A Blog Blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bombarded

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wear and Tear

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

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

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

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

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

Musical Boats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Thick of It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dying Eyes

Today I had perhaps the closest thing that I've ever had to a flashback. It didn't jolt my whole body or black out my surroundings to focus solely on one image from the past the way flashbacks do in the movies. It was simply a form of deja vouz. A powerful one.

I was doing a fairly routine activity: butchering a sculpin. We catch sculpin in the traps and then string them on the bait line as fresh bait. I try to kill them as quickly as possible to put them out of their misery. First I pierce the head to, hopefully, kill it. Then I slice open the body to make it more appetizing to the lobsters and finally skewer the head with the bait iron. When the fish first lands in my bait tray, as it thrashes around wildly, its eyes are black and shiny. Sometimes I can even detect anger reflected in them, or maybe it's fear.

Today after I punctured the third or fourth cartilaginous head, I watched the sculpin for a minute. I could see the life fading from its eyes. That piercing, shiny black dulled to a hazy grey. Then the mouth fell open and the body went limp. This reminded me of Liza's last breath.

When I was about nine years old, it hit me that I probably wasn't going to have siblings. I asked my parents if I could have a brother. Instead, they took me to pick out a black lab puppy. The pups were only a few weeks old when we first saw them. Their eyes weren't even open yet. I sat on the ground with them and the runt of the litter crawled over to me and into my lap. She was my new baby sister. I named her Liza Marie.

Liza was the first animal that I witnessed mature from a juvenile to an adult. We wrestled, ran, played, and swam together as sisters do. Needless to say, she was my best friend. She had the biggest heart of any non-human I've ever known. I could that she loved me when she looked at me and, boy, did I love her.

But as we matured, the division between human and non-human became more pronounced. I watched her become a beautiful, athletic, adult dog. And she watched me go away to college. It wasn't fair. I'll never forget the look on her face when I drove out of the driveway, not to return for months. It broke my heart every time.

Eventually Liz grew older. That's the thing that sucks about canine friends: they get old before you do. Liza lived to be fifteen. Her heart became weak in the last few years of her life. She had periodic seizures. One evening Daddy called me up to tell me that Liza was dying. I have never driven so fast on the Bristol Road in my life. This time her seizure was prolonged. It didn't stop. Her head bobbed back and forth and her body moved involuntarily. I laid down on the floor next to her and held her all night like that. In the morning we decided to take her to the vet and put her down. She wasn't happy. She couldn't control her bowels or eat or drink. I certainly wouldn't want to live in that state.

I held Liza's head as the vet injected the poison into her veins. I told her how much I loved her and what a great friend she's been. My mother and I watched the life fade from her eyes. The bright, black pupils dulled to a hazy grey. She stopped seizing. Liz was finally at peace.

Looking back at my calender after work today, I saw that Liza died exactly a year and four days ago today. Somehow my subconscious knew this even though I wasn't aware of it.

Meeting my Hero

Yesterday I met my hero: the best-selling author and well-acclaimed swordfishing captain Linda Greenlaw.

I admit I was pretty nervous when I approached the table where she was signing books. I recognized her sharp brown eyes, weathered face, and winning smile immediately, yet I had never laid eyes on her in person before. My intention had been to tell her about my blog, upon meeting her. However, suddenly in her presence I felt inexperienced and insignificant. How could such a tiny woman have such an enormous presence? I was humbled standing there in front of her. Instead I told her how I am a sternman, careful not to use a gendered noun, since I know she doesn't believe in that. I went on to tell her that I've read all of her books and what an inspiration she's been to me. She signed my dad's copy of her latest book Seaworthy and was moving her focus to the next folks in line when I asked if I could have my picture taken with her. Before I knew it she jumped up

and threw her arm over my shoulder enthusiastically. I was surprised to have to bend toward her to level our shoulders. I was wearing pumps but there was still a difference in height. She's actually shorter than me!

Then she spoke. The room was completely packed--I had to kneel since all of the sitting and standing room was taken. That woman may be mousy in proportions, but her presence and her words are enough to move mountains. To hear her speak it's no wonder that she could command the 70-foot Sea Hawk and three men who are each close to three times her size. She had the whole room roaring in laughter at the story of Uncle Paddy, her only crew member who died on board (from drinking), which she somehow managed to make a funny story. And she had me close to tears several times, when she spoke of her passion for the ocean, simply because I could relate to her words.

Here were some of the highlights from her talk and some of my favorite quotes:

"Seamanship is half experience and half common sense."

"I didn't have anything to do with being born female. I was just lucky." This was with reference to her wanting to be recognized as a great captain and a good writer, independently from being acknowledged as a woman.

5 Points of Advice for Students:

1. "When opportunity knocks, you have to answer the door." In other words, it doesn't just fall into your lap; you have to snatch it up when you get the chance.

2. "Gender isn't an issue."

I wondered what Linda would think of my blog. Would she think that I'm making an issue of gender, when it isn't a big deal? Did attending Smith College give me a gendered view of the world? Is my blog too gender-centric??

While I agree with Linda that the sexes are equally capable, I also don't pretend to ignore the differences between men and women and how they are sometimes still perceived differently. The differences, in my view, are strictly biological. Yet those biological differences can indeed carry greater implications for behavior and experience. This is a topic that I continue to develop my opinion on and probably will be doing so for the remainder of my inhabitance on this planet.

3. "Hard work is my greatest asset. I'm not better than anyone. I just work harder than most."

4. "Education can't be wasted. I use it every day on the boat." This was in response to past comments that she was "wasting" her Colby degree. I could definitely relate to this point and was glad that she addressed it.

5. As a child she asked her mom: "Do I have to be a girl?"

Her mother's response: "No!"

Lesson? You don't have to follow societal gender roles. Be yourself!

It was impossible to oversee Linda's deep passion for fishing. Fishing is clearly what inspires her. She comes alive when she talks about it. Her written words are further evidence of this love. Upon hearing her describe how fishing makes her feel, I realized that while I enjoy the adventure of it, I'm not "consumed" (to use her word) by fishing the way she is. Our attitudes undoubtedly reflect our different positions on the boat. Being a captain is a more fulfilling role: the captain actually thinks. Whereas a good sternman is described as having "a strong back and a weak mind." I have a fairly strong back for my size, but my mind needs to be engaged for me to feel fulfilled with my work. I value diversity and balance in my life and daily activities. It's hard to describe the redundant motions of fishing as "diverse" and it is hardly a balanced lifestyle. This was perhaps my most important conclusion from hearing Linda speak: I don't want to fish for the rest of my life. Power to ya woman, but I could never do what you do!