Girl

I have always been Daddy's girl. I love both of my parents dearly and have a great relationship with my mother as well, but it is just different. It's more difficult for me to be affectionate with her. Perhaps this is because we are so similar. Daddy and I have never had a problem expressing our love for eachother. He is still my hero. I am still his girl.

My dad has experienced many transformations in his lifetime. He has lived several lives in his 56 years on earth. I've only known him for one of those lives, but I'm glad of that. He has emerged from tragedy, hardship, and countless challenges as the single most wise, grounded, and humble man I know. When people tell me that I remind them of my father, I brim with pride. I have come to appreciate him more as I mature. His words of advice have proven true. Now I listen to him.

Every so often, when Daddy and I are walking along in peaceful silence, he'll slip his arm around my shoulders and say "Have I told you lately what a beautiful, smart and talented young woman you are?"

"You just did," I reply, a tid bit embarrassed, but smiling back lovingly.

"I'm very proud of you, Kaff."

The truth is he can't tell me that enough. Every child needs to hear that from their parents, none-the-less their hero. I feel blessed to have such loving, supportive parents. They have given me so much in life. I hope to do the same for children of my own some day.

Ambrosia

Thanks to Elmer Fudd, I learned from a young age that if you are hunting "wabbit" it is helpful to think like one. If I didn't attempt to think like our nocturnal crustacean friends every day, then I wouldn't have tolerated the smell of rotten fish for this long.

Today, like any other day, when the traps hit the rail, lobsters and bait flew everywhere. The name of the game is: remove lobsters and add bait as fast as humanly possible. When I fall behind, there are lobsters suspended from every horizontal surface in the wheelhouse. OK, maybe this is a bit of an exaggeration, but sometimes it feels like it. Cap usually throws the few hardshells that we catch daily in the bait tray to distinguish them from the shedders, which we stack in buckets. I was standing there in front of the bait tray measuring and banding lobsters when I looked down at a hardshell, just paralyzed there atop a heap of smelly herring. He must have thought he'd just landed in heaven atop a mountain of ambrosia! Clearly, lobsters have different gods than I do, because my gods don't eat herring! Regardless, that lobster looked quite content before it met

its doom.

Just yesterday I finished work and stopped at the church on the way out of town to say hi to my best friend. She was setting up the sound system for a concert that night. I was glad to see her and approached her with a big smile and arms open for a hug. She cringed. "Phew!" She hooted, "You stink!" I found this quite amusing. I was still in a dehydrated stupor from a 13-hour day on the water, but now I wish I had informed her that the lobsters love how I smell! So does my parent's chocolate lab puppy, Zipper. . and all other dogs, for that matter. In fact I'm quite a hit around town. Maybe I should come out with a new line of perfume. Ambrosia.

Elmer thinks like the "wascaly wabbit" so much that he ends up in the asylum thinking he

is Bugs Bunny. Somehow I don't think that will be my fate. It isn't all that easy to relate to a creature that perceives putrid pogies as a delicacy and that calls a hole in the rocks underwater "home." I hope I never have to find out what herring tastes like, but I have a feeling I wouldn't confuse it with the food of the gods.

False Alarm

The sky was red this morning, but we didn't take warning. Well, I got the hint, but all Cap saw was the sun rising over baitless traps. I looked at the GOMOOS weather forecast: 15-25 kt winds, gusts to 30, 5-8 ft seas. Rain. Fog. Shitty. The flag in my yard was straight out. I called Cap after 15 minutes of waiting for the phone to ring, in hopes that he was having "second thoughts," as he says.

He was worried that we wouldn't get hauled through this week if we didn't go out today. We'd had three days off for the first time since last winter due to boat maintenance. Unheard of. Cap suggested that we "go for a ride" and "take a look at it." That usually means that we're gonna go hauling. I threw the Dramamine on top of my lunch, which I hadn't pulled out for probably four months. Today was gonna be an adventure.

As I waited in the parking lot for Cap the wind appeared stronger. Queen Anne's Lace quivered on the edge of the pavement. Fishermen doddled in their trucks, shooting the shit, not appearing to have any intention of budging from their seats. All the boats in the harbor pointed accusingly to the source of such weather (northeast) as if it was the culprit. Cap pulled up, stepped out of his truck, assessed the wind and stalled, clearly deliberating on the situation. I was relieved to see his reluctance.

We slowly made our way to the boat on the mooring. I gotta admit: it's kinda fun being some of the few brave fishermen who actually step foot aboard the boat on days like this, as many of the others sit at the landing and watch you. Once we got to the boat, we organized things as Cap continued to think. We stood around and made small talk, watching and dreading the chop just outside the harbor. Another fisherman rowed by commenting jokingly on how quiet Cap's boat was. Alex added that he was just gonna fuel up and then go back to bed. By then Cap had made up his mind: no go. He suggested the alternative of starting early for the next three days. They will be brutally long days, but the wind will come around sou'west and the seas will calm down significantly. I am happy to spend the day sewing instead of bucking the waves. Back to bed!

A Family Tradition

The other day I was in visiting my dear Grandpa we got to talking about the cottages. The Thompson Cottages are a family business that began with my great-grandmother opening the Thompson House, built by the previous generation, as an inn. My grandfather was born in that inn. When Grandpa inherited the business, he built 20 cottages on the water to accompany it. At the ripe age of 80 my grandfather retired and passed the business along to my parents. I look forward to being the next generation inn-and-cottage keeper.

We were talking about how busy the cottages have been this summer and Grandpa drifted off into the past. I get excited when he talks about the old days. After all, he is one of the oldest remaining locals at 92 years-old. It is a treat for me to hear about how my home town that I love so dearly used to be. I overcame the urge to sit on the floor and eagerly listen like a 5-year-old at story time.

Grandpa started from the beginning. How he borrowed a big quantity of money (for those days) and went out on a limb to buy perhaps the prettiest property in the village right on the oceanfront. People thought he was crazy taking such a financial risk. Then he started building cottages. The first three were built with the help of his friend. Grandpa built the following 17 on his own. He scavenged the stones for the fireplaces everywhere he went and another buddy did the masonry for him. His three sons, including my father, helped him with the last few. They have proved sturdy enough; they're still holding ground after close to 50 years!

I told him how I look at the cottages all day when we're hauling, my voice filled with emotion, as I couldn't contain my family pride. "They look good from the water, don't they?" I shook my head in agreement.

The cottages have played a significant role in my life. I grew up playing with kids who came to the cottages with their families down in Back Cove. We have several close family friends who return to rent a cottage annually. The Thompson House continues to be a source of awe for me, as it has so much family history that we continue to uncover to this day. When I was little I loved to snoop around in the dark closets and find old tokens of my ancestors.

I have also worked at the cottages quite a bit. I have cleaned for many summers now. I was initially trained to clean by my great-aunt Martha, Grandpa's sister. We worked together on the same cleaning team and had a blast. I have also made other contributions over the years like painting the trash sheds, decking the boathouse dock, painting rowboats, and making signs.

I often think about how lucky I am. What better gift to pass on to one's offspring than a lucrative business built with one's own hands that allows others to share an appreciation for the place that one loves? I am incredibly grateful for Grandpa's hard work. The family business is in my eyes a manifestation of the generosity for which my grandfather is known around town. I will proudly carry on the tradition to the best of my ability and hope to pass it on to my children some day.

Shift Work

Just like Kenny Chesney sings with his deep, dreamy drawl in his country hit, "shift work is hard work." Except I'm not referring to shifts at a convenience store. I'm talking about the hard work of shifting lobster traps. While winter fishing has many disadvantages, hauling traps in the summer involves lots of shifting. Hauling singles would almost be enjoyable on a lovely summer's day if it wasn't for shifting. It is a logistical fact of lobstering that every captain and sternman dread, but a necessary evil nonetheless.

Sometimes we shift traps because an area is over-crowded with gear. When the density of traps becomes too high, other fithermens' lines start tangling with ours and it takes up our precious time to untangle them. When it is too stressful for Cap to stay in a locality, we shift elsewhere, where the buoys are sparser.

The other condition for shifting traps is when we aren't catching any lobsters in a location. There is quite a bit of strategizing that goes into trap placement in order to maximize one's catch. It is a guessing game that every captain plays. A guess educated by many years of experience. But regardless of the number of years a captain has been fishing, it is a gamble. Every year is different in terms of the migration patterns of lobsters (both temporally and geographically). No one knows for sure where they are going to to catch the unpredictable crustaceans until a few hauls later.

So we roll the dice and try again.

Breezing Up

It was one of those days when I wished I wasn't a sternlady. I knew it was going to be either 1.) a day off or 2.) a day from hell, when I woke up at 5 am this morning. I could hear the wind in the trees and the pitter patter of rain on the roof. These are indications of shitty weather at sea when they reach all the way up the Peninsula to Damariscotta, where I live.

Sure enough, when I arrived at the landing, it was sparsely populated by old beater pick-up trucks, whereas it is usually nearly full. Many boats still lay sleepily on their moorings in the harbor. Yet we trudged on past all of the precognitions of bad weather. Upon leaving the mouth of the harbor, we spotted a few other brave souls hauling traps, but they hung close to shore, weary of leaving the protection of land. We steamed on. As we began to haul traps, more gulls than usual swarmed to the boat, since there were fewer boats out from which they could eat bait scraps. Even a few gannets, normally offshore residents, stuck to the shoreline seeking shelter. I saw why when we reached open water.

Although we had experienced much worse conditions at sea this past winter, the five foot waves, five second wave period, and 15-20 knot southerly winds seemed daunting after being spoiled by beautiful summer weather recently. Cap told me this winter that when the wave height and wave period are a 1:1 ratio, it isn't going to be much fun on the water. He was right.

For a brief period the clouds parted, the rain stopped, and the sky lit up. I looked toward land and noticed that the low-lying clouds had lifted. I took comfort in seeing my family's cottages nestled cozily behind Little Island. My other source of reassurance was from watching the Discovery Channel series "Swords: Life on the Line" about swordfishing, starring my hero and recent acquaintance Linda Greenlaw. I've been watching this show after reading Linda's book Seaworthy and realizing how tame my wildest days at sea are compared to the 70-foot waves and gale force winds that they experience on George's Banks. I thought about this today as the spray showered my face.

Yet, my mind didn't persevere. I don't know how many times I thought to myself "I am so done with this job." Of course I didn't utter a word to Cap. I don't complain on the boat. Cap knows when I'm unhappy and vice versa. I did however ask if we were going to continue hauling after we shifted ten traps. Cap asked if I had had enough or if I could stand more. I replied that I had enough a while ago, but that I would keep plugging along if we needed to haul more. We kept hauling.

About ten traps later, I snapped. A huge wave hit the stern, cascading over the transom and splashing over my head. Water trickled down the back of my neck. I yelled a few expletives. Cap asked "Rouge wave?" slightly amused. I had previously thought, with the lifting of the clouds, that the wind might die out a bit. But instead it seemed to be breezing up. The seas became more of a nuisance. We rode the waves like cowboys on a bucking bronco, hence why lobstermen are known as "cowboys of the sea." Each time the boat's bow dove into another wave, water splashed over the roof of the wheelhouse and cascaded off the back like a waterfall, landing on me.

Now there are very few things that really irritate me in this world in terms of pet peeves. But one thing that really sends me over the edge is the drip off the starboard, aft corner of that wheelhouse roof. You see, it drips onto the very spot that I stand while baiting and cleaning out the lead trap when we're hauling pairs. It drips right onto my head. It doesn't take much to get that drip started--even a little condensation in the morning will sometimes do it. But today it wasn't a drip. . . it was a high-pressure jet stream. Incessant. I couldn't avoid it. I pulled the trap aft on the rail while I removed the lobsters, but then I had to pass through it to reach the lobster bucket. I pulled the trap forward, but then when I baited it I was under the drip. There was no escaping the drip.

Soon after that "rouge wave" I became seasick. I believe that seasickness is a state of mind. If I can remain mentally calm, then it's smooth sailing. But if I start to think about how rough it is and/or how disgusting the bait is, then I'm done for. I fought it off until early afternoon, but then I felt the surge in my throat and couldn't hold it back any longer. It was right when we were setting traps and I couldn't hide it from Cap. He saw me hurl over the rail this time. I didn't say anything afterward, just kept stuffing bait bags. He told me that he was going to head in soon after that. Once or twice this past winter times Cap suggested calling it a day after he noticed that I was seasick and I refused to be the reason that we stopped hauling. Today was not one of those days. I was so miserable that I didn't feel guilty. Besides the traps still had bait on the lines and were therefore still fishing.

I don't recall the last time that I was so elated to step foot on land. It was such a relief to reach the landing. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything all day and started to feel my face flush with dehydration and my tummy growl with hunger. I'll just say that I'm tickled to be back in my comfy warm, dry home with food and water in hand. This sternlady had one heck of a day.

Warmer Prospects

Having made the decision to stop lobstering in a few weeks is a huge relief to me. While it was a great adventure and a learning experience for me to lobster through all seasons, I don't feel the need to do it again. Been there, done that. Ready to move on.

I have been getting pretty excited about the prospect of doing different activities this winter. I have a lot to look forward to. First of all, I'm thrilled by the idea of staying warm and dry. I know this sounds lame, but believe me it's very exciting to think of actually being comfortable this winter. I won't have to worry about my fingers becoming numb or the wet, bitter cold on my cheeks. I won't have to slide around on an icy deck carrying heavy items and fear for my tailbone. I won't have to struggle to stay on my pee bucket as the boat rocks violently to and fro. I won't feel the ache of sore muscles that were clenched all day from bracing myself in stormy seas in an effort to accomplish my daily tasks. There's a lot to be said for not spending the Maine winter on a boat. I'm ready to walk on dry land.

While I've always thought of waitressing as the absolutely last job that I would ever do, suddenly it sounds quite appealing. Not only does it take place indoors in a warm, dry setting, but you interact with humans as opposed to feisty pinching crustaceans. You make money by talking with people, instead of growling at the elements. I am ready to have a social job this winter. I'm coming out of my shell, so to speak.

In addition to working at a restaurant, I will make and sell wreaths. Wreath-making is an annual tradition for me. I find great satisfaction in scavenging materials and creating pretty, natural pieces that decorate people's front doors. It is one of my creative outlets. Last fall when I was lobstering I didn't have the time or energy to make wreaths. I missed it. I look forward to being creative once again.

And finally, but most importantly, I am excited to apply to graduate school this winter. The application process itself will be an opportunity for me to reawaken my intellect. I am excited to challenge my mind again. Although I don't yet know entirely what the process entails, I am taking it step by step and asking for input and advice. Each step excites me, so I think I am ready. We'll see what becomes of the next few years of my life!

In the meantime, I am indulging in the glorious days of summer fishing. Every day is a physical challenge, but Mother Ocean is forgiving in the longest days of the year. She is gentle and prolific. Cap and I are enjoying the sights and the catch. These are the days when fishing is fun. I'm glad to end my lobstering career on a warm and sunny note. I'll be more than willing to pass off the stern over to another young sternperson when the days become colder and shorter.

Way Out Here

Yesterday was yet another beautiful day in the neighborhood. There was plenty of time to enjoy the scenery as I stuffed bait bags on the long steam out. I watched the familiar landmarks that symbolize "home" to me (Haddock Island, New Harbor, the cottages, and the lighthouse) shrink until they were finally just a dark green line on the horizon. Monhegan drew nearer as we steamed south. The buoys dispersed. The flat, calm, open ocean stretched before us. This is Cap's territory and the kind of fishing that he enjoys.

We are fishing some traps quite a ways offshore in an effort to escape the dense gear in close to shore. We're also preparing to snag the lobsters as they leave shedding territory. Since the traps are in deeper water and there is more line, we are setting them as pairs. Hauling pairs again is reminiscent of fall and spring fishing, but the weather conditions are much more enjoyable. Nonetheless, I have become accustomed to hauling single traps, as we've been doing throughout the summer, and it is difficult for me to switch back to pairs. It feels like working "double-time," with twice as many bait bags to fill per buoy, two bait irons instead of one, two traps, and more work to clean out the traps. Once again, I have very little time to drink water, eat, and pee. I'm out straight all day.

When we arrived at the site and began hauling, my body was forced to speed up to the fast pace. It takes me a few pair first thing in the morning to get into the rhythm. The country song "Way Out Here" by Josh Thompson popped into my head and I started to hum it. "We won't take a dime unless we earned it. When it comes to weight, brother, we pull our own . . . way out here." I thought to myself "No crap."

We were way out there, alright. On the way out we passed a group of gannets divebombing a school of fish. The water rippled with movement from the fish beneath. It must have been a big school. Gannets are fantastic divers and a lot of fun to watch. Much like pelicans, they spot a fish from the air and plummet into the water like a bullet making a big splash as they hit the surface. Cormorants and gulls joined in.

Not long after that Cap pointed up a whale surfacing. It was a small whale--maybe 10 ft long--and it looked like a huge dolphin as the dorsal fin broke the water. He guessed it was a minke whale. A few strings of traps later, I saw a big splash in the distance followed by little silver fish jumping out of the water. I pointed it out to Cap. "That's a tuna," he said. I didn't get a look at the fish, but it looked big. I hope to get a look at a tuna someday. In the vicinity of the tuna sighting, a few seal heads bobbed and countless dolphins surfaced to breath. It seemed like sea creatures were fishing all around us. Seeing so many large marine mammals (or charismatic megafauna in my old biology professor's words) in one area reminded me of Sea World. Not that I've ever been to a marine amusement park or care to go. This was much better because the sea creatures were free and clearly enjoying the beautiful day as much as I was.

It felt like we were part of a bigger whole. We, like the other mammals, were harvesting our share of food from the bountiful ocean. We were all fishing together, the difference between us and them being that we humans were fishing to feed many people whereas the marine mammals were fishing to feed themselves. We are just a handful of lobstermen supplying lobsters to a large population, whereas the sea critters each feed themselves. Luckily, the regulations that are in place make it lobstering sustainable fishery. We have a long way to go in the grand scheme of things, but we are making baby steps one at a time.

Pinkies

It was another beautiful summer day on the water. The wind came around easterly bringing us a cool refreshing breeze. Yesterday I saw the characteristic so'west haze blanketing the horizon and suspected it would be a hot one--glassy calm and humid. Today things dried out a bit and the breeze picked up, propelling many sailboats and cooling us off. Colorful spinnakers billowed in the distance--one was Kelly green another rust-colored.

I was tearing around deck in my usual trap-setting frenzy, tallying my mental checklist of components. Sink rope, float rope, buoys, toggles, bait bags baited and on irons, tailer warps. . . check, check, check. We store warps of rope in barrels, since it helps to organize things. I got to the bottom of the barrel of tailer warps and had to dive into it headfirst to reach the last few coils. I emerged and looked down to see how many were left. There nestled in the last coil was a little, brown nest of dried leaves and soft fuzz. Three tiny baby mice squirmed in the middle of the nest. Their skin was almost translucent and pink. They had delicate white whiskers and tails. Their eyes hadn't even opened yet.

I couldn't help but marvel at such vulnerable little beings in the midst of such a harsh environment. The barrel had been sitting in Cap's yard, a stable and safe setting until it was plopped on the boat. Suddenly they found themselves surrounded by salt water in a vibrating, loud, rough and tumble world. There is nothing forgiving about life on the boat. Horrific spiny creatures (lobsters and sculpins) emerge from the depths of the sea and a grizzly human (me) bangs things around all day, not to mention that the entire surface is in constant motion. It's a wonder that they didn't get seasick! So I gently plucked the nest from the coil and secured it in a bait bag, setting it aside to bring to land at the end of the day.

Cap wasn't quite as taken with the critters as I was. He sees mice as a threat to his rope. Sure enough, they (or more likely their folks) had gnawed through one coil. He jestingly suggested placing them on a piece of driftwood and setting them adrift (a kind way of saying drown them) than preserve them.

I set the bait bag with the nest in a bucket and brought it to shore when the day was done. A fisherman friend of mine was in the parking lot and I showed him my "catch," then carefully released their cozy nest in the woods. Who knows if they'll make it, but at least they have a chance now. My friend Annie informed me that baby mice are called "pinkies" and are sold as food for pet reptiles. It seems like everyone has it in for them, poor things!

I marveled at the compassion that I had for such destructive little rodents, when I don't think twice about clobbering a sculpin with all my might to knock it out and then butchering it for bait. Our minds draw sometimes illogical distinctions between "right" and "wrong." For some reason, I don't have a problem killing fish for bait or food whereas I couldn't justify killing pinkies just because. I felt moved to help out those pathetic little critters that didn't seem to have a chance in the world, while I don't hesitate to destroy sculpins, which eat just about anything that lies in their path. Mother Nature works curious magic. As with the case of the sunfish, the fittest aren't the only ones to survive. Sometimes the runts surprise us.

Ode to Lydia

While most fishermen drive big, souped-up trucks to haul heavy equipment around in, my "ride" is a green 1998 Camry with peace stickers on the bumper. Her name is Lydia.

When I was a senior in high school, I started itching for my own vehicle. I was willing to buy a cheap car myself, but my parents insisted on buying me a decent car that they wouldn't worry about me driving around in. I searched online and settled on a Toyota Camry. It had to be green. So we visited a few dealers in search of a used Camry. None of them suited me until we saw one at Charlie's Toyota. It was a green 1998 Camry and exactly what I had envisioned. When we arrived at Charlie's to test drive it, there was a lucky penny heads up on the ground outside the driver's door. (They probably place a lucky penny outside of every vehicle, but the trick worked.) I took it for a test drive. She drove unlike any other car I had driven (granted I hadn't driven many cars). She steered incredibly smoothly and felt grounded to the road. It didn't take me long to decide that was the car I wanted and my folks generously made the purchase. I glued the lucky penny on the dashboard.

In no time Lydia was decorated with all manner of hippy do-hickies. Back in the days of Bush, I was quite avid in demonstrating against the war and I found the perfect bumper stickers to express my sentiments: "Teach Peace" and Ghandi's quote "An eye for an eye makes the whole world go blind." A little dream catcher that I made hung from the rearview mirror, the partridge feather blowing in the breeze when the window are down. A silk lily is pinned on the visor. A Smith sticker is displayed in the rear windshield and I slapped a SCUBA sticker on the trunk. Lydia represented all of my proudest skills, accomplishments and beliefs. She became more than just a vehicle. In college, she was a statement.

Lydia boldly escorted me through my high school and college years. She has driven all of my friends around at some point or another. She has been well-used, whether it be transporting as many as six compressed contra dancers to a dance or taking my best friend and I on a road trip to upstate NY. She drove me safely back and forth to college in western Mass countless times. She has lugged around chainsaws, smelly boots, buckets of seafood, and my bike for many years now. Like my old co-worker who called her Subaru Forester her "truck," Lydia is my beater pick-up. And a nice one at that!

My "truck" has been dependable and very safe. My mother calls her a "solid citizen." There is a noticable dent on the front driver's side corner of the fender where she deflected a doe's head. Both the doe and Lydia were practically unphased. I was terrified. My only accident was in the winter when I was looking in the rearview mirror and returned my eyes on the road just in time to see a telephone pole coming at me. I came to a gradual halt in a snow bank, missing the pole by a few feet, by the grace of God. The radiator needed attention. Lydia was fine. Again, I practically pooped my pants and learned my lesson.

That car has served me well. I learned many a lesson about driving in her. She has now racked up close to 180, 000 miles and dons many a dent, rusty spots, and a broken bumper. I recently took her to the mechanic to learn that she needs a few expensive parts replaced. She's at the stage in car life where I'm going to be investing more in her each year. I have decided instead to buy my Grandpa's practically brand new car, since he is no longer able to drive it. Edwin (a 2009 Chevy Cobalt) and I have big plans already. We'll see where he takes me in life!

Yesterday's Lesson

Although I am preparing to move on from fishing in order to continue my formal education in marine science, this isn't to say that I'm not still learning from Cap every day on the boat.

Yesterday my lesson was on urchins, those spiny little kelp-eating pin cushions of the sea. Cap used to be an urchin diver, so he knows a lot about them. He lights up when he talks about his urchin-diving days, before they were overfished. My impression is that it was his favorite profession of the many jobs he's had in his life.

We hauled a trap in deeper water that came up with a few small urchins in it. I commented that the spines looked longer on these urchins than I recalled seeing. Cap said that urchins grow longer spines in deep water where it served them well to "catch" algae. In shallow water, where you see them foraging on kelp blades, they have plenty of sustenance. Therefore, their spines are shorter, since food is abundant. This makes a lot of sense when I think about it. Algae is more plentiful in shallow water due to the availability of light that fuels photosynthesis. However, only the shorter wavelengths of light (blue) penetrate to greater depths of the water column, so algae is less common. The urchins have probably adapted to deep water by growing long spines with which they can catch algae that drifts and sinks to the bottom. I found this tidbit of information fascinating.

Late in the day we caught another urchin that was perhaps three inches in diameter. It was in shoal water and, sure enough, the spines were shorter. Cap asked if I like to eat the roe and I eagerly answered "yes." I ate it for the first time last summer when we were diving in Stonington in waters teeming with urchins. It is the sweetest product of the ocean that I've ever eaten. There's no doubt why it is such a prize delicacy. I didn't know how to open the urchin so Cap cut a circle out of the top for me. When he popped it open, the gonads were small, shriveled, and brownish indicating that it wasn't "ripe." The roe is at it's peak when the gonads are swollen and bright orange. I'm sure there are certain times of year when urchins are at their reproductive peak and it's better to eat the roe, like many other sea creatures.

I dissected and examined the internal anatomy of the small echinoderm for a while as Cap steamed to the next buoy. I could see the inside of the feeding structure: a round apparatus with teeth imbedded in it for grazing on algae. A brown tube emerged from the center of the circular "mouth" and connected to a little sack that I guessed was the stomach. Little green flakes floated around, probably partially digested algae.

The ocean and its creatures continue to amaze me. It is a realm constituting two-thirds of this planet and yet so little is known about it still. As the human population grows, I believe that the sea will be an increasingly important source of protein. I strive to learn more about it and to explore ways with which we can harvest and grow seafood. I hope to contribute someday to discovering how we can sustain or at least supplement our diet with seafood while simultaneously respecting the ocean's finite resources.

Identity

Although I still have many days ahead of me on the boat, I am beginning to relinquish my identity as "Lobstah Gal." For the most part, I feel relieved to be handing over my position to a young sternperson who has as much to learn from Cap as I did. But part of me is also a bit sad. I have adopted Lobstah Gal as an identity and have found great pride in it. This name was inspired by my last title "Oystah Gal" given by my friend Sandy when I worked on an oyster aquaculture farm. Both names conjure slightly romantic notions of a hardy girl who makes a living by harvesting seafood from the ocean/river. Yet, both identities have been quite consuming.

Lobstah Gal is strong, resilient, seaworthy, and hard-working. She heaves traps around as easily as a man twice her size. Lobstering is her life. She eats seafood that she caught for dinner and shares it with her friends. She fillets her own fish. She pees on a bucket, wipes her nose on her sleeve, and stuffs food in her mouth over a tray of rotten fish without flinching. She spits, burps and farts without excusing herself. She's rugged and proud. Sometimes she even feels invincible.

Yet, I am quite mortal, like any other gal. I'm small in stature and sometimes feel that this brutal form of labor is physically unsustainable. My back feels fragile at the end of the day. I sometimes yearn to feel more feminine. I indulge in wearing dresses, make-up and jewelry when I have the opportunity. My intellect longs to be activate. My creative side wants time and energy to express itself. I feel my love for the ocean as strongly as ever, yet I wonder if perhaps there is a more balanced way of appreciating the sea. I feel that there are other opportunities out there awaiting me. I want to discover them.

I was able to bid farewell to Oystah Gal and, likewise, I will move on from this identity. It is important for me to remember that my occupation is not my identity. Lobstah Gal doesn't define who I am, nor does any other title. While lobstering has indeed consumed much of my time and energy, I'm not only a sternlady. I'm also a dancer, musician, daughter, friend, and many other things. I am K. T. regardless of my current job. I strive to satisfy all of my many identities by leading a balanced lifestyle. I will always be a fisherwoman, whether I am lobstering every day or catching a mackerel with my dad. The ocean is part of me and that will never change.

A Blog Blog

My recent goal has been to reach 100 blog posts, so I write this one in celebration of the 100th post! (Keep in mind not all of them are published yet due to need of editing or personal content.) I thought it was about time to write a post about my blog itself.

The first two summers that I lobstered, I was feeling very creatively inspired, yet I never expressed that inspiration. I thought about painting or sketching some daily scenes, taking pictures on the boat, and writing, but never followed through with these ideas. This winter I was once again feeling inspired and I expressed the idea of writing a blog about fishing to my good friend Annie. She was excited about it and nudged me to get started. So I started to write for the first time probably since college. I decided to write in the context of a blog since I thought that if it was publicly accessible, I would be more likely to continue writing. This is the first time that I have written out of the context of academia (besides my personal journal), for fun not obligation.

I started to tell my friends about the blog and they actually read it and actually liked it. My family, of course, ate it up. My dad sent the link to all his friends. My aunt printed out my posts so that my Grandma could read it. My friend announced the link at our local music jam and fellow musicians read it. Although I only have had 3 "followers" my readership has spread like a wildfire.

Once I started writing these short essays, new topics kept coming to me. It is a common occurrence on the boat for me to be working away lost in my thoughts when a blog post comes to me, causing me to smile or giggle. Cap probably thinks I'm a nutcase by now. If only he knew.

Naturally, you are probably wondering if Cap has read the blog, since he is the key player. I told Cap about my blog upon its inception, but he didn't seem that phased. Whenever I post a picture or video including him in it, I ask his permission to include it in my blog before posting it. I have made an earnest effort to keep all characters anonymous and to write respectfully of others, including Cap. My intention is, when I am done blogging, to print out some of my favorite posts as well as some that I am unsure about in terms of local anonymity and hand these posts to Cap in printed format. I look forward to hearing his feedback. I hope he is not offended in any way.

I suppose in some ways this is my informal "Acknowledgements" section. I would like to thank Annie and Sandy for their unwavering encouragement. They have both offered positive and constructive feedback to nearly every post in this blog. Those are some devoted friends, right there. Not only have they supported me, but they broadcast my blog widely to their friends and acquaintances. Their enthusiasm has motivated me to keep writing.

Ultimately, my goal is to produce some sort of printed version of this online journal. Annie has generously offered to assist with the graphic formatting of some form of book. This will be one of my projects this winter, when I am done with lobstering.

Bombarded

The local population of both shedders and tourists has spiked remarkably in the past month. While the ocean is swarming with molting marine "bugs," the harbors are crawling with outa-towners. They are everywhere.

The landing has been absolutely mobbed every evening when we get in from work. Saturdays are the worst. Everyone comes out for their lobster dinner on weekends. Cap and I step on shore for the first time in 12 hours exhausted and ready to go home, when we are met by utter chaos. The shiny black SUV's and polo shirts are a stark contrast to our dirty appearance, as we are steeped in mud, salt, and bait. Every space in the parking lot is occupied, and some cars are even double-parked. The wharves are teeming with people holding trays of steaming lobsters and corn cobs. Dogs are running rampant. A car alarm or two is honking obnoxiously. And to top it all off, a huge yacht is being launched, blocking off my car. Utter mayhem. This isn't exactly the greeting I like to get at the end of my work day, when all I wanna do is get outa there!

The other day when we met at the landing at 6am, the dock was already busy! The railing of the dock was lined with professional folks standing in front of fancy cameras on tripods, eagerly darting the lens this way and that to capture a fleeting snapshot. The click of shutters was palpable in the air. A photography class. The crowd parted as Cap backed his pick-up truck down to the edge of the wharf. Cap went to bring the boat in to the dock, while I stayed to unload rope from the truck. There must have been twenty pictures taken of Cap as he drove the boat past the eager photographers. I smirked, since Cap is probably the most modest person I know and is shy in front of the camera. I noticed at least five tripods being carefully positioned in a semi-circle in front of the bait cooler, where Cap would be headed next. Once again, I couldn't help but smile. I wasn't sure if they would think it was so photogenic once Cap opened the cooler door, unleashing the stench of pogies!

While Cap got bait, I loaded the boat with rope, unloaded buoys, and fueled up. Little did I know that I was the next subject of their photo shoot. I heard a click and saw a camera flash as I stooped over the diesel tank, nozzle in hand, watching the level of fuel slowly rise. I looked up to find an apologetic photography student asking permission to take my picture. I replied that she could as long as I could have a copy. So we exchanged emails and she continued to click shots of me fueling up. I look forward to seeing the photos.

Once we reach open water, you would think that we would be clear of the crowd. Not the case. Lately we have been feeling bombarded with sailboats and sports fishing boats that sail or motor close to us to sneak a peak of natives. At times we have suddenly found ourselves in the thick of a sailing race. The other day we had just emptied and baited a trap when Cap was throwing the boat into gear to circle around and set the trap. I looked up to see a huge hulking sailboat bee-lining it maybe fifty feet away from us. It was passing right in Cap's blind spot in the wheelhouse and I told him right away. Cap easily could have swung the boat around right into it. A couple sat on deck reading obliviously. The real kicker was: they weren't even under sail! They were motoring. Technically, if a sailboat is under sail it has the right of way over a working boat. But in practice, it is always courteous to give lobster boats plenty of space. I swear, some people just don't understand that lobsterboats go in circles. That's what we do all day. When a sailboat is motoring, there's no excuse for heeding a lobsterboat. There is no lack of space on the water. There's a huge expanse of ocean to go boating on. Cap and I watched the boat pass in disbelief for their lack of respect. He made a comment giving me permission to throw a pogie at them next time. I literally could have thrown a rotten fish onto their shiny white deck, had I thought of it in time. They were that close.

The other day we had another drive-by. This time it was a small family in a skiff wanting to buy lobsters and they were very friendly. They pulled up alongside us asking if we would sell them some lobsters and making small talk about how the catch was this season. A woman asked if she could take our picture while I picked 10 lobsters out of the tank. We both reluctantly agreed. I felt like an authentic sternlady. Overall, this was a much more pleasant interaction than the last drive-by sale.

The irony of summer is that many fishermen choose lobstering as a profession partially because they value independence. They enjoy the freedom of working on the open ocean and not feeling obligated to interact with other humans. Many fishermen don't have very strong social skills. Yet in the summertime, tourists magnetize to the lobstermen to take pictures and ask questions. Interacting with people is unavoidable.

For the most part, I enjoy talking with strangers and answering their questions. Sometimes it challenges me to relate what I have learned about the industry or to express how I feel about my job. Granted there are plenty of times at the end of the day when I am grumpy and tired and the last thing I want to see is another human. There are other times when I feel that people are being disrespectful and are only making our job more difficult. Luckily, these instances are few and far between. I have to remind myself when I'm feeling bombarded by summer folks that it is a good thing. The local economy is healthy and the lobsters that we catch are nourishing many bellies. We are contributing to others getting the real "Maine experience." All of the hard work is worthwhile after all.

Wear and Tear

Well, my bank account certainly doesn't have much to show for all of the back-breaking work I've done over the past ten months. I take after my grandparents in being very frugal and saving my earnings, yet even I had a hard time saving much from my profits. My pay is a percentage of the catch, so I blame the low market price for this.

Besides the pay, there are certainly other negative side effects of lobstering for a living. My permanently sore back being one. In addition to my body, my clothes and gear also show some wear and tear. My clothes resemble those of a begger. The armpits and knees of my favorite work rags are blown out. Even other fishermen remark that I need new pants, since all of mine now have holes in them (none offensive). Luckily, my aunt just gave me a sewing machine for my birthday, so I can get to work patching holes. My oil gear has pinholes in it through which water trickles if the hose hits them just right. The tread is wearing off my boots, making them slippery. And I don't even want to know how many pairs of rubber gloves I have gone through. I average a pair every three days, which adds up fast. But it is easy to get bogged down with complaints especially when surrounded by doomsayers in the fishing community.

On the other hand, I have taken a lot away from my lobstering experience. I have wracked up God-knows-how-many sea hours that I could potentially use towards a Captain's License if I was moved to get one some day. I have a great diet to show for my work: fresh (free!) seafood for dinner a few times a week including: flounder, lobster, and crab as well as shrimp and cusk that I froze last winter. My knowledge and experience in fishing have deepened to the point where I feel very competent on boats. And besides all of that practical knowledge, I have a bronze tan, terrific biceps, a metabolism the speed of light, and a neat blog to show for my career as sternlady!

Funny story. The other day I was over visiting with my Grandpa and I kissed him before I left, as I always do. He held my hand affectionately and squeezed my forearm, commenting on my strong arms. I smiled and flexed my bicep for him and he felt it. "Jeshush!" He gasped in his thick Maine accent. That little trick always impresses the boys. :)

Of course, the skills and subtleties that I've learned along the way go much deeper than my strong muscles. I have no regrets for returning to fishing and am grateful for the opportunity to experience lobstering year round. Having said that, I hope to never have to do it again! I will be glad to leave the boat when fall comes around. It's true that fall is the most lucrative season on the water, however it is also the most brutal. I am ready to pamper my body a bit instead of pummeling it. I am ready for a quiet and restful winter. I am ready to take care of myself.

Musical Boats

Periodically, I am asked how I came to be a sternlady. Someone will ask how I got my job as if it is as mysterious as being inducted into a secret society. Well, I suppose it is mysterious to those who are used to the conventional "job search." There is no application involved. No job postings even. You become a sternman by word of mouth. It is easiest for someone who is part of the community and knows where to go and whom to ask. Yet, it wasn't as easy as I had thought it would be.

It was the summer after my first year at Smith College. I was painfully homesick and longed for the familiar salty summer breeze in my face. I decided that I would work on a boat for the summer to satisfy this craving. So I started looking for a captain. Daddy told me to go "down to the shoah" and ask around. All I got were heads shaking "no" in response. Well, Little-Miss-Smithie wasn't going to be defeated that easily so I typed up a small half page poster reading:

"Looking for Summer Job as Sternman. Contact K. T. 999-9999)."

I took my little slips of paper to all of the co-ops on the Peninsula (6 in total) and posted them on the bulletin boards. It was probably the first time that a woman has typed up a poster looking to be a bait handler! I received no calls answering my ad.

My next strategy was a little more aggressive. I made a list of all of the "nice" local fishermen that I could think of and called their houses to ask if they needed a deck hand. No one did.

Finally, my father, Mr. Popularity, put an end to my disappointment when he announced that he'd run into the father of one of my old classmates who was building a boat at our neighbor's boatshop and would soon be looking for a sternman. I was tickled pink! I bee-lined it for the boatshop and walked, a bit timidly, up the plank that ascended to the shiny, virginal, white hull. I called "Hello?" Out popped Cap's frazzled head, his greying hair peppered with fiberglass flecks and dust. Our first conversations were a bit awkward since Cap doesn't talk much and I was struggling to derive information about the future from someone of an industry that operates on a second-by-second basis. But I got the job!

I returned to all of the co-ops to tear down my postings with great satisfaction. At the co-op where my Grandpa used to drink coffee every morning while hob-nobbing with the fishermen, my poster had been slightly altered. Someone had crossed out my first name and scratched in my Grandpa's first name as a joke. I was infuriated at the time that someone hadn't taken my ad seriously. Today I was thinking back on that little prank and laughing about it. It was kinda funny, actually.

I waited for a month or so before Cap was finally done with his beautiful new boat, but boy was it worth it. Not only was it the prettiest boat in the harbor, but she was a dream to work on with a spacious deck and she was steady. I blundered through the motions of learning how to lobster and Cap blundered through becoming familiar with his new vessel. It was a learning experience for both of us. The hard physical labor proved to be a refreshing counter-balance to the intense intellectual challenge of academia. I returned to work with Cap two summers later upon returning from a semester abroad in Brazil, once again longing to work on my familiar waters.

Last fall Cap came to me looking for a deckhand right when I needed a job. I gladly accepted. Upon this offer, I felt that I had truly been inducted into the society. I felt like a part of the fishing community.

I have been fishing for the past nine months, which is the longest I've ever fished. It has been a great experience for me to haul traps through the hardest seasons of the year. But once again, I am ready for mental stimulation. I have decided to apply to graduate school for a Master's in Marine Science this fall. It is an idea that I've flip-flopped with for the past two years. Yet I finally feel ready. My incentive is no longer merely to obtain an additional degree in order to qualify for bigger, better jobs. My motivation is now to learn more about the Ocean in a different context. Although I've had an extensive education in marine science through hands-on experience, my formal education in the subject is quite limited. I'd like to learn more about the processes and interactions that underlie the organisms that I've harvested for commercial purposes. I want to learn more. It is with this mindset that I apply to re-enter academia.

I have told Cap that I would like to stop fishing in mid-September so that I may focus on the application process and work on some of my own personal projects. He said he'd start looking for a sternman. I suggested someone whom I'd heard was available and interested in sterning. He replied that this individual already had a job on a boat, but was looking for a better situation. "This whole sternman situation. . . it's kinda like finding a date for the prom. . . I'm with him, but I'd rather be going with you. . ." I laughed at this comparison. In my mind I pictured a game of musical chairs, but with boats instead. . . all the sternmen hop around to different boats until the music stops and then someone plunges into the water. I guess this time I'll be the extra one swimming to shore. I just hope there will be enough sternpeople to go around. . .

In the Thick of It

We were in the thick of it alright. A good portion of our trap hauling this summer has taken place in thick fog, but today I think it was denser than usual. The condensation in the air was so heavy that I could see the water droplets, not precipitating, but suspended and drifting in the air column. You know the saying "thicker than pea soup?" Well, that it was. And every bit as unappealing too.

The guys were remarking about the lack of visibility on the radio. Two boats exchanged surprised remarks when they could actually see each other and make out who the other was. Others commented that they were going in early, because it just wasn't worth it. The general tone was generally of defeat and frustration.

I gotta say, I'm getting pretty damn sick of the fog. It makes for a pretty miserable day for a few reasons. First of all, fog makes for a frustrated Cap. The GPS is marvelous technology (when it's working), however, there is some margin of error since a buoy can't be marked by a single point on a map. The line is longer than the water depth to account for both the difference in depth due to lunar tides and to allow for some slack so the buoy isn't sunk in the currents. Therefore, there is still some searching involved, which becomes very difficult when you only have a 20 foot radius of visibility. Cap was concentrating so loudly on seeing that I could almost hear it. I lent Cap an extra pair of eyes with which to spot buoys, but there was still some extra steaming in circles involved. Generally speaking, everything becomes less efficient (in terms of time, fuel, and daily profit). This, in addition to the usual frustrations of the industry {snarls, local fishing politics, bad bait (small, old, and with specs of creosote), as well as cryptic punchtails} make Cap rather irritable.

Fog also makes my job less enjoyable. I don't like it when Cap frustrated, first of all. There is nothing that I can do to facilitate things. Secondly, I get bored. Now normally "bored" is not found in my vocabulary. Since I was little, I've had no trouble amusing myself and have always had many personal projects going on at a given time. But when I'm at work, I am held captive. My normal work day is packed with so many menial tasks that I don't have time to eat, drink, or pee. However, foggy days are slow-paced. Part of the reason I enjoy working on the boat is indulging the scenery when I have a spare minute to breathe. On foggy days there is no scenery. Just fog. Thick fog. The only amusement I found today was in 1. singing country tunes softly to myself and 2. playing "Name-that-Land-Mass" on the radar screen. It's harder than you'd think!

We did however have a few marine life sightings that provided temporary distraction and relief from the relentless haze. We were hauling pairs off shore today, so the sea life was a bit more diverse than it is by the shore. We must have spotted at

least 10 gannets flying individually at different times. I saw a few young gannets that were mottled brown. We also spotted some mature ones, with pristine white, black-tipped wings and a golden head. They are quite magnificent birds and rather rare.

At one point, we were steaming between buoys and Cap threw her out of gear so abruptly that I thought he'd lost his cap in the breeze. I looked up to find him peering into the water at a sunfish! Sunfish are kinda the lazy oafs of the sea. People spot them doddling around on the water's surface on their side, just laying there looking up at the sky with one eye. They are very bizarrely shaped, not appearing very streamline or graceful. They're kinda square, as a matter of fact. Sunfish often have scars from propellers, since they don't move fast enough to get

out of the way or are just too stupid to realize that they're in danger. I've never understood how such a creature survived to this day. One would think that they would be eliminated from the gene pool immediately according to Darwin's law of "survival of the fittest." A shark could wipe one out without so much as the flip of its tail. Anywho, they are a sight to see and are somehow impressive in their idleness.

Another interesting sight was a school of fish skimming the surface. Again, Cap pointed this out to me as I was stuffing bait bags. It was a lovely, synchronous movement, similar to a gust of wind agitating the water, but with silver highlights. Cap guessed that it was herring. I couldn't help but wonder if there was a predator below that chased them to the surface.

I glanced at the radar as we entered the mouth of the Harbor, curious whether it would pick up all of the boats. Sure enough, there was the horseshoe-shaped landmass corralling a myriad moored boats in the harbor. That land mass was unmistakenable: home.

It ended up being a long day, as expected at the pace we were moving. We didn't step on shore until 6:30 pm, making for a 12.5 hour long day. But the catch was actually decent for the number of traps that we hauled. All in all, we did alright considering the conditions. Another challenging day aboard the lobsterboat complete.