An article about the survey trips I go on with a section about my research is being featured in the May issue of Commercial Fisheries News.

Here's the link:

https://docs.google.com/open?id=0B155nqFspMYwWEVKQ0VvRGo0cVk

A New Port

Life is indeed quite different living in New Bedford, but one thing hasn't changed: my job still involves working on boats. It's a little different this summer, though. First of all, bait is not part of the equation anymore, thank God. I'm also not working on the water every day, but when I am out to sea, it is for 8-day trips and I'm on the boat for good. I'm sleeping in a bunk, eating in the galley, and standing watch in the wheelhouse. It isn't a 10-hour-day of lobstering with scenic views of the Maine coast. It's 200 miles out to sea on Georges Bank without any land in sight. Luckily, I'm only going on three trips this summer.

In fact my first trip out to sea in May was the first time that I slept on a boat. I sterned on a lobsterboat for a year and two summers, but I'd never slept on a boat before. The first night wasn't much fun. I was seasick from the clumsy motion of the top-heavy 90-ft commercial scallop fishing vessel jerking abruptly from side to side. My bunk was next to the engine room. Now I understand why most fishermen are deaf. The roar of the engine was louder than I could have ever imagined. After a few nights I adapted to taking Dramamine regularly. I was getting used to the deafeningly loud engine and when I put my earplugs in to sleep even had the delusion of silence. My body grew accustomed to the now seemingly gentle sway of the hull. The motion rocked me into a sound sleep.

In some ways I feel a comforting familiarity with the working waterfront in New Bedford. The sounds and smells of the dockside remind me of home. Rotten fish baking in the sun. A salty sea breeze kissing your face. Men joking and laughing over the loud clamor of machinery. But to look at it, New Bedford's waterfront is quite a different story than New Harbor's quaint

wharves. Hundred-foot-steel-hulled giants dwarf the graceful, white 30-ft fiberglass hulls of lobsterboats from home. Fifteen-foot steel dredges adorn either side of the scalloping vessels, appearing much more dangerous than the 3-ft long traps that lobstermen use. Even the fishermen are different. I enjoy the trip down to the dock to pick up scallops for our work and look forward to the opportunity to shoot the shit with the fishermen. But I'm not greeted with the friendly, fatherly faces that I know well from home. Instead foreign accents yell at us abnoxiously, sometimes making me blush at their ludeness. One guy thought I was a whore when I greeted him kindly. I quickly averted my eyes and walked on. The captains are for the most part respectful men, but the deckhands can be pretty rough.

It is, however, interesting seeing such a culturally diverse port. Maine fishing communities are uniformly white and often politically and culturally conservative. You wouldn't exactly call New Harbor diverse. However, this major fishing port is peppered with Portuguese, Columbian, Mexican, Fillipino, Polish, and Vietnamese fishermen. A fair number of Mainers make the commute to scallop out of New Bedford as well. We have a reputation as being hard workers down here.

Hanging in the wheelhouse of the first vessel I went on was the quintessential relic of New Bedford. It was a cheap plastic cross that looked like it was straight out of Ver-o-Peso in Belem, Brazil, a famous dockside market. Delicate gold flourishes and plastic diamonds adorn the tips of the cross, reminding me of gaudy Brazilian jewelry. A scallop is mounted in the center of the cross. This keepsake is undoubtedly Portuguese. The piece reminds me of the brightly-colored boats outside Ver-o-Peso, the exotic fish for sale at market, and the stench of the docks. The colorful hulls of New Bedford's fleet and the elegant Portuguese names are reminiscent of Brazil. This port is a blend of some of my favorite ports on different continents. It's a perfect melting pot of fishing cultures from around the world.

In Bloom

My grandmother was one of the most generous people I've known. I learned some valuable things from her that will stay with me for my whole life.

One lesson she taught me is the joy of caring for others. Grandma was a nurse in her younger days and provided her family with remedies for

our afflictions as long as I can remember. She cared for the elderly widows in the community, visiting them and bringing them food. She did everything for my Grandpa but spoon fed him. He was dependent on her to the point that he was unable to care for himself after she passed. And God knows she did more than her share of caring for me.

I also learned the joy of growing plants from her. Grandma LOVED flowers. She gave her wedding dress to me. It is beautiful but modest like she was. It is made of an elegant ivory satin with a calla lilly pattern woven in. In her wedding photos she carries a bouquet of white calla lilies that curled at the tip like her brown locks.

It's no surprise that she named her mini schnauzer "Daisy." She was frugal to the point that she bought powdered instead of fresh milk but you'd always see a bouquet of daisies on her counter.

And, yes, she loved to grow plants. She kept exotic plants. She had a cactus garden in pots in her office that no doubt reminded her of her favorite vacation place: Arizona. I was so intrigued by them when I was little that I felt compelled to touch them every time we visited. It always ended with me walking away frowning and holding my pricked finger up to my mom. Didn't learn that lesson very quickly. She also propagated every color and pattern of African violet. My mother has trouble keeping them alive, but Grandma grew them like weeds. Pink, purple, white, purple with white stripes. They were always blooming and later on I figured out that Miracle Grow is the trick.

Grandma was also quite fond of the amaryllis. I was fascinated by watching the progress of the

bud unfolding until it developed into blossoms so magnificent and huge that they would sometimes knock the pot over from their weight. I painted Grandma a series of 4 small watercolors that showed the blooming process and framed them in sequence. The paintings still hang in her house.

When Grandma passed away peacefully in her sleep on November 15, 2009, Grandpa wasn't the only one who missed her care. Grandpa soon moved to a very nice nursing home where he now lives quite contentedly with lots of visitors every day. Daisy went to an old lady in need of company who gladly took her in. But the house was left empty and the plants were abandoned without Grandma's touch. I brought many of them home. Her tropical ferns cascade onto the floor of my apartment. The African violets surprise me with richly colored blossoms every so often. And her amaryllis continues to inspire me.

Last July I visited Grandma's empty house and noticed a bud forming on the neglected, bone-dry amaryllis. I brought it home and watered it. A few weeks later, four crimson flowers burst open. The green leaves provided some color to my apartment for a few months and then I stuck it in my parent's basement when they began to brown.

Last weekend I was visiting home and stopped by Grandma's house again to absorb her comforting smell and remember her relaxing in the empty armchair. I looked at her dried up cactus garden, which had long since been forgotten. I didn't take the cacti for fear of being tempted by its enticing quills again. To my surprise, some vibrant red blossoms adorned the shriveled brown arms of her Christmas cactus. I picked one and brought it home to propagate.

I went down to the basement of my folk's house and noticed a bud forming again on the abandoned amaryllis bulb. I brought it home once again to watch the magical process. I feel Grandma's presence every time that bulb comes to life again. My love for Grandma is renewed every time I see it blooming. Her love love lives on within me.

The Way Life Should Be

I have been a resident of New Bedford, Mass for almost three months now. Let's just say things have changed considerably since the days of Lobstahgal.

Remember that blog post entitled "Afloat" that I wrote last July mocking the life of cubicles? Well, I now have a "comfy little cubicle" of my own. A vida ironica. I suppose I was due for some humbling. And you know what? Working in a cubicle isn't half bad! It doesn't have a view of the open ocean (or any windows at all, in fact), but it is considerably more comfortable than the conditions I worked in a year ago. It's warm and dry. My hands don't go numb and my back doesn't feel like I'm 80 at the end of the day anymore. In fact, I've been quite grateful to be so comfortable this winter.

But it gets worse. Remember how I mocked Massachusetts residents and perhaps even called them a derogatory name related to their driving habits? Well, my car, Edwin, now wears Mass plates. Yes, that's right, I'm a Masshole. I don't drive like one, or not yet, anyway, but according to northern standards, I qualify. I had to register Edwin here in order to get a Mass car insurance policy. I mourned for a few weeks. Again, humbling.

It had been two and a half months since I had set foot in my home state when I pointed Edwin's bow north last week. I was headed home for spring break. Boy, was I ready to see some natural beauty again. The grey asphault and airborne trash were starting to get me down at the least colorful time of year. I gladly bid New Bedford farewell, as I passed the fishing port on I-195 on my way out. Boat masts, church steeples, and smokestacks pierced the sky. The skyline is just as rough as the city itself. Although I have a deep reverence and fascination for the waterfront of New Bedford, I can't say that I would be living here had a golden educational opportunity not arisen. In other words, it isn't a place where I would choose to live.

I let out a holler as I climbed the bridge into New Hampshire. It felt good to break free of "the mother state," as I now think of Mass. The air felt cleaner in NH, but upon crossing the next bridge into Maine, I felt even more refreshed. Maine welcomed me home, the sign reading "Welcome to Maine: The Way Life Should Be." How many times had I read that sign before? Yet it resonated more than ever this time. I couldn't help but start singing the Alan Jackson song "Where I Come From." Then I froze with horror. I'd be returning home, to New Harbor, Maine with Mass plates! The ultimate embarrassment. I'm not sure which is worse: locals not recognizing me. . . or them recognizing me as a Masshole!

Finally, I pulled into my parents' driveway. I stepped out of the car. I stopped. Silence. Stars! Solitude. Home.

Nevah Goin' Back.

There has been many a Saturday in the past eight summers of my life when I've been cleaning my parents' oceanfront cottages, gazing out at the lobsterboats and wishing I was on the water. I suppose that's how I came to be interested in lobstering in the first place. It looks like a very romantic way to spend one's time on a beautiful, sunny day in July.

But now I know the reality of the industry. Today I looked out at those same boats as I helped my dad replace a bathroom in a cottage. This time my perspective was a bit different: I couldn't be more grateful to be high and dry on land. Now I know what it's like to be out there this time of year.

Winter is on its way. The leaves have fallen, the north wind blows, and the sky has a cold, heavy greyness suggestive of snow. On a choppy day like today I look at those boats with pity. I know how miserable it is to be out there with the boat wrenching about under you, your tools sloshing back and forth, knowing that you still have hours of work ahead of you before Cap points the bow landward commencing the hour steam home. It may be the most lucrative season, but it's the least enjoyable.

A few days ago (on Nov. 3) I awoke to the phone ringing at 7 am. I craned my head to look at the number with one eye still shut. It was Cap. My heart sank: what if his new sternman hadn't worked out? I looked at the date: a year and three days ago Cap had called me out of the blue asking for help on deck. What if he was making that call again? I let my voicemail answer the call, but I couldn't fall back asleep. Curiosity ate at me.

Eventually I listened to the message. To my surprise, Cap wasn't asking for help at all! He was offering me fish! He had gone on a charter trip the day before and caught tons of polluck. He told me where the fillets were located if I wanted to stop by and pick some up. I was touched: I knew that Cap treasured seafood just as much as I did.

An hour later I pulled in to Cap's familiar driveway, grateful to be arriving on the occasion of friendship and not employment. Cap wasn't home, but I had a nice visit with Mrs. Cap. Upon my leaving she handed me a bulging bag of beautiful polluck fillets. I shared them with my friends and family. It was truly a treat.

I confess that I miss the perks of fishing. Most of all I miss eating fresh seafood that I caught the same day. Now I know that I am physically capable of lobstering for a living. But I also know that I'm never going back to it. Evah.

Finding Closure

Today was a day of closure. I drove to Cap's house to exchange a few items. He had expressed interest in seeing the pictures that I took of shrimping last winter, so I printed them out for him. I also printed him a few blog essays. I have told him about the blog since it's commencement, but he hasn't yet read it. I'm a bit nervous to hear his feedback, although I'm not quite sure why.

As I pulled into Cap's driveway I was glad to see that his truck was missing, which indicated that he'd found a sternman and was fishing today. I was relieved that he hadn't been puttering in his yard all week without a deck hand. I walked by the line of rubber boots in his barn. I thoroughly cleaned and stored my oil gear, boots, and fishing clothes the day after fishing. I was eager to be rid of all the smelly gear.

It has only been a week of retirement from lobstering and I already feel somewhat estranged from fishing culture. I passed my buddy Freddy on the road just yesterday and we stopped to chat. "Us old guys miss ya down to the shoah, Girrrl," he told me. I replied that I missed them too. I kinda miss waving to the guys from my bait tray. I miss the routine of it all. I even miss the comradery that accompanies back-breaking work. But I don't miss the work one bit.

My days have been leisurely. I have had time to dig in to all of the creative projects that I didn't have time or energy for when I was fishing. I have spent this week sewing, writing, cooking, running, watching movies, and visiting family and friends. I even scheduled that massage that I promised myself when I got done with lobstering. It has been a relaxing and satisfying week of vacation. It feels good to catch up with myself.

Reflection

Yesterday I came home from the last long day of hauling. I looked at myself in the mirror while removing my contacts. Lobstah Gal stared back at me. Her baseball cap was spattered with mud and bait flecks. Arms, chest and face sun-kissed and blushing with dehydration. Utter exhaustion in her eyes. She looked defeated and burned out.

I tore off my stinky clothes and cap, dashing into the shower without a second to spare. Upon emerging I saw a different reflection. A young woman returned the glance. She was strong, toned and . . . pretty. It had been too long since I last recognized these qualities in her. I saw a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. I saw potential and enthusiasm for life. I saw myself. Goodbye, Lobstah Gal. Hello Katherine.

I don't know exactly what life holds for me. Possibly graduate school. Perhaps a career in marine science. Hopefully, a retirement running the family cottage business in years to come. Yesterday I saw some little girls running with a dog and laughing. I would like to see that scene in my yard some day, if the future holds a family for me. I feel, once again, that I'm on the brink of a transition. I feel the quiver of possibility in the air. I feel hopeful and prepared. I am ready.