Out and About

Today was a good day to be a sternlady. Although I'm tired and sore from our long (9-day) stretch of setting traps, I was refreshed after a good night's sleep. Our current goal is to prepare for summer fishing.

Yesterday we put the cage on the boat. The "cage" is literally a metal cage that keeps lines and buoys from getting entangled in the propellor in the summertime. Fishermen remove the cage when they shift traps offshore in the fall. The cage increases the boat's drag in the water, which decreases fuel efficiency. Since the fall fishing sites are a long steam and the buoys are fewer and further apart, it makes sense to take the cage off for the winter.

We're currently focused on getting our "gang" of traps in the water and preparing for the shedders to migrate close to shore. We have all but 22 of the brand new traps built. That will give Cap a total of 200 blindingly-yellow new traps. The other goal is to shift the 400 traps that are 10 miles to the southard in close to land. We only have 2 more loads to get to accomplish this, one of which we'll get tomorrow. Today's goal was to set 110 traps (2 boat-loads worth).

Enough with logistics! Today was one of those days when I remember why I'm lobstering. It was sunny, warm and flat-calm on the water. All creatures large and small seemed to be out and about, indulging in glorious summer. We worked around the islands all day. I thought I smelled watermelon in the southerly breeze drifting to the boat from Loud's Island. On Haddock Island, we spotted an eagle family. First I saw the dad. He was a brutish bird perched high in a spruce, overlooking his domain. Below him roosted a huge nest that I think I could comfortably sleep in if I could reach it. Mom was sitting defensively next to the nest watching over two fledglings whose heads just cleared the nest's edge. They looked like a happy family.

North of Haddock we crossed a school of what was probably herring. Ironically, the seiners were working just up the Sound, but it seemed that the birds had found the motherload just south of the seining site. Cap pointed out three harbor porpoises surfacing in unison, no doubt having quite a meal. Shags (cormorants) plunged into the water from a good height and emerged from with fish wiggling in their bills. Gulls squacked and scirmished over the fresh fish. Nearby some seals sunned on a ledge, taking advantage of the dry breeze and the warm sun.

Even the banter on the VHF radio seemed a little more light-hearted than it has been. The general feeling around the harbor is anticipation of the shedders arriving. The guys are discussing sports, little league, and are exercising their good will more than ever to bring eachothers traps in from offshore. Everyone's a little cheerier. My favorite comment on the radio today was:"What a couple of bookends!" I missed the context, but I believe he was referring to some lazy folks who were just sitting around-- maybe even on a shelf!

Summer has finally arrived and, boy, am I glad. It's been a long winter. Now for the fun part of fishing! You're not likely to find me on shore much from now on. I'm most likely out and about on the water.

Right Where I Should Be

Despite my periodic campaigns to find a more routine and intellectually-stimulating job, I sometimes wonder if maybe I'm right where I should be. Maybe the fact that Cap called me on my second to last day of my lobster research internship last fall looking for a sternman wasn't so coincidental after all. And maybe, by very slim chance, the fact that I actually answered the lab phone when he called was yet another "non-coincidence."

I have recently been offered a lucrative position as fisheries observer. I've been thinking a lot about it lately. I've had many reservations regarding this job, one being that it involves a lot of travel, and I want to continue living on the Peninsula. The other day when I became motion sick from writing on the boat, I realized that I probably won't be able to be a fisheries observer for exactly that reason. The job description boils down to recording data (writing) on boats. This conclusion in addition to many other factors made me grateful for my current job. I have committed to work with Cap at least for the summer and possibly the fall.

Silly as it may sound, watching the Disney movie "Walle" tonight reminded me of the importance of living off of the land and the sea as opposed to becoming swept up in the movement to develop and modernize. Cap has told me on numerous occasions in an attempt to keep me on as his sternlady that "fishermen are needed" in the world today. I don't think I quite grasped the full meaning of this statement until this evening. Not only is fishing preserving a local tradition, but it is carrying on a way of life.

My closest friend is a farmer. I often feel like I can relate to her for this reason. We have the same schedule (early to bed, early to rise) as well as the same sense of tedium (whether it's baiting traps or sowing seeds) and satisfaction (harvesting fish or vegetables). Our common values have led us to choose similar lifestyles. We speak the same language.

It is an ongoing struggle for me to choose between "climbing the ladder" (returning to school in order to qualify for bigger jobs with more rewards) versus "back to the land" (or the sea in my case). In some ways it's a conflict between the old way of life and the new. But what it really comes down to is values. The "new" life represents money, luxury, and prestige. The "old" life represents . . . doing what you love and what feels right. When the choices are cast in these terms, there's no question in my mind which path I need to take right now. And it doesn't involve puking over the rail of trawlers all summer.

In-Seine

After setting a load of traps yesterday, Cap informed me that we wouldn't be heading "down below" to the southard to pick up any traps due to the dense fog and increasing wind. Instead we headed up the Sound to check out the herring operation.

In "Practicing Forgiveness" I described a dragger that passed us heading north to pick up herring. Turns out this was only the beginning of a procession of ships. A very odd looking sardine carrier passed us during the day yesterday. It had minimal freeboard, sitting very low in the water, an aft wheelhouse and outriggers that seemed to dwarf the narrow craft.

Upon our arrival on the scene, I was surprised to see a dragger that must have been 100 ft in length. We didn't see them in action since they had just finished a set. Cap has described how the operation works here. There is an island that sits close to shore and this is used as a barrier to contain the herring. The northern and southern ends of the island are "shut off" with a seine (stretching from shore to island). The fish are heading south, so when the northern net is opened, the fish are contained in the southern net. Then the seine is hauled back to harvest the fish.

However, this site is also a spot of contention by the local lobstermen. It has been an unwritten rule traditionally, that whoever seines in this area has the right to fish there. In other words, it's a designated fishing grounds (due to the convenient geography) and whoever claims it is entitled to stay there and fish as long as herring are present. However, times are hard and fishermen are contentious. Someone recently stove up the purse seine out of jealousy and ruined a set. Luckily the damage was repairable and the operation has resumed.

When I got back to the landing, I ran into an old classmate who is involved with the process. She enlightened me a bit as to the workings of purse seining. Apparently the huge vessels that we've witnessed passing to and from the site have fish pumps aboard. They lower a huge shute of some sort into the middle of the seine after a set and suck the fish right out of it. Afterward, there are still herring left in the sein. At this point, (wo)man power is required to empty the net. That's when the ol' heave ho comes in and they pull the net aboard, emptying the remaining fish into fish trays.

As we were talking a small plane passed overhead, piloted by a local man who scouts for herring from the air. You can actually see where the fish are from above, since they agitate the water's surface. He can call in to fishermen once he finds a school and report where it is.

There's a local seining boat that's named "In Seine Yo." It's kinda silly, but I like the pun. It seems that the whole town has gone in-seine over herring!

Nicknames

Today when I went to visit Grandpa in The Home, another local old-timer had beat me to it. He was sitting next to Grandpa reading a list: "Spareribs, Tadpole, Skeet . . . " You'd 'a' thought they were practicing vocab to take the SAT or some such nonsense. But Grandpa wasn't replying with definitions or synonyms. Nope, his responses were names. You see "Don" was testing how well Grandpa knew nicknames of the locals. Grandpa can't remember appointments or mealtimes very well, but by gosh I'd say he knew a good 90% of the nicknames listed on that sheet. Don gave him an A on the nickname test.

Nicknames, like boat names and bouy colors, are a form of local identification. But unlike boats and buoys, people don't commonly take pride in their nickname. It isn't a self-appointed pronoun. In fact others often pick the humorous identifying words from humiliating past events or physical/character flaws. Sometimes a person is dubbed as a mere child and the nickname sticks for life. Grandpa told stories behind the names as Don read them: "Yard." "Yahd was small for his age. When he got that name he was just a yahd long." These names may describe a person physically (Wimpy, Pinhead, Barnsmell, Lardass) or might allude their personality (Silent, Hurricane (my great-grandpa), Weasel).

Other names recall a particular situation. I don't think "By the hopping" should count as a nickname due to it's length. Apparently this fellah was a Monheganer who came to the mainland to fish for smelts. He was told off since he was from the Island. His reply was "By the hoppin' Jesus, my mother was from here. I can fish if I want!" A good friend of my Grandpa's and a real character was "Biscuits." Grandpa has a picture of this rather portly fellow in waders next to his armchair. I learned how Biscuits got his name today, even though I've heard talk of him most of my life. It was a rather anticlimactic story, actually. Biscuits brought biscuit sandwiches to school as a child. They coulda done better on that one.

Some other good ones: Bedbug, Tinker, Potty, Pooch, Banjo. Fossett (a common local name) is also a surname providing many golden opportunities for nicknames such as Drippy Fossett and his son Leaky.

For the first time in my life, I learned that my father himself has a nickname. I've always been amused by local nicknames, but it never crossed my mind to ask if Daddy had one. I was disappointed that he wouldn't tell me. I guess, like all the others, it isn't especially flattering. I think I would know by now if I had one. Or would I . . . ?

The Old Folks' Home

About three months ago now, my Grandpa moved from his lonely house to an assisted living home. Being a stubborn 91-yr-old Mainer, he didn't like the idea one bit at first. My folks recommended that he stay there while they went on vacation for a few weeks. My dad's his primary caretaker and didn't want to worry about him while they were gone. So Grandpa reluctantly succumbed to the idea. We all said it would be a temporary thing. But sure enough when my folks returned home and went to take him back to his house he announced that he had decided to stay there.

To our surprise he seemed to be enjoying life there immensely. He participated in all of the group activities and had countless visitors come in to see him. His peaceful and seemingly content outlook was a stark contrast to his lonely depression when he lived at home after my Grandma passed. When we ask how he likes it at The Home he replied "Oh, it's ok." When I ask what activities he did today he says "Oh, nothin'. Us old people don't do much." But his ho-hummness was contradicted by his dramatic change in attitude about life as well as the nurses' raving reviews of his enthusiasm for events.

Selfishly, I'm rather glad that he's there. I can literally see The Home across the river from my apartment. It is very close by and easy for me to visit him. I am comforted knowing he's near-by. I visit him every coulple days. It's also a more central location for the rest of the family. My dad brings our chocolate lab puppy, Zipper, in to visit. My uncle stops by every day after work. Some evenings I go over and watch Wheel and Jeopardy with him. Now that the weather is warming up we go on walks down the road to a church where we can sit on the steps and rest before heading back. He huffs and puffs in the humid air saying "Getting old isn't for sissies, you know." But I know that he will be fine once he catches his breath.

I also ask Grandpa if he has made any friends at The Home. He replies that "they're all old farts," although my dad says that 90% of them are younger than him. Regardless of age, it's true that Grandpa seems more agile and younger-at-heart than many of the residents. He walked daily and helped me load firewood into his garage before moving there. He is lucky to still be so physically capable.

Not all of the residents there are so fit. I have meals with Grandpa once in a while and visit with the group of men with whom he sits every day. They are either wheelchair-bound or use a walker. One table-mate of Grandpa's is particularly feeble. He isn't very old at all, maybe in his 60's, but he has a disease that has caused him to slow down significantly. He actually used to live right down the road from Grandpa, so they knew eachother previously. I'll call him "Hal." Every motion and word of Hal's is painstakenly slow and deliberate. He eats at a snail's pace. When he speaks his reaction time is delayed and his words escape his mouth one at a time or in pairs with a deep breath punctuating the spaces. One has to enter a different mindset when interacting with Hal. A state of loving patience.

I periodically talk about my day of work on the water when Grandpa asks how my day was. I bring relics of my work in to show Grandpa, such as the pictures I've been taking on the boat. This winter I even brought him his favorite fish: smelts. Grandpa can only take so much information, but when Hal is present he becomes alert, appearing thirsty to hear more about fishing. Hal asks many questions. They come slowly and by the time he's finished I struggle to piece together a whole sentence. But once I repeat his words as a question in my head, I am often blown away by how thoughtful and insightful they are. He has asked me the best questions about lobstering that I can recall. I answer to the best of my ability and then he begins another great question. I don't believe he's ever been lobstering, but he has very sharp inquiries about it. He is incredibly mentally acute.

Hal was especially intrigued by the idea of shrimp trapping. He asked many questions about shrimping and professed his deep love for shrimp. He suggested that I bring some in and they could have a shrimp-picking competition. I couldn't help but smile at the thought of how slow their race would be.

I never did bring shrimp in to Hal. Shrimping was so strenuous that I didn't have the energy by the day's end. The other factor is that I couldn't imagine how to do it logistically so that it made sense for the elderly residents. I thought about bringing a bucket of live shrimp to The Home and having them cook it there in the kitchen, but that seemed to be asking too much of the kitchen staff. Then I considered cooking the shrimp for them and letting them pick them out, but the shrimp are prickery and hard on the hands. I wondered if the sharp bills would puncture the old folks' fragile skin. Picking the shrimp for them was beyond my energy capacity.

Lately I've been regretting not fulfilling Hal's simple request. I still have quite a bit of frozen shrimp in my freezer. I think the best way to do it is to make a dish with the frozen shrimp and bring it in for Grandpa and Hal to nibble on. I might even make the lobster-shrimp cakes that seem to top everyone's favorite food list when I cook it for them. Anyhow, don't give up on me, Hal! I have a surprise brewing for you.

Practicing Forgiveness

Today was full of mistakes and regret. Fishermen, being self-employed and prideful, are very hard on themselves when they make a mistake. Cap and I are no exception to this statement.

We are beginning the June ritual of shifting Cap's "gang" of traps in close to the shore. The routine goes like this: "pick up" (or bring aboard) a boatload of 60 traps from where they have been for the past two months roughly 12 miles offshore. We leave these traps right aboard the boat for 2 days to dry. Apparently drying them is a good idea this time of year since it kills the barnacles before leaving them in the water for the whole summer. The next day we are on the water we set these 60 traps close to shore and then go fetch another 60 from a ways off to set the next day out.

The day actually started off just dandy. Cap and I were setting the "dried" traps this morning and I couldn't help but think how safe and easy summer fishing is compared to being on the water in the dead of winter. You don't have to worry about 80 fathom (480 ft) of coiled rope catching your foot as it whizzes over the rail. Instead, we are fishing with single coils of sink rope (about 8 fathom or 48 ft). Even if you do fall in the water, the water temperature is tolerable and there is less danger of getting hypothermic. Just this January a 27-yr-old sternman in Harpswell died from hypothermia when he fell off the boat. It's definitely a concern here in the winter. And if there is trouble on the boat, assistance is ready at hand, since there is plenty of company in the Bay and our traps are just a stone's throw from shore. I am glad to usher in summer.

The morning entertainment consisted first of a wildlife sighting. There was a seal nearby with head, flippers, and tail raised in the air supported by a ledge just beneath the water's surface, so it looked like he was just sitting on top of the water. I thought that was pretty cute. He was clearly enjoying the warmer weather.

When the seal dove in, a looming figure on the horizon distracted my attention. It approached quickly and appeared to be headed right for us, unwavering in its navigational course. I jokingly said to Cap "It looks like they're gonna run right over us!" with a sarcastic smile. But Cap merely grunted in reply. He didn't seem so amused. As the hulk neared us, the ship continued

to head straight for us and then shifted very slightly in it's course at the last minute to miss us. I couldn't help but stare at it dumbfounded by the size of this vessel while Cap tried to stay out of it's way. It was a huge dragger of maybe 80 feet in length appropriately named "Fishermen's Pride." We later learned that it was headed up the Sound to pick up some herring that some fellow lobstermen are seining.

We then motored along and set a string at the mouth of the Harbor. This is when things started going downhill. Cap was so intently focused on avoiding the bouys, since he doesn't have the "cage" (that protects the boat's propellor) on yet, that he hit a ledge close to shore. It was minor but it made a god-awful sound and Cap made some not-so-pleasant sounds to go along with it.

Then it was my turn. When we shift the traps in, we are setting them as "singles" (one trap per bouy) as opposed to "pairs" (two traps per bouy), which they were previously. Therefore, the tailer traps have a short line tied to the bridles, which we tie directly to the buoy to make a single and the lead traps have no line, so we add coils to those bridles. We were setting a string of lead (empty) traps and somehow I neglected to tie the rope to the bridle of one of them before setting it. In other words, I lost one of Cap's traps. This time I made some not-so-pleasant sounds and apologized profusely to Cap for my negligence. Luckily, it was in shallow water and it would be possible to dive and recover the trap.

Finally, I had the brilliant idea of bringing pencil and paper along with me today to write a blog post the old-fashioned way on the steam out to pick up our next load of traps. I've gotten carsick all my life when I read or write in a moving vehicle, but for some reason it never crossed my mind that I might also get motion sickness while writing on a moving boat. Well, I did. I was sea sick for a few hours as we loaded the boat with traps. I gotta say, it isn't much fun. We picked up half a load (30 traps) and Cap said that it was time to head in. I told him I was feeling better, which I was although I couldn't even think about eating, and that we shouldn't cut the day short on account of me. So we plugged on and managed to load the boat. Once again, I was kicking myself for not thinking.

The lesson today was forgiveness. I often hear fishermen all but lashing their own backs, agonizing over mistakes and deeply regretting past moves. It's easy for me to sympathize and then tell them that they learned from the experience and that it's time to move on. But somehow that isn't so easy to tell yourself. Today was the epitome of physical challenge for me (working on an empty belly, an upset tummy, and very little water), but the biggest challenge was to forgive myself for my mistakes and to learn from them. The ability to forgive oneself is an important skill in life, just as long as the mistake is transformed into a learning experience and isn't simply forgotten.

The Landing

Round Pond Harbor, like many Maine harbors, is becoming increasingly segregated by class. As well-off people from away are drawn to this quaint, beautiful little port, they bring their enormous SUVs and yachts along with them on vacation. There are some harbors where the juxtaposition of wealthy and working-class isn't so obvious, such as Camden where all of the boats are yachts. But somehow when you see an 80 ft sailboat with mechanized sails moored next to a smelly old "Novey boat" (a particular build of hull from Nova Scotia that is especially clumsy-looking, but very steady on the sea) the disparity in class is rather glaring.

This segregation is only reinforced by the two docks at the town landing. The docks are practically right beside eachother, separated only by two boat ramps. Yet to inspect them individually, you would expect them to be from hundreds of miles apart (one from Long Island and the other from Downeast Maine). These docks are markedly different in that one is utilized primarily by people from away and summer folks, while the other is used by the fishermen.

A good friend of mine refers to the summer people's dock as the "bourgeois dock" since it represents the upper class in the Harbor. This is where the yachties tie their skiffs used to motor or row to their towering, perfectly-polished and manicured yachts. At this float you see graceful, freshly varnished and painted wooden skiffs as well as Zodiacs (little inflatable rafts with a small outboard motor that are commonly used to get to and from shore from a pleasure boat). This float has a foot rail with little numbers that denote "parking spaces" where one can tie the painter of one's skiff. I assume that these parking spaces are rented for the summer, but I wouldn't know.

Just to the north of the bourgeois dock sits the dock belonging to the common-folk and locals. It isn't difficult to notice some differences. The fishermen's float is over-crowded and populated with little run-down skiffs used to ferry to and from lobster boats. Fishermen employ all sorts of gnarly craft to get from dock to mooring and back. These nobel vessels are often a display of a lobsterman's two most prominent characteristics: ingenuity and thriftiness. Lobstermen's skiffs are often rough fiberglass or aluminum with a small horsepower outboard or oars to power them. Boaters from the neighboring dock probably think of the fishermen's skiffs as eyesores. But, personally, I think they display character. You can tell a lot about a man by looking at his skiff.

One of my favorite local skiffs is a rectangular punt with an old garden hose stapled around the perimeter as a makeshift rubrail. The owner is known as one of the cheapest guys in the harbor, yet he isn't poor. My dad says it looks like he picked his punt up at the dump. Not unlikely. It's a wonder that the thing still floats. But sure enough it gets "Tuba" back and forth from his WWII Coast Guard boat and probably has done so for 50 years.

Some fishermen are even so fond of their skiff that they name it. A cute one is a little yellow skiff named "Spud" that accompanies the lobster boat "Potatoe." There are a few aluminum skiffs with endearing names scratched crudely on the transom including "Little 'N'."

Cap's skiff is appropriately practical and modest, like the captain himself. It is a 12 foot flat-

bottomed skiff built of plywood with a fiberglass coating and a 25 hp motor. This skiff ferries bundles of rope, trays full of bait and us to the boat every morning that we haul traps. It even breaks through the ice in a bitter January freeze. It lives at the latter-mentioned dock amidst a claustrophobic cluster of others. We literally have to push and shove the other skiffs aside to wedge in between them and get close enough to tie the painter to the rail. It's an ongoing struggle. But I don't suppose Cap's skiff would fit in at the other dock. It would be an ugly duck amongst the others even if Cap was willing to pay to tie up there.