Finding Closure

Today was a day of closure. I drove to Cap's house to exchange a few items. He had expressed interest in seeing the pictures that I took of shrimping last winter, so I printed them out for him. I also printed him a few blog essays. I have told him about the blog since it's commencement, but he hasn't yet read it. I'm a bit nervous to hear his feedback, although I'm not quite sure why.

As I pulled into Cap's driveway I was glad to see that his truck was missing, which indicated that he'd found a sternman and was fishing today. I was relieved that he hadn't been puttering in his yard all week without a deck hand. I walked by the line of rubber boots in his barn. I thoroughly cleaned and stored my oil gear, boots, and fishing clothes the day after fishing. I was eager to be rid of all the smelly gear.

It has only been a week of retirement from lobstering and I already feel somewhat estranged from fishing culture. I passed my buddy Freddy on the road just yesterday and we stopped to chat. "Us old guys miss ya down to the shoah, Girrrl," he told me. I replied that I missed them too. I kinda miss waving to the guys from my bait tray. I miss the routine of it all. I even miss the comradery that accompanies back-breaking work. But I don't miss the work one bit.

My days have been leisurely. I have had time to dig in to all of the creative projects that I didn't have time or energy for when I was fishing. I have spent this week sewing, writing, cooking, running, watching movies, and visiting family and friends. I even scheduled that massage that I promised myself when I got done with lobstering. It has been a relaxing and satisfying week of vacation. It feels good to catch up with myself.

Reflection

Yesterday I came home from the last long day of hauling. I looked at myself in the mirror while removing my contacts. Lobstah Gal stared back at me. Her baseball cap was spattered with mud and bait flecks. Arms, chest and face sun-kissed and blushing with dehydration. Utter exhaustion in her eyes. She looked defeated and burned out.

I tore off my stinky clothes and cap, dashing into the shower without a second to spare. Upon emerging I saw a different reflection. A young woman returned the glance. She was strong, toned and . . . pretty. It had been too long since I last recognized these qualities in her. I saw a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. I saw potential and enthusiasm for life. I saw myself. Goodbye, Lobstah Gal. Hello Katherine.

I don't know exactly what life holds for me. Possibly graduate school. Perhaps a career in marine science. Hopefully, a retirement running the family cottage business in years to come. Yesterday I saw some little girls running with a dog and laughing. I would like to see that scene in my yard some day, if the future holds a family for me. I feel, once again, that I'm on the brink of a transition. I feel the quiver of possibility in the air. I feel hopeful and prepared. I am ready.

The Last Haul

About a month ago I declared to Cap that I'd like to finish fishing in mid-September. He wasn't happy with this news as I know that he hates the process of finding someone new. Cap likes continuity, understandably. Periodically since then I've been nudging him and asking if he had found anyone to replace me. All I got in reply were negative grunts. Last Monday I stuck to the plan and narrowed it down, setting a last day of work: today. This time Cap understood that I was serious. So today was my last haul.

It was a lovely day to end on. In fact the weather was so pleasant that I almost regretted quitting. The seas had been rough for the whole week up until today and I had previously been in a mindset of being ready to be done fishing. Fall is coming fast and I was eager to finish lobstering before the weather gets rough. Today it was summer again. My spirits lifted with the clouds. I enjoyed the gentle southerly breeze and the warm sun on my back.

There was only one glitch in the otherwise smooth day. We were shifting a load of traps. I had prepared the traps and rope while Cap tied on the buoy and searched for a good spot to set. He gave me the "ok," I set the tailer trap, he set the lead trap, the purple 20-fathom warp began to hiss over the rail. Then there was nothing but silence. Our eyes fell to the deck. The rest of the 50 fathoms of rope remained on deck, still. My heart sank. Yet I had tied all of the knots and seen the first coil slither over the rail. Apparently the coil was faulty. Cap took a few sweeps dragging the grapple to hook the tailer line, but to no avail. We moved on to the next pair, sullenly.

By the end of the day the sun was angled such that the light had turned golden and made the vibrant colors of water, sky and buoys that much richer. Being on the water at that time of day often makes me nostalgic. I looked out over the smooth water as I baited the last traps. I glanced towards Monhegan and noted how close it was. Looking back west towards home, I saw the Middle Grounds buoy in the distance. Sure enough, we were hauling further and further off shore (probably about 8 miles in that spot). Fall fishing was on the horizon, although it didn't feel like it at that moment.

Cap and I joked about sculpin. He had dared me to take one home to eat earlier in the summer, since I will eat just about anything from the sea. I almost did it today. We caught a big gnarly beast of a sculpin and Cap gutted it for me. When he emptied the gut cavity he pointed out some black parasites on the lining of the cavity that looked just like ticks. I sliced the meat to see if there were many worms. The laceration squirmed with parasitic life. I promptly tossed it in the bait tray, to string it on the bait line in the next trap. Today I concluded that "Sculpin is bait, not food." (Intended as a play off of the Finding Nemo Fish Anonymous mantra repeated by the shark members "Fish are friends, not food.")

At the end of the day Cap offered to carry my bucket overflowing with Jonah and spider crabs up to our vehicles, like the gentleman that he is. I kept all of the crabs that we caught today for my frozen seafood collection. I have been picking out crab every other night to freeze it and later make crabcakes. I will be eating the fish, crab, and lobster that we caught well into the winter.

When we reached the parking lot, I handed Cap a scrap of paper with a name and number of a prospective sternman scribbled on it. We made small talk about the catch. I told him I'd like to bring him some essays that I'd written about fishing (blog posts) for him to read. He said he's like that and also wanted to see my pictures of shrimping season. Before parting, I extended my hand and said "Hey, it's been a pleasure working with you." "The pleasure has been mine," he replied giving me a firm handshake. I told him I'd stop by later in the week to pick up my last paycheck. Then I turned and we parted ways.

On the drive home, I was surprised at how sad I felt to be leaving employment with Cap. I felt incredible relief at finishing the job, yet I will really miss working with him. We've been a great team. We managed to weather the most challenging work that I've ever done together and remain courteous and respectful of eachother. There aren't many people who I could still be on good terms with after a year of confinement in the wheelhouse performing backbreaking work alongside. Yet Cap and I made it work.

It is time for me to move on and time for Cap to find a long-term deckhand. I really hope that he finds a good sternman. I thank Cap for the opportunity to experience lobstering year-round. It has been a humbling experience and a very valuable one, yet it isn't sustainable for me long-term. I am excited about my winter projects, most of all about applying to grad school and publishing this blog in some form or another. It's hard to say where life will lead me, but I am eager and ready for new opportunities to present themselves. Wherever I end up, I will always have good memories of these days on the boat with Cap and many stories to tell.

Early to Rise

This morning Cap and I were both late for our rendezvous. I was relieved to see that he pulled in right after me at 5:15 am. We rolled the windows of our vehicles down to allow air flow, slammed the doors, grabbed our stuff and headed for the dock. My other favorite fisherman in the harbor arrived at the same time and walked in stride with us toward the skiffs. I chirped an enthusiastic hello at Freddy, genuinely glad to see him. "Hey Girrrrl," he replied in his usual greeting for me. The three of us walked side by side in sleepy silence. Three fishermen walking in a line in the dark. We all had our work uniforms on: rubber boots, tattered clothes, ball caps and carried our lunch boxes in hand. I felt like one of the boys, but my ponytail gave me away.

When we reached the ramp, which is only wide enough to walk down single file, I hesitated allowing Cap to go first out of respect. I would follow my captain anywhere. But instead, the two gentlemen yielded to me, allowing the lady to go first. I smiled to myself noting their courtesy and traditionalism. Off I went charging down the ramp in long strides, while the two men tip-toed down behind me. We bid Freddy good day and made our way toward the mooring. I sat next to a few bundles of rope that had been sitting in Cap's yard for a season. The earthy aroma of musty dirt wafted up from the coils. A foreign smell in a marine environment.

As we rounded the mouth of the harbor and pointed the bow due south, the north wind greeted us with a slap on the transom. I hadn't seen that pesky wind for a while and can't say that I was overjoyed. That is a sure sign that fall is near, a fact of which I've been increasingly aware this week. Last week Cap commented that Labor Day weekend often marks a drastic drop in temperature. Sure enough, last week was blistering hot and I wore my wool fishing coat for the first time since last winter the day after the holiday. Impeccable timing.

The day was tiring. Somehow, my energy seems to dissipate in the north wind. It slapped me smartly in the face each time Cap brought the boat around, alerting me to the elements and practically stealing my breath with surprise. As the bow broke the waves, the spray showered my face and I found myself holding my breath. My body also tends to tense up when working on sloppy seas. It only takes a little persistent chop to make a sternman's job increasingly difficult.

We may have been early to rise, but I wasn't early to bed. By the time I got home it was 7 pm and much was left to be done. Shower. Laundry. Dishes. Tomorrow's lunch. Phone calls. Email. And bed at last. So goes the life of a sternlady.

The Unexpected

It was one of those days when I found myself repeating "It's a weird day" one too many times. They say that if you don't like the weather in Maine, then just wait a minute. In other words, our weather is constantly changing. Today was a perfect example of that. The weather seemed to be dramatically shifting every few hours.

The day started off rough. The waves weren't huge, but frequent enough to be a nuisance. I couldn't leave a trap on the rail unattended or else it would hop into the water on its own accord. I had to brace myself with my legs while doing my daily duties (filling bait bags, baiting traps, measuring and banding lobsters, etc). The spray showered the wheelhouse, streaming off the roof in little rivulets and dripping down on me. Every once in a while, a rouge wave caught the bow, jerking the whole boat and sending everything flying in mid air, to my frustration. A little chop adds an element of challenge to all activities aboard a boat.

A bit later the wind dropped out and the sun shone brightly. The impact of waves on the hull quieted down to playful slapping as opposed to violent punches. The water's surface smoothed out and once again reflected gulls and sky. I even commented that maybe it would turn into a nice day after all.

Not long after that, Cap pointed to the southard. "Looks like it's gonna breeze up again," he said. I looked up to see, literally, a wall of wind approaching us. You could actually see the barrier where smooth swell turned to sharp waves crested with whitecaps, like jagged mountain peaks. The sky was a dark bluish-grey acting as a stark backdrop to the whitecaps. Off in the distance, a hole in the clouds permitted a column of white light to beam down from above. It was a dramatic sky of contrasting shadow and brightness. The water was even darker than the clouds. The boys talked of heading in on the radio. Then the VHF fell eerily silent. We hauled on.

Just to cap off the "weird day," we had a strange event happen while hauling the last traps. Cap had announced that we were down to the last string and we had the third pair in the hauler when something unexpected occurred. Of course the last string of traps had to be the most challenging, all snarled up with other fishermen's lines. I knew that we had hit yet another snarl when the whine of the hauler amplified to an almost unbearably loud moan, under the pressure of more than two traps. The lead trap hit the hull and, sure enough, it had a foreign line looped over the bridle. I was stuffing bait bags with my back turned to the hauler, when somehow under the pressure of the other line, the trap popped up and hit me hard on the shoulder. I swore loudly, surprised by how abrupt and forceful the trap had moved. Cap yelled out an apology to me while untangling the snarl angrily. I went back to my work silently, a bit stunned by what had just happened and by Cap's strong reaction afterward. We only had six pair left to haul, so I proceeded as if we were going to finish the day's work. However, Cap turned to me once we had set the cursed pair and gave me the signal indicating that we were done. "Let's just get back in one piece," he said as we began the long steam home.

A few realizations hit me along with that trap:

1.) Lobstering is dangerous. When working on the water, things can go wrong in a hurry. There is a great amount of pressure on those lines and if something snaps or catches you, there's very little to no time to respond. Lobstahgal didn't feel so invincible in that split second.

2.) Cap cares about my well-being. I think that his moral was injured more than my shoulder was. I might have a handsome bruise on my shoulder in the next few days, but I wasn't harmed. Cap really took the incident to heart by steaming home instead of completing the string. Normally, we would bust our balls to haul through all the traps in an area that far off shore so as to avoid steaming out there again just to haul a few pair. I was touched by his protective instinct.

3.) There is much tension in the fishing industry on many levels: political (legislation), regional (between territories, or zones), and communal (conflict between fishermen). All of this tension creates an atmosphere of negativity, which I've been noticing is wearing on me lately. Cap was so infuriated by the incident because he had a sour history with that particular fisherman. He later expressed that he felt bad that his conflict with the other guy had harmed me. Somehow, this event felt symbolic to me that all of the tension between fishermen is beginning to have negative effects on me (my outlook specifically). After all, the trap jumped literally due to the tension on the lines! I think that if any human participates in the lobstering community for too long, they turn into a scrooge.

All in all, we returned from the unpredictable day in one piece and with a full tank. I'm glad that the day is done. Only a few more days left on the boat! I will do my best to savor them. . .

"Nerved Up"

It has been a beautiful, but very hot, week on the water. Most summer days when it's hot on land, lobstermen are eagerly seabound in hopes of catching a sea breeze to satisfy their low heat tolerance. Mainers hate heat as a rule. Myself included. However, there hasn't been a breeze on the water. Not so much as a breath. It feels rather eery, actually. The calm before the storm.

The boys were all het up about the coming hurricane today. The radio was a constant flurry of nervous exchanges about shifting gear to deeper water, checking mooring lines, and securing floats. In fact we put in a 14-hour day just to get all of the gear shifted. Traps that are sitting on shoal, rocky bottom when a hurricane hits are likely to get pummeled hard by the surf. Therefore, the wise fishermen shift their traps out to deeper water and on muddy bottom, where there will be less impact. Cap commented that come Monday we would see the consequences of not shifting gear. He claimed that those who neglected their gear leaving it in shallow water would find their gear all tied up in a ball with other lines after the storm.

I admit I was skeptical at the beginning of the day. Cap told me that a Category 2 hurricane (Earl) was expected to hit Cape Cod on Friday night. He said there was a possibility that they might evacuate the Cape. I was planning on driving down to the Rhode Island seaboard for a weekend of cajun dancing to celebrate my 25th birthday on Friday, so I suppose I was in a state of denial. There was still a good possibility that Earl would veer east, missing New England and crash into the Canadian shore instead. I was selfishly hoping for the latter scenario.

Cap Jr. called Cap on the radio mid-day. He said he was all "nerved-up" about the storm. He said he was headed in to secure his property in the harbor. Jr. had witnessed a mass exodus of all of the seals that normally loll around on Webber's Ledge. Fishermen were reporting that on a short set the catch had been half of what it was days before. Although the weathermen were still wishy-washy, the marine animals sensed danger on the horizon. Everyone was preparing for the worst. My hopes of hearing some of the best cajun musicians in the country in a few days began to deteriorate with the building hype of the hurricane. All we can do is brace ourselves and see what comes of the storm. It never hurts to be prepared.

Physical Limitations

Although I only stand 5'4'' and weigh 130 pounds, my ego stands much taller. I don't consider myself arrogant, just confident and stubborn. I sometimes catch myself thinking that I am physically much bigger than I really am. I once dated a huge fishermen who weighed twice as much as me and I never hesitated to lift the same heavy objects that he could lift. That's not to say that I was always successful, just that my will was strong.

They say that a strong back and a weak mind make a good sternman. Having a job in which my capability is largely reliant on brute strength has been a humbling experience for me. It's true that I am capable of lifting just about anything under 100 pounds. But that doesn't mean that it's good for me. Towards the beginning of shrimping season I was heaving around 100-pound trays full of shrimp all day long, partially out of stubbornness and partially because I didn't want to bother Cap for help. That didn't last long. My back let me know that I couldn't go on doing that. Cap insisted that I ask for help stacking trays. I learned that asking for help wasn't as painful as the way my back felt when I didn't ask. Those back pains forced me to realize my physical limitations. I learned that it is essential for me to ask for assistance as well as to lift with my legs and close to my center of weight. Otherwise I would be a cripple.

In addition to the amount of weight I can lift, daily life on the boat has awoken me to other physical limitations. For example, first thing in the morning when a captain goes to bring the boat in to the dock, the sternman traditionally fetches the bait and hooks it up to the heist. Bait barrels hold about 5 bushel and could easily weigh 400 pounds when full of herring and brine. Every dock has a dolly that is used to cart bait barrels from the bait cooler to the heist where they are lowered to the boat. I have watched many a fisherman secure the dolly, tilt the weight of the barrel back onto the wheels and whisk it out of the cooler with ease. I had no reason to think that I couldn't do it myself. I'm a sternman after all, right? So I clipped the dolly on to the barrel and leaned back with all my weight to tilt the barrel back towards me. I'll be damned if I couldn't so much as tilt that barrel. I was simply too light to counterbalance the barrel. I got quite frustrated and huffy, but eventually cooled down enough to ask for Cap's help. That was the last time I tried that.

Cap is a tall man. I'd say he stands about six foot and his long limbs are appropriately proportioned. That is to say, Cap's arms are significantly longer than mine. When Cap measures out rope, he uses his arm breadth as a measure of about a fathom (six feet). One day Cap was measuring out a pile of rope to see if some old coils were too short to use. I sidled up alongside him and started to help. One, two, three. . . eight! The coil was plenty long by my measure. I told Cap so and added that he might want to check it himself. One, two. . . seven. Cap declared it short. I left rope measuring to him from then on. After all, our units were different.

Yet another shortcoming pertains to the lobster tank. At the end of the day we pull in to the dock to sell our lobsters and empty the lobster tank one by one to make sure that they are all alive. You can't sell a dead lobster. Dead lobster=dinner. Cap's tank is quite deep, so he has rigged up a system in which a wire mesh basket sits in the lower half of the tank. Once we've emptied the upper half, we pull the basket up by it's rope handles which are secured to cleats outside the tank, thereby elevating the lobsters within arm's reach. Well, within arm's reach for Cap's fathom-long arms, that is. By the time we hit the bottom of the basket I have to practically throw myself into the tank to reach the lobsters, whereas Cap reaches in with ease to touch the bottom of the basket. While I usually persist until the last lobster is removed, Cap usually remarks "I can get the rest, Katherine. You don't have to kill yourself." But by golly, we're a team and I'm gonna help him 'til the bitter end. Yet another physical shortcoming.

Despite my physical limitations, I think I do pretty darn well. Working on the boat has made me realize the importance of helping eachother out. It is satisfying to prove that I can lift a 100-lb tray of shrimp all by myself, yes, but it is also fruitless. Working together and not "killing myself" is much more impressive than brute strength. This has been a valuable lesson aboard the boat. I still take every chance I get to show off for the boys, though. That will probably never change.