Afloat

I had an amusing thought today: How would I describe my job to someone who works in a cubicle? I'm not sure why this idea crossed my mind. I don't actually know anyone who works in a cubicle. But there are many such people out there and I guess I thought I should be prepared. :)

Here goes nothin'.

Well, first take your comfy little cubicle and float it on the ocean. You aren't looking at a plastic wall anymore; you're looking out at islands and open ocean. There are other cubicles afloat out there. It is no longer a stable surface. It is constantly in motion and so you must move with it. Not against it, but with it. Hope you don't get seasick. Next replace your sterile air conditioning with a fresh, salty sea breeze. Aaaah, now isn't that better?

OK, now that you think this is a fun picnic, I'm gonna take your padded, lumbar-supporting, twirly chair away. That's right. You can keep your desk, but no chair. You have to stand all day.

I'll spare you the embarrassment of changing your attire in front of me, but I would recommend rubber boots, gloves, and Grundens over your pressed Armani suit and loafers. Besides, I think they might suit you better. ;)

Like your coffee breaks, do you? Well, sorry, bud, but you don't have those anymore. Actually there are no formal breaks at all. You have to hurry to eat, drink, and urinate between strings of traps, when there is a short steam. Oh yeah and there's no bathroom aboard. Your throne is a bucket. So byo-TP.

Hmmm. . . what else? Oh, yes. Instead of your boss and co-workers sending you "memos" on little sticky notes, you get verbal memos on the VHF radio. But the memos are no longer regarding deadlines and important phone conferences. Instead they are about traps that your buddy recovered for you and which way the tide is running. They are regarding your surrounding environment instead of abstract goals.

The end of the day is no longer marked by the hour hand on your Rolex striking 5 o-clock. It is the end of the day when your captain says so. No if's, and's or but's. And certainly no complaining. If your feet hurt, suck it up and bear it. Swearing is permitted if a hardshell pinches you. Yelling is only appropriate for falling overboard. Don't bother with chit-chat. It will fall on deaf ears.

Pogified

Lobstering is a messy business. There's a good reason that it was featured on the Discovery Channel's series "Dirty Jobs" with Mike Rowe. It's dirty.

In my opinion, perhaps the dirtiest part of lobstering is pogies. Herring can be messy, for sure. Especially greasy, rotten herring on a hot day. Everything gets coated with herring oil. Pogies, on the other hand, are a bloody fish. They have deep crimson guts that turn black when oxidized and splatter all over everything. When I first handled pogies I quickly learned to break the heads off away from my face. I don't care to elaborate on the consequences of splitting pogies towards my face. It isn't pretty. I'll leave it at that.

The other evening I was having dinner with my friends, and someone asked pleasantly what everyone did that day.

My friends responded:

"I went canoeing on the lake all day," the first said happily.

"Played with screeching little girls all day," another replied sounding tired.

I came last: "Turned pogies inside-out all day."

They thought I was joking. Then someone asked how you turn a pogie inside-out.

"Well. First, you rip the head off. Then you run your finger down the length of the belly to split it in half. . ."

No joke. That's what I do.

You see, a pogy is a distinct fish. It has a rather thick skin, but the insides are very soft and squishy. If you put a whole, unadultered pogy in a bait bag, even a lobster might have a hard time cracking it. So we help them out a bit. By turning them inside-out, you are exposing the meaty insides to the lobsters, making the bait absolutely irresistible. Turning a pogy inside out is a tricky task, believe it or not. The vertebrae are very sharp and if you run your finger along the belly to split it open, you have to be very careful not to get a spine bone splinter. I've done this countless times and it doesn't feel good.

Pogies, also called menhayden, used to be a big fishery around these parts. I distinctly remember a summer during my youth when a huge school of pogies came up the Damariscotta River and were washed ashore, leaving the whole Town steeped in a heinous odor resembling bad cheese. Little did I know how well-versed I would become in pogy annihilation.

Cap used to go seining for pogies. He told a story of once time when they filled a dory with pogies and one of the fishermen's wives jumped in the boat barefoot, standing on top of the fish exuberantly. Well, she didn't remain standing for long. Unlike other fish, pogies have razor-sharp gill plates. When this woman jumped on the pile of pogies barefoot, the gill plates cut into her feet. Cap said her feet were a bloody mess. Ugh.

But the simple fact is that lobsters like them. Hence why we tolerate the blood and gore of my least favorite bait fish. They catch lobsters. The other day I was trying to picture pogies from a lobster's perspective. They are probably comparable to chocolate for lobsters. Imagine if you were just walking along and encountered a piece of delectable Lindt milk chocolate dangling in mid-air. I would be a goner. Good thing I'm not a lobster!

Choreography

Here I am yet again likening the brutal, dirty work of lobstering to the beautiful, refined art of dance! When I find myself in such fantastical daydreams, I stop and think: Really, Katherine! Alvin Ailey and Nureyev would be outraged by the comparison to look at a lobster boat steeped in mud and pogy blood with brutes of men clobbering around on deck. I suppose it isn't all that surprising given that fishing and dance are two of my passions in life, both of which inspire me.

Regardless of how horrifying the idea may be to a prima ballerina, lobstering does indeed involve quite a bit of carefully calculated choreography. I believe that it takes some degree of awareness of movement to be a good fisherman of any sort. However, when working in a fishery that involves trapping and especially in an industry that is as dependent on quantity as lobstering is, every movement must be meticulously efficient.

Our routine is very methodical. We preform the same sequence over and over again. Once the trap hits the rail, Cap carefully removes lobsters from the trap. The flick of my wrist slides the bait bag onto the bait line. The trap's door slams shut, the bungee fixed in place and -splash!- the trap hits water again. The boat gracefully pirouettes under the direction of Cap's steady hand.

I sashe across the deck as the line rushes overboard, careful not to get my feet entangled in it. Sashe, a glorified shuffle, isn't just a pretty dance move. Who knew?! It is also a practical movement when there's rope on the deck. I used to find it amusing how Cap shuffled about, assuming that it was another endearing quirk in his personality. Turns out shuffling on deck is actually a safety precaution. It didn't take me long to realize that Cap was shuffling so as not to lift his feet and snag a line. Now I do the same.

This isn't to say that every movement on the boat is planned and efficient, although that is the intention. There are plenty of inconsistencies that slow us down. A line snarled with another fishermen's rope. Lobsters pinching us. A trap sliding off the rail when we don't want it to. These are the frustrations and mistakes that make our dance unique. This is the variation that makes life interesting.

Like Father, Unlike Daughter

A few times in the process of being interrogated about lobstering, I have been asked how I like my captain. This is a good question, because one's boss plays a prominent role in whether a person is content with their job. There are innumerable captains who I wouldn't be happy working with. To be honest, I can't imagine working with a better captain, but I guess I'm a little biased. I probably wouldn't still be lobstering today if Cap hadn't been the one inviting me back aboard. My response to their question: "I really enjoy working with him. He's kinda a fatherly figure for me."

In fact a few times other fishermen have made the assumption that I am Cap's daughter.

This winter Cap was talking with another lobsterman on the dock when I came up the ladder from the boat. "Oh look," he remarked pleasantly. "You brought your daughter along."

Cap replied: "No, that's my sternman."

Duh, I thought to myself.

The other instance occurred just last week, also at the dock. Cap went to get the boat and I stayed at the dock, unloading the truck. Another boat pulled up and the captain asked me: "You waiting for your dad?"

"No, just waiting on Cap."

I asked where his helper was.

"Oh, she has the day off. She's 13, my friend's daughter, and I don't think she really likes the smell of the bait."

A sternlady in training! I thought to myself.

"She'll get used to it," I lied.

"Yeaaaah. . ." was his skeptical response.

While Cap and I both have brown, wavy hair and wear glasses, the resemblance ends there. In fact, I don't think we look anything alike at all. He is 6' and lanky, yet muscular. I am 5' 5" and, well, sturdy. Not fat, not thin, just sturdy. The only reason that others might mistaken us for kin is due to our age difference. Cap is 33 years older than me. In other words, he is old enough to be my father. In fact, I grew up with his son, who is just about my age. The other reason that they might assume our association is familial is that there aren't many women who aren't blood relatives, wives, or girlfriends of lobstermen who choose to be sternladies.

Although I don't think we look alike, our working relationship shares some aspects of my relationship with my father. Cap is a thoughtful, considerate and gentle person, as is my dad. He treats me very well and I try to do the same for him. For Christmas I gave him a headlamp, so that he could better see while working in the engine compartment and free up his hands. I watched him use it in the dark bowels of the boat, the headlamp emitting a pinprick of a laser beam that appeared almost impossible to aim at his target. He exclaimed how well it worked, sweetly. He let me take home a few lobsters for the holidays, which I brought to my dad as his Christmas present.

Yet, our relationship is also unlike father and daughter in a good way. I am patient and forgiving with Cap at times when I would have extreme difficulty being so with my own father. There have been many occasions when I have thought to myself: Good thing Cap's teaching me this and not Daddy. Sometimes I am unable to listen to my dad's instructions as I should. And sometimes he is simply unable to teach me things. This isn't to say that I haven't learned anything from my father, as he has taught me a great deal in life and I am very grateful for that. It is simply to acknowledge that I am also grateful to have a fatherly figure who isn't my father and who can teach me many things about the ocean.

Sternlady in Training

This afternoon we were hauling traps at a leisurely tempo, since it was hot and we were both worn out, when an unfamiliar green-hulled boat fell in the same rhythm, hauling a string alongside us. I glanced over while I stuffed bait bags to wave at the captain. He waved back. I was a bit surprised not to see a sternman on a boat that size. Often the bigger boats are owned by fairly serious lobstermen, who need a deck hand to haul all of their gear.

I tended to a trap, and then looked back at the boat while preparing to bait the next trap. This time a little head with a pony-tail popped up over the rail. The head barely cleared the rail when this sternman was standing. He had his little girl sterning for him! A sternlady in training! I thought this was neat and couldn't help but watch her each time I had the chance. I don't think she was more than 5-years-old, but she had her own oil pants and a little baseball cap, just like me! She had a blue bucket that she splashed water around with, keeping the boat tidy while her dad worked. Pretty cute.

This brought me back to the days when I used to "help" my Daddy. My dad was captain of two draggers when I was little,

as I've mentioned before, and he was my hero even back then. I loved it when Mommy took me to the boat to see what Daddy and his crew were working on. I distinctly remember climbing down the huge ladder (which isn't so big now) to get to his boat. I remember the smell of Ritz crackers and Gojo in the wheelhouse. Even though I couldn't really help Daddy work back then (I was only 4 or 5), I was thrilled by the adventure of visiting Daddy's boat.

When my dad stopped fishing (one boat sank and he sold the other in the government buy-out program), he continued to take me to work in the summers. He had his own appliance repair business and took me with him to people's houses. By that age I could actually be of use. I learned the tools that he used so that I could pass them to him. I removed screws and held the flashlight for him when his hands were busy. The customers were charmed that he brought his "little helper" along. I, of course, loved it. I drew Daddy pictures that he put up behind his head in his work van.

To this day, I continue to be my dad's right-hand-woman. On the 4th of July I spent my evening helping Daddy replace a fridge on the third floor of our family inn. It turned out to be quite a challenge. We had to wheel the fridge out to the tiny balcony on a dolly, remove the porch railing, and wheel it down 2 flights of stairs. At that point one of the guests at the cottages appeared and asked if we needed help. My dad said that we were doing fine and that he had a lobsterman helping him. The older man looked at me skeptically. I admit, my attire didn't exactly make me look like a sternlady. I was sporting a skort and tank top with cute little sneakers. I looked more like I was on my way to a tennis match than moving heavy appliances up and down 3 stories. He ended up helping us and the fridge slid into place with ease. It wasn't a very restful day, but it was satisfying none-the-less.

I realized yesterday when I was helping Daddy, that maybe one reason that I am the way that I am is because I am both an only child and a girl. My dad didn't have a son to take out fishing and to teach how to fix and build things. So in some ways I learned

both the skills that are traditionally taught to girls as well as the ones taught to boys. This was reinforced by the fact that I am interested in learning these skills of self-sufficiency. I don't believe that my father would have treated me any differently had I been a boy or if I had a brother. But I think that being an only daughter did in some way shape my self-perception, which ultimately influenced the type of jobs that I've chosen. I think being raised to believe that I can do anything that I put my mind to (without a brother challenging that idea) has encouraged me to do some of the hardest work around: lobstering. This mentality has also instilled a solid work ethic in me. If I am capable of doing anything that I set my mind to, then I am able to do anything! There are no excuses to prove otherwise.

I hope very much to some day have a little girl of my own. I'm gonna show that girl how to do everything.

Slithering Slipknots

My new favorite task on the boat is working with rope. This winter rope-handling often felt burdensome because there was so much rope (one warp could be as long as 80 fathom or 480 ft). It was heavy to handle especially when wet. However, now that shoaler fishing days have arrived, rope is fun to work with. Little 8 fathom warps are light to coil and many of them will fit in a bundle without it getting too heavy to heave around.

I enjoy making neat, symmetrical coils out of it. I have worked up to the speed of the hauler, which makes things much easier. This winter, an unmanagable tangle would fall beneath Cap's feet as the rope fell on the deck faster than I could coil it. Cap would then step on it as he pulled the trap over the rail, which really stressed me out since it kept me from continuing. But now I have coiling down to a "T." I can now coil a nice tidy warp and then tie it off with ease. It has taken a lot of practice for me to get this skill down.

I also greatly enjoy untying a warp and dropping it to the deck to make a satisfying little thud. Our trap-setting routine is punctuated by such thuds, setting the rhythm of the day. But my favorite part of rope is watching it uncoil after Cap pushes the trap over the rail and the line whizzes off the boat behind it. Sometimes I watch it as I stuff bait bags, just to see what the line does. That perfect little coil becomes alive. It has a life of its own; the movement of that nylon is completely unpredictable. Like a serpent swimming freely, twisting, rolling, stretching, then straightening out. Like a snake awakening from napping in a tight coil, slithering away from its resting spot, then spotting prey. . . stalking. . . and *pop* the line jumps over the rail once the buoy is thrown.

However, the lines aren't always agreeable. In fact they can cause great consternation in a matter of seconds. All it takes is a loop of rope emerging from the bottom and protruding up through the top of the coil on deck. As the line runs overboard feeding off of the top of the coil, it can catch that little loop and pull the whole mess overboard in one swoop, creating a horrible tangle. This is why it's important to drop the coil neatly and examine it for possible mishaps before setting the trap. A little loop can cause a whole lot of trouble.

Rope has a life of its own, but as I become more familiar and experienced in handling it, I am learning to guide it and make the process of setting traps much smoother. This isn't to say that we don't still have tangles once in a while. They are just becoming less frequent and more manageable.

My Friend

It's about time that I wrote about something that only sternladies experience. In fact, all women experience it at some point in their lives. No, I'm not talking about perms or even painting your nails red. It's something far more serious and unavoidable than these feminine rituals. I'm referring to menstration. My great-grandmother, after whom I'm named, used to refer to it as "your friend." There have been times when I was so relieved and joyous that it arrived, that indeed it felt like greeting an old friend. However, when I'm working on a boat, I'm not always so elated to see it.

Confession of a Sternlady #84: I menstrate. In a bucket.

OK, so maybe all women don't have their periods in a bucket. But some of us do. Linda Greenlaw might have her period in a bucket. Not likely, though. If she even gets her period anymore, she has sold enough books that she surely could afford a "head" on her boat. Probably has a leather toilet seat too. Maybe that's why Linda decided to go back to swordfishing: because she went through menopause! She figured: "Nothing's keeping me back now! No more bucket for me!"

I admit: I was daunted at the thought of having my period on the boat the first time it happened. That dreaded trickle sneaked up on me and I got all flustered. I looked around frantically. No toilet. No toilet seat. And certainly no little stainless box in which to dispose used sanitary napkins. I didn't even have the luxury of rest stop accomodations! My eyes fell on the bucket. I thought to myself: "Alright, Bucket, one of us is getting off of this boat clean and it ain't gonna be you." Turned out it wasn't so bad. I got used to it by the second time around. Now I even use a bucket at home! (Just kidding.)

Turning pogies inside-out is the last thing that I want to do when I'm bloated and bleeding, but I summoned my energy and kept plugging away. I daydreamed about curling up in my comfy, soft bed and eating a pint of Ben&Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream while watching a cheesy chick flick. Maybe even have a handsome man rub my feet and massage my back. OK, now I'm really dreaming!

I had to settle for sitting on the deck instead. Cap had to reset a trap and didn't need me for 2 short minutes. I scanned around the boat surreptitiously, about to steal a break. I don't like slacking when the boys are watching. The coast was clear so I allowed the weight of my body to slide down the wall of the lobster tank. I sat on a surprisingly comfortable bundle of rope, stretching my sore feet out in front of me. You wouldn't believe the relief that this position brought my feet and back, both of which were quite uncomfortable from working. The shade of the wheelhouse fell on me as the boat pirouetted around at the touch of Cap's steady hand, and I was perfectly content.

Then the trap splashed in the water, and I jumped to my feet to resume pogie annihilation. Cap needed me. And besides, I thought, it'll make a great blog post! This is what my friend Annie said to me when I was complaining about what a miserable day it was going to be on the water at one point this winter. Now it has become my mantra on the most dismal days of lobstering. The more miserable it is, the better the writing will be. So here you have it: a blog post about menstrating on the boat.