Hot 'n' Heavy

It was just one of those days from the get-go. At 4 am I threw my body against all my will out of bed and trudged down the stairs grumpily. I glanced at my calendar while pouring milk on my cereal and sure enough the "30" marking this day of the month was circled. Minutes later "my friend"* arrived. It was that time of the month. All that I wanted to do was wear my night-nights (known by some as jammies or PJs), gorge myself on a chocolate buffet, and have my back massaged. Yet it was my responsibility to handle rotten fish and spiky crustaceans all day. Not exactly an inspiring thought.

Somehow I managed to gather myself together and show up at the landing only 10 minutes late. Cap pulled up right behind me and backed down the dock to unload. I collected my items (water bottle, lunch box, and hat) and put my boots on. Then I realized I'd forgotten a hair tie**. I was pawing frantically through my glove compartment and literally growling when Cap walked up behind me. I saw a figure out of the corner of my eye, turned and chirped "Oh, hi!" in the cheeriest tone I could muster. Cap explained where the bait was (buried deep in the recesses of the smelly bait cooler) and that he was headed out to fetch the boat.

The weather men actually agreed on one thing today: it was gonna be a scorcher. The morning was tolerable and I rather enjoyed myself out there once my cramps were dulled with Ibuprofin. It was another glassy-calm, crystal-clear summer day. Gannets plummeted from the air in the distance, diving for fish. A seal head bobbed amongst some buoys, curious about the human activity above-water. We slowly worked up to our usual pace and plugged along in content silence.

Then around noon the heat hit. My oil gear warmed up like an oven, yet I had a hard time imagining going without the protective layer. My black rubber boots baked my feet within. My hair piled in my baseball cap (since I didn't have a hair tie) acted as an insulating layer, amplifying the heat. All I could think about was plunging into the water and floating on my back for the rest of the day. Perhaps Cap could just tie a line around my waist and tow me along for the duration while he tended the traps. The roar of the boat wouldn't bother me. I'd be just dandy.

It wasn't bad in the shade under the wheelhouse roof, but the sun beat down on deck like it was the African safari. I was dripping in sweat carrying traps fore and aft as we shifted a few strings. Brutal heat. I measured and banded the lobsters as quickly as I could so as to return them to the cool seawater in the tank as soon as possible. I guzzled my water and soon ran out. My skin was still burning even after I smeared sunblock on it. I wore sunglasses all day, but I still got a headache from the blinding glare on the water. Who said they didn't think Maine got hot?!

Twelve hours later, at 5 pm, the second-to-last pair hit the rail. By then I was beyond punchy: I had cracked. This wasn't the first time, nor was it likely to be the last, that I had neared psychosis on the boat. I was probably pretty dehydrated and perhaps nearing the edge of heat stroke when I started to reflect on the day. Suddenly, I started laughing uncontrollably as I thought about how I would describe the day in a blog post. Cap looked at me out of the corner of his eye, but was too tired and grumpy to talk. I also didn't feel like speaking, so we plugged on in silence, this time not so content.

On the steam home, we managed to stir up some air movement as the boat motored at full tilt. I splashed my arms and face with cool saltwater while I cleaned the boat. Life started to look a little better. Somehow, I was relieved to hear that the day had been even more miserable on land. At the dock, Bobby reported that the thermometer had hit 100 degrees. The next few days aren't supposed to be much better. We'll do it all over again tomorrow. I'd better get to bed!

*see "My Friend" posted on July 6 for explanation

**see Item 1 in "My Uniform" posted on June 19 for explanation of importance

Light Show

Somehow, the moon and the sun look more beautiful to me over the ocean. I think it has to do with how the light plays on the water's surface. There is something magical about it. Today I took particular notice of the light and it's tricks. It was quite a show.

This morning when I arrived at the landing at 5 am it was still dark. All that shone ahead of my headlights driving down to the shore was a paper bag lantern with a candle still burning inside left over from a wedding party the night before. Truck headlights of other sternmen and captains lit up the parking lot as they, like myself, waited for their other halves to arrive. I recognized Cap's truck from the orange lights atop his cab. That's what I look for every morning. Luckily, no other fishermen has the same lights. It's Cap's trademark, just as each bell buoy has it's own unique light display to indicate which harbor it is guarding.

The sun was rising over the islands on our steam out. I watched the clouds on the horizon light afire with brilliant fuchsia

highlights. Next, the red orb broke the horizon. Then there was light. As the sun rose, a blinding golden pathway extended from its birthplace (in the east) to the boat where I stood, as if beckoning me to come closer. Gradually, it climbed higher and the path dissipated to dazzling diamonds playing on the water's surface. Cap put his sunglasses on so he could spot the buoys.

We steamed due south and the white buildings on shore picked up the sunlight, including my favorite landmarks: first New Harbor, then the cottages sprinkled on the hillside, and finally the famous Pemaquid Lighthouse. I watched buoys pass by us, their colors especially poignant in the rich morning radiance. Then there was a big splash in the distance! I pointed it out to Cap, in hopes that the fish would jump again. This time the shiny dorsal fin of a bluefin tuna reflected the sunlight.

I like this time of year, because it is still broad daylight when we return to the dock at the end of the day. Last winter we would fish until the very last rays of sunlight were cut off by the horizon. Cap would turn on the deck light so that I could see enough to organize and clean the boat. We did see some magnificent sunsets and moonrisings at the close of those cold, short days, but sometimes I was too tired to notice them. These days the light invigorates me and I am able to better appreciate it. I will indulge in the long summer days on the water while I still can.

Daddy's Girl

I have always been Daddy's girl. I love both of my parents dearly and have a great relationship with my mother as well, but it is just different. It's more difficult for me to be affectionate with her. Perhaps this is because we are so similar. Daddy and I have never had a problem expressing our love for eachother. He is still my hero. I am still his girl.

My dad has experienced many transformations in his lifetime. He has lived several lives in his 56 years on earth. I've only known him for one of those lives, but I'm glad of that. He has emerged from tragedy, hardship, and countless challenges as the single most wise, grounded, and humble man I know. When people tell me that I remind them of my father, I brim with pride. I have come to appreciate him more as I mature. His words of advice have proven true. Now I listen to him.

Every so often, when Daddy and I are walking along in peaceful silence, he'll slip his arm around my shoulders and say "Have I told you lately what a beautiful, smart and talented young woman you are?"

"You just did," I reply, a tid bit embarrassed, but smiling back lovingly.

"I'm very proud of you, Kaff."

The truth is he can't tell me that enough. Every child needs to hear that from their parents, none-the-less their hero. I feel blessed to have such loving, supportive parents. They have given me so much in life. I hope to do the same for children of my own some day.

Ambrosia

Thanks to Elmer Fudd, I learned from a young age that if you are hunting "wabbit" it is helpful to think like one. If I didn't attempt to think like our nocturnal crustacean friends every day, then I wouldn't have tolerated the smell of rotten fish for this long.

Today, like any other day, when the traps hit the rail, lobsters and bait flew everywhere. The name of the game is: remove lobsters and add bait as fast as humanly possible. When I fall behind, there are lobsters suspended from every horizontal surface in the wheelhouse. OK, maybe this is a bit of an exaggeration, but sometimes it feels like it. Cap usually throws the few hardshells that we catch daily in the bait tray to distinguish them from the shedders, which we stack in buckets. I was standing there in front of the bait tray measuring and banding lobsters when I looked down at a hardshell, just paralyzed there atop a heap of smelly herring. He must have thought he'd just landed in heaven atop a mountain of ambrosia! Clearly, lobsters have different gods than I do, because my gods don't eat herring! Regardless, that lobster looked quite content before it met

its doom.

Just yesterday I finished work and stopped at the church on the way out of town to say hi to my best friend. She was setting up the sound system for a concert that night. I was glad to see her and approached her with a big smile and arms open for a hug. She cringed. "Phew!" She hooted, "You stink!" I found this quite amusing. I was still in a dehydrated stupor from a 13-hour day on the water, but now I wish I had informed her that the lobsters love how I smell! So does my parent's chocolate lab puppy, Zipper. . and all other dogs, for that matter. In fact I'm quite a hit around town. Maybe I should come out with a new line of perfume. Ambrosia.

Elmer thinks like the "wascaly wabbit" so much that he ends up in the asylum thinking he

is Bugs Bunny. Somehow I don't think that will be my fate. It isn't all that easy to relate to a creature that perceives putrid pogies as a delicacy and that calls a hole in the rocks underwater "home." I hope I never have to find out what herring tastes like, but I have a feeling I wouldn't confuse it with the food of the gods.

False Alarm

The sky was red this morning, but we didn't take warning. Well, I got the hint, but all Cap saw was the sun rising over baitless traps. I looked at the GOMOOS weather forecast: 15-25 kt winds, gusts to 30, 5-8 ft seas. Rain. Fog. Shitty. The flag in my yard was straight out. I called Cap after 15 minutes of waiting for the phone to ring, in hopes that he was having "second thoughts," as he says.

He was worried that we wouldn't get hauled through this week if we didn't go out today. We'd had three days off for the first time since last winter due to boat maintenance. Unheard of. Cap suggested that we "go for a ride" and "take a look at it." That usually means that we're gonna go hauling. I threw the Dramamine on top of my lunch, which I hadn't pulled out for probably four months. Today was gonna be an adventure.

As I waited in the parking lot for Cap the wind appeared stronger. Queen Anne's Lace quivered on the edge of the pavement. Fishermen doddled in their trucks, shooting the shit, not appearing to have any intention of budging from their seats. All the boats in the harbor pointed accusingly to the source of such weather (northeast) as if it was the culprit. Cap pulled up, stepped out of his truck, assessed the wind and stalled, clearly deliberating on the situation. I was relieved to see his reluctance.

We slowly made our way to the boat on the mooring. I gotta admit: it's kinda fun being some of the few brave fishermen who actually step foot aboard the boat on days like this, as many of the others sit at the landing and watch you. Once we got to the boat, we organized things as Cap continued to think. We stood around and made small talk, watching and dreading the chop just outside the harbor. Another fisherman rowed by commenting jokingly on how quiet Cap's boat was. Alex added that he was just gonna fuel up and then go back to bed. By then Cap had made up his mind: no go. He suggested the alternative of starting early for the next three days. They will be brutally long days, but the wind will come around sou'west and the seas will calm down significantly. I am happy to spend the day sewing instead of bucking the waves. Back to bed!

A Family Tradition

The other day I was in visiting my dear Grandpa we got to talking about the cottages. The Thompson Cottages are a family business that began with my great-grandmother opening the Thompson House, built by the previous generation, as an inn. My grandfather was born in that inn. When Grandpa inherited the business, he built 20 cottages on the water to accompany it. At the ripe age of 80 my grandfather retired and passed the business along to my parents. I look forward to being the next generation inn-and-cottage keeper.

We were talking about how busy the cottages have been this summer and Grandpa drifted off into the past. I get excited when he talks about the old days. After all, he is one of the oldest remaining locals at 92 years-old. It is a treat for me to hear about how my home town that I love so dearly used to be. I overcame the urge to sit on the floor and eagerly listen like a 5-year-old at story time.

Grandpa started from the beginning. How he borrowed a big quantity of money (for those days) and went out on a limb to buy perhaps the prettiest property in the village right on the oceanfront. People thought he was crazy taking such a financial risk. Then he started building cottages. The first three were built with the help of his friend. Grandpa built the following 17 on his own. He scavenged the stones for the fireplaces everywhere he went and another buddy did the masonry for him. His three sons, including my father, helped him with the last few. They have proved sturdy enough; they're still holding ground after close to 50 years!

I told him how I look at the cottages all day when we're hauling, my voice filled with emotion, as I couldn't contain my family pride. "They look good from the water, don't they?" I shook my head in agreement.

The cottages have played a significant role in my life. I grew up playing with kids who came to the cottages with their families down in Back Cove. We have several close family friends who return to rent a cottage annually. The Thompson House continues to be a source of awe for me, as it has so much family history that we continue to uncover to this day. When I was little I loved to snoop around in the dark closets and find old tokens of my ancestors.

I have also worked at the cottages quite a bit. I have cleaned for many summers now. I was initially trained to clean by my great-aunt Martha, Grandpa's sister. We worked together on the same cleaning team and had a blast. I have also made other contributions over the years like painting the trash sheds, decking the boathouse dock, painting rowboats, and making signs.

I often think about how lucky I am. What better gift to pass on to one's offspring than a lucrative business built with one's own hands that allows others to share an appreciation for the place that one loves? I am incredibly grateful for Grandpa's hard work. The family business is in my eyes a manifestation of the generosity for which my grandfather is known around town. I will proudly carry on the tradition to the best of my ability and hope to pass it on to my children some day.

Shift Work

Just like Kenny Chesney sings with his deep, dreamy drawl in his country hit, "shift work is hard work." Except I'm not referring to shifts at a convenience store. I'm talking about the hard work of shifting lobster traps. While winter fishing has many disadvantages, hauling traps in the summer involves lots of shifting. Hauling singles would almost be enjoyable on a lovely summer's day if it wasn't for shifting. It is a logistical fact of lobstering that every captain and sternman dread, but a necessary evil nonetheless.

Sometimes we shift traps because an area is over-crowded with gear. When the density of traps becomes too high, other fithermens' lines start tangling with ours and it takes up our precious time to untangle them. When it is too stressful for Cap to stay in a locality, we shift elsewhere, where the buoys are sparser.

The other condition for shifting traps is when we aren't catching any lobsters in a location. There is quite a bit of strategizing that goes into trap placement in order to maximize one's catch. It is a guessing game that every captain plays. A guess educated by many years of experience. But regardless of the number of years a captain has been fishing, it is a gamble. Every year is different in terms of the migration patterns of lobsters (both temporally and geographically). No one knows for sure where they are going to to catch the unpredictable crustaceans until a few hauls later.

So we roll the dice and try again.