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.

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.

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/

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.

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.

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.

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.