A New Port

Life is indeed quite different living in New Bedford, but one thing hasn't changed: my job still involves working on boats. It's a little different this summer, though. First of all, bait is not part of the equation anymore, thank God. I'm also not working on the water every day, but when I am out to sea, it is for 8-day trips and I'm on the boat for good. I'm sleeping in a bunk, eating in the galley, and standing watch in the wheelhouse. It isn't a 10-hour-day of lobstering with scenic views of the Maine coast. It's 200 miles out to sea on Georges Bank without any land in sight. Luckily, I'm only going on three trips this summer.

In fact my first trip out to sea in May was the first time that I slept on a boat. I sterned on a lobsterboat for a year and two summers, but I'd never slept on a boat before. The first night wasn't much fun. I was seasick from the clumsy motion of the top-heavy 90-ft commercial scallop fishing vessel jerking abruptly from side to side. My bunk was next to the engine room. Now I understand why most fishermen are deaf. The roar of the engine was louder than I could have ever imagined. After a few nights I adapted to taking Dramamine regularly. I was getting used to the deafeningly loud engine and when I put my earplugs in to sleep even had the delusion of silence. My body grew accustomed to the now seemingly gentle sway of the hull. The motion rocked me into a sound sleep.

In some ways I feel a comforting familiarity with the working waterfront in New Bedford. The sounds and smells of the dockside remind me of home. Rotten fish baking in the sun. A salty sea breeze kissing your face. Men joking and laughing over the loud clamor of machinery. But to look at it, New Bedford's waterfront is quite a different story than New Harbor's quaint

wharves. Hundred-foot-steel-hulled giants dwarf the graceful, white 30-ft fiberglass hulls of lobsterboats from home. Fifteen-foot steel dredges adorn either side of the scalloping vessels, appearing much more dangerous than the 3-ft long traps that lobstermen use. Even the fishermen are different. I enjoy the trip down to the dock to pick up scallops for our work and look forward to the opportunity to shoot the shit with the fishermen. But I'm not greeted with the friendly, fatherly faces that I know well from home. Instead foreign accents yell at us abnoxiously, sometimes making me blush at their ludeness. One guy thought I was a whore when I greeted him kindly. I quickly averted my eyes and walked on. The captains are for the most part respectful men, but the deckhands can be pretty rough.

It is, however, interesting seeing such a culturally diverse port. Maine fishing communities are uniformly white and often politically and culturally conservative. You wouldn't exactly call New Harbor diverse. However, this major fishing port is peppered with Portuguese, Columbian, Mexican, Fillipino, Polish, and Vietnamese fishermen. A fair number of Mainers make the commute to scallop out of New Bedford as well. We have a reputation as being hard workers down here.

Hanging in the wheelhouse of the first vessel I went on was the quintessential relic of New Bedford. It was a cheap plastic cross that looked like it was straight out of Ver-o-Peso in Belem, Brazil, a famous dockside market. Delicate gold flourishes and plastic diamonds adorn the tips of the cross, reminding me of gaudy Brazilian jewelry. A scallop is mounted in the center of the cross. This keepsake is undoubtedly Portuguese. The piece reminds me of the brightly-colored boats outside Ver-o-Peso, the exotic fish for sale at market, and the stench of the docks. The colorful hulls of New Bedford's fleet and the elegant Portuguese names are reminiscent of Brazil. This port is a blend of some of my favorite ports on different continents. It's a perfect melting pot of fishing cultures from around the world.

In Bloom

My grandmother was one of the most generous people I've known. I learned some valuable things from her that will stay with me for my whole life.

One lesson she taught me is the joy of caring for others. Grandma was a nurse in her younger days and provided her family with remedies for

our afflictions as long as I can remember. She cared for the elderly widows in the community, visiting them and bringing them food. She did everything for my Grandpa but spoon fed him. He was dependent on her to the point that he was unable to care for himself after she passed. And God knows she did more than her share of caring for me.

I also learned the joy of growing plants from her. Grandma LOVED flowers. She gave her wedding dress to me. It is beautiful but modest like she was. It is made of an elegant ivory satin with a calla lilly pattern woven in. In her wedding photos she carries a bouquet of white calla lilies that curled at the tip like her brown locks.

It's no surprise that she named her mini schnauzer "Daisy." She was frugal to the point that she bought powdered instead of fresh milk but you'd always see a bouquet of daisies on her counter.

And, yes, she loved to grow plants. She kept exotic plants. She had a cactus garden in pots in her office that no doubt reminded her of her favorite vacation place: Arizona. I was so intrigued by them when I was little that I felt compelled to touch them every time we visited. It always ended with me walking away frowning and holding my pricked finger up to my mom. Didn't learn that lesson very quickly. She also propagated every color and pattern of African violet. My mother has trouble keeping them alive, but Grandma grew them like weeds. Pink, purple, white, purple with white stripes. They were always blooming and later on I figured out that Miracle Grow is the trick.

Grandma was also quite fond of the amaryllis. I was fascinated by watching the progress of the

bud unfolding until it developed into blossoms so magnificent and huge that they would sometimes knock the pot over from their weight. I painted Grandma a series of 4 small watercolors that showed the blooming process and framed them in sequence. The paintings still hang in her house.

When Grandma passed away peacefully in her sleep on November 15, 2009, Grandpa wasn't the only one who missed her care. Grandpa soon moved to a very nice nursing home where he now lives quite contentedly with lots of visitors every day. Daisy went to an old lady in need of company who gladly took her in. But the house was left empty and the plants were abandoned without Grandma's touch. I brought many of them home. Her tropical ferns cascade onto the floor of my apartment. The African violets surprise me with richly colored blossoms every so often. And her amaryllis continues to inspire me.

Last July I visited Grandma's empty house and noticed a bud forming on the neglected, bone-dry amaryllis. I brought it home and watered it. A few weeks later, four crimson flowers burst open. The green leaves provided some color to my apartment for a few months and then I stuck it in my parent's basement when they began to brown.

Last weekend I was visiting home and stopped by Grandma's house again to absorb her comforting smell and remember her relaxing in the empty armchair. I looked at her dried up cactus garden, which had long since been forgotten. I didn't take the cacti for fear of being tempted by its enticing quills again. To my surprise, some vibrant red blossoms adorned the shriveled brown arms of her Christmas cactus. I picked one and brought it home to propagate.

I went down to the basement of my folk's house and noticed a bud forming again on the abandoned amaryllis bulb. I brought it home once again to watch the magical process. I feel Grandma's presence every time that bulb comes to life again. My love for Grandma is renewed every time I see it blooming. Her love love lives on within me.