This evening while I was packing for a lobster sampling trip tomorrow I was distracted by a big beautiful spider outside my living room window. As I leaned in for a closer look, I saw that she was in deep concentration building tomorrow's web to catch breakfast. She tiptoed delicately across the existing 'scaffolding' of web frame and carefully spun and attached new thread creating the fine webbing in between. She pulled the invisible thread from her abdomen with her rear legs at exactly the right tension so as not to break it. Each line perfectly parallel to the last and meticulously attached in a fraction of a second. Then she reached the end of the line, turned around, and went in the opposite direction. She spun with upmost efficiency and a sense of calm urgency with the task at hand. And all this intricate work could be brushed aside tomorrow with the sweep of a twig in the wind or my broom for that matter.

I thought of my trip earlier this week. The captain was full steam ahead and the sternman was occupied stacking traps on the stern while cap waited for him to break the next pair on the rail and commence the lobster/baiting routine. I was standing right there and was done measuring, so I grabbed the bridle and pulled the trap aboard, forgetting to flick the line out of the block simultaneously. The cap got it for me and we both emptied our respective traps. I thought of how many times I watched that sequence of motions in a day, a week, and a year, and yet when I went to replicate it, my motions were clumsy and novice-feeling. It has been so long since that was my role.

The seemingly effortless motions of one who's very good at what they do can be deceiving to the less experienced. What does a young spider's first web look like?

I also thought about the fibers (rope) that lobstermen work with and how much effort it takes to rig and maintain it seasonally. Shifting offshore in the fall and lengthening lines. Dropping the top warps in the hot tank daily to cook the algae off. Shortening lines in the summer to shift inshore. Swapping out old lines. Marking new lines with red whale markers outside the exemption line. Coiling, tying, splicing over and over again. And just like the spiderweb, this existing framework of lines that is each lobsterman's gang of traps in his/her designated local fishing territory, might get turned upside down by right whale regulations in a few year's time. Complete reconfiguration. Back to the drawing board.

These fibrous networks are fragile, yet important. One's livelihood depends on them.

Lobstah Ladies

This year I've had some fun publicity opportunities. The first was participating in a "Lobster Ladies" calendar that Luke's Lobster compiled to highlight women involved in different aspects of the Maine lobstering industry. I was invited to be "Miss March", as a lobster scientist:

https://www.lukeslobster.com/missmarch/

Then New York Magazine's blog was interested in doing a video on some of the ladies who participated in the calendar and I agreed. It seemed like a fun opportunity to meet a lady captain and have a relaxing afternoon on her boat. After all, I don't often go for pleasure rides these days. It turned out that the whole attendance (2 publicity reps from Luke's Lobster, who facilitated the event, and the 2 videographers from NY Magazine) was female. So we had a fun ladies cruise culminating in a delicious lobster bake hosted by Luke's in Tenants Harbor. A much needed relaxing and enjoyable respite after a busy day. Here's the video:

https://www.thecut.com/2018/06/meet-the-women-ruling-maines-lobster-industry.html

Muscle Memory

Today I scored a lobster sampling trip with a fisherman who had straight-out refused me last year. This week my timing was impeccable and I ended up aboard. His sternman was unavailable so Riley had planned to haul solo. He jumped at the prospect of free help. I rescheduled my meetings to take the trip, since he goes fishing consistently in most weather and would be a dependable trip option in the future.

I wore 2 hats today: 1.) state observer and 2.) Lobstah Gal. I was a little squeaky at the sternlady gig at first, but my muscles quickly remembered the motions a few traps in. My arms remembered how to band lobsters quickly, how to bait a trap and pull it back as cap breaks the second trap of the pair on the rail, and how to stand traps on the stern with minimal lifting. My back also remembered the aches of a long day on the water, which seem to be more pronounced with each year.

Riley was glad to have the help and when we reached the original goal of hauling 180 traps he said how much time I'd saved him had he gone alone. In fact, things went so efficiently that we ended up hauling ~50 more traps than the minimum number that he had anticipated. He expressed his gratitude by offering me lobsters for dinner, but I was too tired to cook them and kindly declined.

When my food and water ran out, my energy started flagging and I think Riley noticed the number of prefilled bait bags was dwindling with my battery life. I was glad to see my hometown appear on the horizon as we pointed the bow home.

What I appreciated most about the day was the feeling of working side-by-side with someone, anticipating their actions and facilitating their next move, like a well-oiled machine. There's a comradery in relying on someone to bail you out if you get in a pinch on the boat and them relying in turn on you. A boat is an island that isn't easy to access if you need help. The feeling of mutual reliance on eachother is a unique one on the water that I haven't experienced equally on land. Luckily, helping eachother today just entailed little things; I helped Riley untangle a snarl and he helped me by setting all of the 'short' (undersized) lobsters aside in a basket for me to measure (normally they'd throw straight back in the water).

It was a productive day. Perhaps next time I ask Riley for a trip, he won't hesitate to say 'yes'.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

A Day on the Water with Freddie

Today was a long déjà vous of my fishing days. Almost 7 years have passed since I signed on with Cap full-time in Nov 2009. I have come full circle, around the outer rim of Georges Bank and back. I’ve landed about half an hour from my home port. I now work just 2 peninsulas to the westward in Boothbay Harbor. Even as coordinator of the state’s lobster monitoring program I still find my head in the bait barrel. As it was today, in a barrel of salted pogies.

One perk to my job is that I get to assign trips to lobster samplers, including myself. So, naturally, I claimed my home port to cover for lobster sampling. This weekend I called a few of my local fisherman friends and, sure enough, Freddie said he’d be pleased to take me fishing today.

When I pulled into the parking lot at the town landing at 5am, my first familiar thought was wondering if I’d be able to pick out the captain and boat in the dark. But there was Freddie on his boat on the mooring. I gathered my sampling gear and headed for the dock. Sure 'nough, in pulled Cap right behind me! When I approached him in the dark, hoping not to startle him, he was waffling on whether it was worth burning the fuel to get to his traps when he wasn’t going to find much in them. I recognized his contemplative stalling. I gave him a big hello and a firm handshake. He seemed surprised and pleased to see me.

Freddie greeted me with his familiar thick Maine drawl “Hey girrrrrl!” He ran up to carry my basket of gear down the ramp even though I could get it. His first remark was (still) that he didn’t see a diamond on my hand yet. The comment cuts a little more at age 31 than it did at age 21, but I know it’s well-intended. He wants me to find a good man who will take care of me.

Freddie and I had a great day of catching up. He goes single-handed, so I acted as his sternlady for the day, measuring lobsters and making relevant notes as I worked. I filled bait bags, baited the traps, measured and banded lobsters just like the good ol’ days. Except this time I was a scientist collecting biological data as well as a sternlady. At one point during the day, Freddie’s friend pulled up alongside us to chat and Joe asked if I was a sternlady (yes, he used that word) or an observer. And I enthusiastically said “Both!” Joe replied “Good for you,” smiling at my enthusiasm no doubt. I was enthusiastic, because the position fulfills both my love of working on the water as well as my intellectual needs. It’s a nice blend of science and fishing.

Another local friend, Craig, called Freddie on the radio, curious to see another body on Freddie's boat. I saw Craig’s boat off by Pond Island and was amazing that he spotted me on the deck from that distance. Not even the slightest change gets by fisherman. Freddie explained that it was me and that I was “working like hell.” Craig said “Oh, yeah, and she’s a good-looking girl too!” Even though I’m not married and popping out kids, at least I'm still considered an eligible bachelorette. 

9:00 am rolled around and Freddie presented me with a nutty bar and gingerale that I adamantly refused since it was his lunch, but he said he’d be offended if I didn’t eat them, so I obliged. We are equal parts stubborn, but offending a friend is my limit (and he knew it). Then noon approached and he kicked the boat out of gear, producing an extra bologne sandwich and another soda for me. He brought twice his usual food to share with me! I couldn’t say no, but insisted that he have some birthday cake that my mom packed for me. We had quite a feast.

All aspects of the day were familiar including the soul-soothing views of a clear summer day in The Sound and the thrill when Freddie declared the long day as over. We steamed into the harbor straight to the dock where Fred’s brother bought our lobsters, greeting and leaving us with a friendly nod and choosing his few words well. Freddie wanted to give me some lobsters to take home if he couldn’t pay me for the day and I had the valid protestation that the state doesn’t condone gifts. I calmed him by accepting some cucumbers that he grew. He then insisted on carrying my basket back up to the truck and we greeted his parents who were parked at the landing watching the goings on of their sons as they do every day. Not a bad way to pass time.

Thank God that some things never change. Life has a way of working out just fine.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Full Circle

It's hard to believe that it was six years ago that I was lobstering by day and writing this blot by night. A lot has happened in the past six years: a Master's degree, a life on Cape Cod, becoming a PhD student and, lately, returning home to midcoast Maine to continue my career. And yet so little has changed.

Lo and behold, today I found myself back aboard Cap's boat. This time I was a sternlady in a different capacity: a scientist. Surely my role didn't appear any different. I was wearing my lobster uniform: ripped sweatshirt with my dad's old wool fishing coat over it, ragged ball cap with ponytail protruding and orange oilers. I was still handling bait on occasion and measuring lobsters. The lobster buyer even mistook me for a second deckhand when we docked and I helped unload the catch.

Yet my role today was as an observer. I cringe to use that term since it conjures the controversial role of federal observers. Instead, my position is to monitor the lobster population in state waters. I have no business with policy or enforcement and I intend to keep it that way. But my job is truly to observe. "That's what scientists do, after all," my father pointed out matter-of-factly when I expressed my discomfort with the term. "They observe things."

I tried to help out Cap's sternman throughout the day when I finished measuring lobsters. Cap has had the same sternman since I left. And he likely has the same phone number as the one scribbled on the scrap of paper that I handed Cap on my last day. His strong back, quick muscle memory and attention to detail proved that he has carried out the job excellently. It was reassuring to see that Cap has such good help.

I literally came full circle. As the lobster boats pirouette around buoys all day long, I feel that we haven't moved forward much. In some sense I'm right where I started and yet I've made some progress toward my goal. I'm attempting to bridge the gap between science and industry -- between study and practice, between observation and application -- through collaborative research. Cap's boat is a great place to start. But my efforts will extend far beyond that familiar deck, north to the Canadian border and south to the New Hampshire line. I'll be working with many other Caps from here on out. And I look forward to the adventures that this job will bring. I think I'm ready for it. I'm right where I should be.

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Shrimp Radio Show

Here's the radio show Coastal Conversations on the shrimp fishery that I was interviewed on January 22, 2016: http://archives.weru.org/coastal-conversations/2016/01/coastal-conversations-12216/

Saturday, December 5, 2015

To Trawl or not to Trawl?

I have to admit that I find it frustrating when people say that “trawling is bad.” Like many issues, black-and-white ethical statements such as this do not do the topic of habitat impacts justice.

As the daughter of a former groundfisherman, my family’s income depended on otter trawling when I was growing up, so perhaps that has influenced my perspective on trawling. I think the issue of benthic impacts from trawling is much more complex than it is often portrayed. As several studies have demonstrated (Kostylev et al. 2005, Lindholm et al. 2004, Lokkeborg 2005), dragging influences different habitat types in different ways and to different degrees. While dragging might have detrimental effects on complex habitat with rocky substrate, the effects may be negligible when compared with natural disturbance on dynamic, unstable sandy bottom.

Think about it in terms of the terrestrial environment. If a big net was swept across the Sahara Desert and the old growth forests of northern California, do you think it would have the same effect on these ecosystems? Of course not. The vertical structure and the ecological resilience of these habitat types is completely different and therefore you would expect the effects of trawling these areas to be quite different. The old growth forest is a relatively stable environment that has taken centuries to establish and so the effects of trawling would be significant. However, the desert represents an unstable substrate subject to high levels of natural disturbance (wind and heat), and the impact would likely be impacted relatively low. This diversity of terrestrial habitat impact is not unlike the marine environment.

Furthermore, it is extremely difficult to quantify the effect of trawling on benthic communities. Successful studies have only been able to do this in benign coastal environments, since the task demands either divers or cameras both of which require ideal conditions. We attempted to quantify incidental mortality of scallops and dredge impacts on sandy bottom in Southern New England using a ROV and an AUV in 2014. Despite the shallow water (~30 fm), calm sea conditions, and low currents it was nearly impossible to 1.) tow over the area that was surveyed pre-dredging, 2.) to locate the dredge path after towing and 3.) to accurately quantify the difference let alone yield consistent results. Further complicating the matter was the question of whether the pre-tow survey was representative of untowed conditions? Unlikely, since this area is regularly fished. What then do you quantify as "unimpacted" seafloor? It is not as straightforward of a study as one may think when reading the literature.

So the next time that you hear someone declare that dragging is inherently detrimental or even hear scientists confidently state dredge impact statistics, think twice about the issue and be aware that it's more complicated than some let on.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Sea Safety

A month ago I heard about a safety training course being offered in Belfast, an hour away from campus. It had been three years since I participated in the Fishermen's Safety Training in New Bedford in preparation for the field season on Georges Bank. I planned to go on the Maine DMR shrimp survey soon, so I decided it was time to brush up on my safety skills. Two colleagues agreed that they could use the training for their field work, so we arranged to attend the course.

When we arrived at the instructor's house, the driveway was full of big trucks with fishing gear in back. I realized that everyone except us three students were taking the course as a requirement to get their lobster license. Suddenly I felt a bit foolish taking the training voluntarily. I overheard someone remark that they didn't need the training since they'd spent plenty of time on the water. But that's just thing: the more time you spend on the water, the fewer precautions some folks take that could save you in an emergency. There is such a thing as getting too comfortable.

A woman about my age from one of the islands was also taking the class. She commented how the island fishermen were nervous about the impending regulation for all lobstermen to take safety training in order to retain their permit. The instructor asked why it made them nervous. "They're afraid that they'll have to take a swim test and they can't swim," she replied. That's when it hit me why I felt so strongly about taking this training.

It goes back to 1990, when I was 5 years old. I don't remember much, just that it upset my parents to the point of despair that they couldn't conceal from me. The little that I know is from what they told me years later. My dad owned two groundfishing boats at the time: the F/V North Wind and the F/V High Chaparrel. He captained the North Wind and had two brothers work for him. One September day the brothers wanted to go out fishing and make some money, but my dad wasn't able to go. They eventually convinced their reluctant captain to let them take the boat. He got the boat ready and checked it over multiple times before handing it over to them. They didn't return and the boat was not found. My dad has struggled with survivor's guilt ever since then. He sincerely believes that those men would be alive if he had been on the boat.

My father was one of those fishermen who can't swim. He had done survival suit drills with his crew, but had never taken a formal safety training. Who knows if the brothers had or if the training would have helped them. I believe that every fisherman, from greenhorn to weathered seaman, should take that training biannually if not every year. It isn't reading the safety tips in a training manual that counts. It's practicing those skills (quickly donning a survival suit, practicing Mayday calls, using a fire extinguisher) on a regular basis until they are intinctual that can save your life in an emergency situation. And it's my opinion that there should be public funding available for everyone who makes a living on the water to take that training as a requirement. Fishermen shouldn't have to pay to take it.

Not only is there no swim test, but you don't have to know the first thing about swimming to take safety training. We did jump in the water, but in survival suits so buoyant that out bodies were practically raised above the water's surface. The suits are warm and cozy. I reckon I could've floated around icy Belfast Harbor all afternoon on that bitter February day. But I'd rather not have occasion to.

Monday, January 5, 2015

Shrimp Doc

It's hard to believe that five whole years have passed since Cap and I trapped for the little buggers. And that the last time I consumed fresh-caught Pandalus borealis was exactly three years ago. . . It's true, I have shrimp on the brain again. So help me God.

Although I've been studying the charismatic Georges Bank sea scallop for the past few years, I have listened closely to news of our beloved Maine shrimp as they've taken a precipitous decline. A project has been brewing in my mind for close to three years now and the opportunity to pursue it has finally arisen. It is not by choice that it has been so long since I last ate fresh northern shrimp. It's by lack of opportunity. The Gulf of Maine northern shrimp stock has been dwindling in recent years, to the point that the fishery has been tragically closed for two seasons. My fishermen friends have sacrificed much more than the sweet, fresh coldwater cuisine. Cap has done alright lobstering further offshore through the winter months, but at a high tradeoff. He burns much more fuel and is forced to fish twenty miles offshore in harsh conditions, which is far for a 35' lobsterboat in January.

But it isn't just my past experience in the fishery that drives my interest in the issue. On the contrary, I remember swearing that I'd never lay hand on a shrimp trap again after the 2010 fishing season. Nor is it purely the Maine economy that compels me to revisit shrimp. It is a much greater problem yet. An ecological problem. The Gulf of Maine represents the southern extent of the range of northern shrimp. As a cold water species, the entire life cycle of northern shrimp is impacted by warming water temperatures, and the Gulf of Maine is purportedly warming at a faster rate than other regions. It is no surprise that we're seeing fewer shrimp in Maine waters every year. Shrimp serve as a temperature-sensitive indicator species for this region. So we should pay attention to changes in the GOM shrimp stock, as other species may follow suit. Furthermore, shrimp are important prey for many groundfish species, such as cod and haddock. Removing a historically abundant prey item, may have repercussions up the food chain.

It is to study this issue (temperature effects on northern shrimp reproduction) that I applied to UMO's doctorate program last summer. I feel confident that it will make an excellent dissertation topic simply for the reason that the idea has persisted in my mind for some time now. I deem that adequate intellectual fuel to power my studies in the coming years.

Before the holidays, I swung by to tell Cap about my new project and to inquire whether he'd like to participate in sampling. He met the idea with support and enthusiasm, although I remembered his residual disgust with academia. Pending grant funding, it isn't so far fetched to think I might be out there trapping with Cap once again in the coming winters. What goes around, comes around. You just never know where life's gonna lead you.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Northbound

It's been three and a half years since I turned in my lobster license plates and pointed Eddie (my car) south for New Bedford. It was a painful day moving to Massachusetts, eased only by the golden opportunity of grad school and a loving boyfriend who lived nearby there. On January 1, 2011, the day of the move, I promised myself that I would return to my home state as soon as I finished my Master's degree.

One year at a real job and a relationship later, that dream has not waned. With my ties in Mass broken, my heart once again yearns for the north. The difference is that now I'm free to go! Yesterday Eddie and I were northbound for a visit to Maine, but the drive had a new meaning. Tomorrow I will continue north from my home town to see my new school, and meet my PhD advisor. Yes, I begin a doctorate program in January. Maine is finally drawing closer on the horizon.

I have always felt a sense of relief when I cross the border from Mass into NH. Like when as a child you added a drop of detergent to a bowl of water, breaking the surface tension and sending your little paper boat across the tiny pond. It's analogous to that feeling of released tension. After escaping Mass, Maine feels that much closer. The NH air feels cleaner, the landscape more open, and the straight stretch of highway taunts me to drive faster. It is there that I received my one and only speeding ticket on such a drive Home.

Eddie's bow follows a gradual bend and the highway starts to incline up a gentle slope. Then I see it. My heart jumps with joy. The magnificent green bridge rears ahead. I rubberneck at the apex of the arch, eager to take in the first sight of Maine. I used to let out a whoop at that point in the drive on my way home from college. I still feel the same elation, but a contented smile is sufficient. Crossing to the other side, my body relaxes and my muscles feel at ease. My mother says that her "molecules fall into place" when she returns home from traveling. I used to think that was a goofy thing to say. But that's just how I feel returning to Maine. A sense of belonging. A sense of place.

A friend of mine asked "Why do you want to return Maine?" when I shared my plans for the winter. He commented that your hometown is never as you remember it when you return. I tried to explain the natural beauty of the landscape, how deep my familial roots run, and the friendliness and sense of community unique to the state. But it runs deeper than that. It isn't just community, it's the strong sense of local culture that colors Maine communities so brightly. Cape Cod simply is not made of the same glue. There is a sense of transience on the Cape, perhaps that stems from being a wealthy vacation destination. It's difficult to put one's thumb on in, but the Massachusetts communities in which I've lived don't share the same feeling of interconnectedness. They lack the spirit that one's well-being is enhanced by participating in the local community.

This fall I will be northbound one last time and not just for a visit. Maine is where my heart fills and where my spirit is free. The north is where I belong. I expect this time I will return to stay.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Time Warp

July 25, 2014, 1:00 am

I'm sitting on watch in the wheelhouse of a 65' lobsterboat, 70 miles offshore on Georges Bank scanning the radar for other vessels. I check our course, speed, and the engine vitals. All's well. I glance at the clock again: 1:05 am. It feels like the slowest hour of my life. I remind myself that the boat clock is wrong (it wasn't set back for DST), but it doesn't really matter out here. We're on boat time. The measure of time is completely relative in this reality. It doesn't matter what clock the rest of the world is operating on. We have no appointments to miss, no designated time to arrive to work (besides rolling out of your rack after the captain's wake-up yell), and no calls to make. In fact, we're out of cell phone range and the sattellite phone is for emergencies. The only occasion that World Time might be relevant is in checking the tide chart, but, to the captain, the tide is more of a feeling than a time.

My eyelids start to succumb to gravity and I stand to stay awake. 20 minutes left now. I fetch my pee bucket and toilet seat, quickly relieving myself before returning to the wheel. We have reason to be tired. I've been on my feet for the past 20 hours hauling 40-trap trawls with captain and two experienced deckhands. The boys do all the hard work handling the traps (the end traps weigh 250 lbs each!), line, poly ball and highflier. I handle the bait. It's smelly but lightweight compared to their tasks. At least I'm well-qualified for measuring, notching and banding lobsters. When the boys get behind I break the rail with the next trap. We work like a production line: clean out trap of lobsters and crabs, bait the line, hogring the vents, close trap and slide down the rail to stack on deck.

Some things never change. I've spent the past 3 years getting my Master's in Marine Science and transitioning into my current position as Supervisory Research Biologist at a non-profit organization. Yet I still find myself with my head in a bait barrel occasionally. My next phase of life will be as a doctorate student at the University of Maine at Orono studying the Gulf of Maine shrimp stock. No doubt my Ph.D. will also involve baiting shrimp traps with rotten herring. I don't stray far from the bait barrel.

This trip I'm along for the ride for research purposes: to haul scallop spat collectors. The only boat willing to make the trip had a condition: if I help them haul their gear, they'll help me haul mine. Fair enough. And a good excuse to experience offshore lobstering on Georges Bank.

My attention returns to the radar and to the present. The pinpoint of a highflier bobs about a mile to our south. A tanker crawls by to our east, a distant light on the horizon. My back hurts, my feet are sore, my right thumb is tired from banding lobsters (sadly enough), and I reek to high heavens. No time for a shower tonight. . . this morning. The smell of rotten pogies, slimy yellowtail and redfish racks, skates, and monkfish heads oozing with guts wafts from the deck. The vessel is beautiful, tidy and clean, but there's just no avoiding the stench of bait when trapping.

I've become accustomed to the luxury of research trips on 100' scallopers. New Bedford's scallop fleet is a fine one, which one would expect from an industry worth $380 million. Many of the boats have not one but two heads and the boys often generously give me a state room of my own. But it's humbling to be on a lobsterboat again. The rivalry between trappers and draggers even holds this far offshore with seemingly ample bottom for everyone to share. The lobstermen say that scallopers are spoiled with short watches, lightweight gear handling, relatively little time at sea, and huge paychecks. I suppose they are right in some respects. But handling 2 ton steel dredges is every bit as difficult and dangerous as stacking 120 traps 6 rows high. It's just different. Every fishery is unique. Trappers and draggers will always detest eachother.

Watch is over. Time to wake up the deckhand for his turn, after only an hour of sleep, poor soul. Time for me to rest.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Soul Food

Although I'm not a picky eater in the least bit, one thing that kills me about cuisine on the scallop boats is fake sweeteners: Aunt Jemima's "syrup" and mass-produced honey. High fructose corn syrup is no substitute for maple syrup and Stop 'n' Shop honey simply doesn't resemble the real thing. Both are a far cry from the pure product to which I'm accustomed.

Growing up in Maine, I was spoiled by the purity of simple living. At an early age, my dad and I tapped the red maples on our property and we made syrup. Perhaps the hard work that went into the process made it that much sweeter, but to this day it is the best syrup I've ever laid taste buds on.

Later on my dad took up beekeeping and I helped him tend the hives. There was a steep learning curve the first season, but he reaped a rewarding batch of sweetness in the end. Again, the best honey I've ever tasted.

Daddy's motivation to maintain the hives subsided when I left for college, but thankfully our supply of the "real stuff" continued thanks to his best friend Uncle Jimmy. Jimmy was a very special man. The type with an contagious smile and a laugh that would brighten your day. He lost a battle with cancer last winter. But his legacy lives on in the heavenly nectar of his hives.

This morning I poured it over my cereal, thinking of Uncle Jimmy's zest for life. Somehow his honey is sweeter than most. It has the perfumy taste of honeysuckle, even though the plant isn't common in Maine. It's as if the honey embodies his sweet and loving spirit. It is soulful.

Rest in peace, Uncle Jimmy.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

An article about the survey trips I go on with a section about my research is being featured in the May issue of Commercial Fisheries News.

Here's the link:

https://docs.google.com/open?id=0B155nqFspMYwWEVKQ0VvRGo0cVk

Saturday, July 9, 2011

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.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

The Way Life Should Be

I have been a resident of New Bedford, Mass for almost three months now. Let's just say things have changed considerably since the days of Lobstahgal.

Remember that blog post entitled "Afloat" that I wrote last July mocking the life of cubicles? Well, I now have a "comfy little cubicle" of my own. A vida ironica. I suppose I was due for some humbling. And you know what? Working in a cubicle isn't half bad! It doesn't have a view of the open ocean (or any windows at all, in fact), but it is considerably more comfortable than the conditions I worked in a year ago. It's warm and dry. My hands don't go numb and my back doesn't feel like I'm 80 at the end of the day anymore. In fact, I've been quite grateful to be so comfortable this winter.

But it gets worse. Remember how I mocked Massachusetts residents and perhaps even called them a derogatory name related to their driving habits? Well, my car, Edwin, now wears Mass plates. Yes, that's right, I'm a Masshole. I don't drive like one, or not yet, anyway, but according to northern standards, I qualify. I had to register Edwin here in order to get a Mass car insurance policy. I mourned for a few weeks. Again, humbling.

It had been two and a half months since I had set foot in my home state when I pointed Edwin's bow north last week. I was headed home for spring break. Boy, was I ready to see some natural beauty again. The grey asphault and airborne trash were starting to get me down at the least colorful time of year. I gladly bid New Bedford farewell, as I passed the fishing port on I-195 on my way out. Boat masts, church steeples, and smokestacks pierced the sky. The skyline is just as rough as the city itself. Although I have a deep reverence and fascination for the waterfront of New Bedford, I can't say that I would be living here had a golden educational opportunity not arisen. In other words, it isn't a place where I would choose to live.

I let out a holler as I climbed the bridge into New Hampshire. It felt good to break free of "the mother state," as I now think of Mass. The air felt cleaner in NH, but upon crossing the next bridge into Maine, I felt even more refreshed. Maine welcomed me home, the sign reading "Welcome to Maine: The Way Life Should Be." How many times had I read that sign before? Yet it resonated more than ever this time. I couldn't help but start singing the Alan Jackson song "Where I Come From." Then I froze with horror. I'd be returning home, to New Harbor, Maine with Mass plates! The ultimate embarrassment. I'm not sure which is worse: locals not recognizing me. . . or them recognizing me as a Masshole!

Finally, I pulled into my parents' driveway. I stepped out of the car. I stopped. Silence. Stars! Solitude. Home.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Nevah Goin' Back.

There has been many a Saturday in the past eight summers of my life when I've been cleaning my parents' oceanfront cottages, gazing out at the lobsterboats and wishing I was on the water. I suppose that's how I came to be interested in lobstering in the first place. It looks like a very romantic way to spend one's time on a beautiful, sunny day in July.

But now I know the reality of the industry. Today I looked out at those same boats as I helped my dad replace a bathroom in a cottage. This time my perspective was a bit different: I couldn't be more grateful to be high and dry on land. Now I know what it's like to be out there this time of year.

Winter is on its way. The leaves have fallen, the north wind blows, and the sky has a cold, heavy greyness suggestive of snow. On a choppy day like today I look at those boats with pity. I know how miserable it is to be out there with the boat wrenching about under you, your tools sloshing back and forth, knowing that you still have hours of work ahead of you before Cap points the bow landward commencing the hour steam home. It may be the most lucrative season, but it's the least enjoyable.

A few days ago (on Nov. 3) I awoke to the phone ringing at 7 am. I craned my head to look at the number with one eye still shut. It was Cap. My heart sank: what if his new sternman hadn't worked out? I looked at the date: a year and three days ago Cap had called me out of the blue asking for help on deck. What if he was making that call again? I let my voicemail answer the call, but I couldn't fall back asleep. Curiosity ate at me.

Eventually I listened to the message. To my surprise, Cap wasn't asking for help at all! He was offering me fish! He had gone on a charter trip the day before and caught tons of polluck. He told me where the fillets were located if I wanted to stop by and pick some up. I was touched: I knew that Cap treasured seafood just as much as I did.

An hour later I pulled in to Cap's familiar driveway, grateful to be arriving on the occasion of friendship and not employment. Cap wasn't home, but I had a nice visit with Mrs. Cap. Upon my leaving she handed me a bulging bag of beautiful polluck fillets. I shared them with my friends and family. It was truly a treat.

I confess that I miss the perks of fishing. Most of all I miss eating fresh seafood that I caught the same day. Now I know that I am physically capable of lobstering for a living. But I also know that I'm never going back to it. Evah.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

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.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

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.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

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.

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