When we scuffed down the dock to the boat the other morning, Dad told me something that made my heart fly.
Dad: How about you skipper today?
Me (a thousand thoughts already bouncing around in my head): Really? Sure thing.
Now, you have to realize that the difference between crewing on a lobster boat and running one is a little like being a halfback on a football team and being the quarterback.
Halfback is an important position, but when you’re the quarterback, you have to know all the positions and all the plays and when to call them.
So instead of Dad checking the fuel level, I did.
Instead of Dad checking the bilge and the bilge pumps, I did.
Instead of Dad poring over the chart even though he knew it better than his own face, I did.
Instead of Dad listening to the weather, I did (clear, north wind at five knots by afternoon, scattered clouds).
Instead of Dad going to the helm and starting the engine, I did.
Instead of Dad switching on and checking the electronics, I did.
I had to sort my way through a thousand details: be sure we have enough bait, do we need to shift gear, do we have enough bands, do we need new gear,
and on and on.
When I figured we were ready, I told Dad to cast off, and I put the boat in gear and we slipped away from the dock, the cove ahead of us as slick as foil with faint silvery blue light in the sky to the east and the stars overhead fading away.
We idled out, leaving a V of a wake spreading behind us across the water, the dock disappearing into the dimness.
At the cove entrance I brought the throttle up in a steady motion and the diesel responded with a growing roar as we reached cruising speed.
By then the light had grown enough so I could make out the grainy form of the barrier beach dunes far across the water. I pointed us on a course for the white flash of Fog Island light at the end of the barrier beach, the lighthouse itself a pale cone far ahead at the edge of the open ocean.
I could see my breath coming out in light puffs in the chilly salt air, and I was glad I had my fleece jacket on and oilskins overalls on.
I felt the vibrations of the engine through the spokes of the wheel as I steered.
I turned around to look at Dad, clad in his orange oilskins, coiling some warp on the afterdeck.
He looked up at me and grinned, his breath spooling out and whipping away over the churning white wake.
He brought his hand to his forehead and gave me a small salute.
Dad: Finest kind of morning, isn’t it?
I didn’t even have to answer. I just gave him a smile and a nod and turned back to the wheel.








