Skipper for a Trip

Posted on by eddieatwell

 

Dad at the hauler

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.

Softshell (Crab) Season

Posted on by eddieatwell

 

A Chesapeake Bay crab boat

You might have guessed that I like to eat seafood of all kinds. Even though I like to catch what I eat as much as possible, sometimes the fish market is the only place to get certain kinds of fish.

Now, I don’t mean any disrespect to lobster, which remains my all-time favorite, but Mom brought home a bunch of softshell crabs the other night—“store bought,” as Dad says.

Mom (while we were sitting at the table, munching on the crabs): I know you don’t approve, Walt (that’s my dad), since we had to pay good money for these, but you have to admit they’re awfully good—and there’s no waste because you get to eat the entire crab.

Dad (his mouth full): Um.

Mom: And it’s just for a treat once in a while, a way to bring back that trip we took so long ago. Remember? The one to the Chesapeake to look at possible boatbuilders? Some of those Virginia-built boats were solid as can be.

Dad: I’m not complaining.

Mom: Sweet, aren’t they?

Me: Can I have another?

Mom: May I?

Me: May I have another one?

Mom: Better save that last one for your father.

Me (my stomach grumbling): Okay.

Dad: You go right ahead, Eddie. I’m stuffed.

Mom (laughing): You can’t get stuffed on these little fellows.

Dad (smiling): I’ve had what is known as an “elegant sufficiency,” Marie. Besides, he’s a growing boy.

This time of the year, blue claw crabs shed their shells, and the crabbers have to get their catch to market before their new shells harden again.  Oh, yeah: Did you ever see the traditional crab boats down in the Chesapeake? They have some sweet lines.

Anyway, softshells make great eating: All you do is clean them and put them in a pan with a dab of olive oil and fry them right up. Some people bread them or put corn meal on them. Mom never does. She says why doctor that flavor? Dad likes them on the grill, too.

Dad: Eddie, the two of us have to go crabbing one of these days when we get a moment. I used to go in the tidal creeks in Saltworks Cove. All you do is tie some monofilament to a bluefish rack, toss it in the water, and draw it back, nice and slow. The blue claws come after it, and you scoop them up in a long-handled crab net and throw them in a bucket.

Me: Sounds good to me.

Lobsters shed their shells, too, and a lot of people don’t like the soft ones. I’d say they don’t know what they’re missing.

Have you ever grilled a lobster? Now that’s wicked good, too.

Another Calico Lobster

Posted on by eddieatwell

When I got home from school, Mom told me that she read about a another calico lobster today. It’s in the New England Aquarium. This one was caught off Winter Harbor, Maine. Here’s the article (and an awesome photograph): http://bo.st/IVPrri

Mom: Maybe you started something by writing about calico lobsters a while ago.

Me: Speaking of writing, I’ve almost served my sentence, haven’t I?

Mom (laughing): That pun gives me a chuckle every time I hear it.

Me: What do you mean?

Mom: “Served my sentence?” Your punishment was that you were sentenced to writing sentences.

Me: Okay. I get it.

Mom: Let’s see. We said you had to write about lobstering till school was over, right?

Me: Right.

Mom: When’s school over?

Me: June.

Mom: The calendar says May.

Me: Okay. I get it.

Mom: But don’t worry. Only a few more weeks to go.

Me: I don’t mind, Mom. Writing’s been…well, it’s not half bad.

Mom: You’ve been sticking to it. And I like your drawings.

Me: But I can’t wait till school’s over. Then I can just get out on the boat.

Mom: Do you want a peanut butter sandwich before you go out to help your dad?

Me: Maybe two. Thanks.

 

Collision Course

Posted on by eddieatwell

Dragger steaming

One of the books Dad has on his shelf is called Dead Men Tapping by Kate Yeomans. It’s about a tuna fishing boat called the Heather Lynne II that was run down by a tugboat in 1996. I just started reading it (I don’t have much time because school work’s eating up all my free time), but I’ll tell you, it’s one scary story so far.

We got out on a trip last weekend to set some traps around Thrumcap, and when we were heading back in—the wind had been blowing hard out of the west all day, and we were pounding into it—I asked Dad about having close calls.

Me: I can’t believe that boat got run down like that.

Dad (throttling back as a big sea rose up in front of us): Happens. Luckily not all the time. But small boats are hard to see even in the best of conditions.

Me: Why do you think it happens?

Dad (flipping on the wiper as seawater doused the windshield): Those big vessels are hard to turn.

Me: Like us when we have a full load of traps.

Dad (throttling up and grinning): Least we usually have someone awake at the helm.

Me (thinking about how hard it can be to keep your eyes open after you’ve gotten no sleep and you’re steaming for a long time across a smooth sea): Mostly awake, anyway.

Dad: One of the closest calls I’ve had was when I was just a bit older than you, fishing with my old man. We were codfishing, handlining, if I remember right. It was summertime, when the fog’s as thick as can be as soon as you get into the colder water out beyond Malabar.

He stopped talking for a moment to throttle back again as a big wave broke over the bow.

Dad (throttling up again): It was my watch. Dad had gone below. Probably about two o’clock in the morning. I saw a target on the radar, about three miles off, and when I tried to bear off, the target kept heading straight for us. On a collision course.

Me: Did you wake up your dad?

Dad (chuckling): Probably should have. I didn’t want to, though. He was a real bear when you woke him up even in the best of circumstances. Anyway, the target got within a mile, a half mile, and I was practically steaming around in a circle with the blip still headed for us, and then it got lost in the sea clutter on the screen. Which meant it was yards away. So I pulled open the hauling door, and what I saw sticks with me to this day.

Me: What was it?

Dad (shaking his head): It was a about a hundred-foot dragger, its black hull about fifteen feet away, so close I could see the crewman on the afterdeck standing there in the bright deck lights holding a plastic tote. I could read the brand name on his orange oilskins. He looked at me like he’d seen an alien, and then we were past and the fog and dark closed back in.

Me: Sheesh.

Dad: Too close for me. Chances are the boat was towing and the skipper had stepped out on deck to help with some problem. Or maybe he was snoozing in his chair, the autopilot on.

Me: Got to stay awake.

Dad: That’s for sure. Like now. Hold on. We’ve got a graybeard bearing down on us.

Barnacles for Breakfast

Posted on by eddieatwell

Fog Island barnacles--not the kind the Briggs ate in Spain

Briggs sent a letter telling me about the trip—yes, another trip—he took with his parents over April vacation, among other things.

Here’s an excerpt:

“We undertook a short trip to the northwestern part of the Iberian Peninsula, in this case Spain, where the paterfamilias was embarking on preliminary research for a book of photographs he’s making about the Way of St. James.

“Have you heard of it, Eddie? We stayed in Santiago de Compostela, the terminus of the pilgrim route that begins about five hundred miles away, across the French border.

“Pilgrims have followed the route since the Middle Ages. You’ll appreciate this: The signposts marking the Camino de Santiago—that’s the Way of St. James—are emblazoned with an icon of a scallop shell, which is the symbol of St. James.

“But do you know what we ate in one of the restaurants in town–for breakfast, or at least mid-morning? My father talked to some of the locals and discovered that if you bought barnacles at the fish market, you could get them cooked at a certain cafe at a much reduced price than what they would charge if you ordered them off the menu.

“My father said he had always wanted to partake of percebes, though I cannot admit to sharing his enthusiasm.

“Yes: barnacles. You might be wondering how you eat those small crustaceans, but these were quite sizable and meaty. In fact, they tasted like fresh scallops. Quite the coincidence, eh?

“Good news: I’ll be returning to Saggy Neck Sailing Camp this summer. I was hesitant at first when my parents suggested it, given the events of last summer, but since my nemesis is incarcerated and will no longer be a factor, I decided in the affirmative.

“So perhaps we can find the time to do something other than be threatened by blood-thirsty pirates, nearly drown, and engage in fisticuffs—though I must admit anything less will lack a certain level of effervescence.”

I had to shake my head. The only barnacles I dealt with were the ones we scraped off the bottom of Maria A or my skiff before we slapped on anti-fouling paint, not to mention the ones growing on old lobster traps and buoys and pilings. Touch them and you’re sure to slice yourself open and bleed like crazy.

But eat them? Briggs’s kind must be from a different species. Still, maybe I’ll mention it to Dad. Could there be a market for them around here? He might think there’s a percentage in it.

A Good Day for Quahogging

Posted on by eddieatwell

April vacation gave me a chance to get out on a couple of trips and do some shore work with Dad.

This vacation is when Mom takes the steamship off-island for a couple of days of shopping on the mainland. This year she’s also going to visit Laurie at college.

Dad and I brought a load of new traps to replace some of the ones that we’d been fishing all year out off Malabar.

That was Monday, Patriot’s Day. When everyone on the mainland was sweltering in the record heat, we stayed cool as usual with the ocean surrounding us.

Mom called to say that she was “broiling” and that she wished she were back on the island. She did have fun taking Laurie and a couple of friends to lunch, though.

On Tuesday the wind shifted and we actually got a day of summery weather.

Dad decided that he’d let the traps soak for a day or so.

Dad: Hey, Mom’s off having fun, why don’t we do something?

So we took my skiff—me at the helm—and went quahogging off Tern Island. We raked up a bushel of littlenecks, most of which we sold at the co-op. We took turns with the rake, which is made up of a telescoping aluminum pole of fifteen-foot sections with a steel basket with wicked teeth to dig into the bottom for the quahogs. The teeth get shiny as you work.

Dad (kicking back and watching me rake): Hot, calm weather in April. Now that’s a rarity.

Me (letting the sun bake my face): Feels good, doesn’t it?

Dad: Beats freezing.

He stretched his legs out and laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes.

Dad: You know that April’s the windiest month of the year out here?

Me (tugging on the rake’s handle, trying to feel the

bottom for clams): Not March?

Dad: That’s one of those legends—because it comes in like a lion and all that.  April’s got it beat, at least on average.

When we got home in the evening, Dad put together his specialty (and my favorite): linguini and clams—salty and sweet and nutty all at the same time.

He even thawed some lobster we had in the freezer and threw that in.

Dad: Sorry it’s not fresh. Wasn’t planning on this feast.

Me: The littlenecks sure are.

The air was still mild, so we took our plates out on the porch and ate dinner looking down on the dock with Marie A tied up at the end.

At dusk, I saw a bat veer overhead—the first of the year.

Dad: Hear that?

I listened. A couple of sad-sounding hoots came from the dark woods.

Dad: That’s a barred owl. The sworn enemy of the great horned owl.

We listened to the owl call till full darkness came on. The April chill came back.

Me: You made dinner. I’ll do the dishes.

Dad: Sounds like a plan.

Monster Lobster

Posted on by eddieatwell

Monster Lobster (actually the World's Largest Lobster--a sculpture in Shediac, New Brunswick, Canada)

 

Dad has been fishing hard. He and Mom have been out even in some pretty rotten weather.

Mom (while we were eating dinner the other night): He does that when the bugs aren’t cooperating. Thinks if he keeps moving gear, he’ll find them. Don’t you, Walt?

Dad (chewing on a mouthful of codfish): Um.

That was last Friday night. She said she was glad I could go on Saturday so she could take a day off and get some shopping and other things done for Easter.

Before we left for the dock, about four on Saturday morning, Mom handed Dad his thermos of coffee.

Mom: Hope you have a monster day, Skipper.

Dad (smiling): We’ll do what we can.

Any day I can be on the water is a good day. We got out around Malabar Island after first light and pulled the first traps and got a bunch of lobsters in each. Not a bad start.  One was so big we had to throw it back—over the limit.

Me: What’s the biggest one you ever caught?

Dad: Caught? Well, you know a lobster five inches from its eye to the end of its carapace is the biggest we can keep. But the biggest one I ever saw came up in a dragger’s net. Saw it down on the dock.

Me: How big was it?

Dad: Over twenty pounds, and you should have seen the size of its claws.

Me: A real monster.

Dad: Heard about a twenty-seven pound one that was caught in Maine over the winter.

Me: What did they do with it?

Dad: Put it back in the water.

Me: I’d sure love to see one of those monsters in action down on the seafloor.

Dad: Biggest lobster ever caught was a forty-four pounder off Nova Scotia in 1977. It’s in the Guinness Book of World Records.

Me: Forty-four pounds?

Dad: Yup. It’s all claw. Thing could nip off a finger like a snap bean, maybe even lop off your arm. Scientists haven’t figured out how old these big bugs are. They look old enough to be dinosaurs, though.

Me: You think they move as fast as the smaller ones?

Dad (grinning at me):  You survive down there that long, you’ve got to be some kind of fast.

The day didn’t turn out to be a monster day, unless you count talking about monster lobsters. But as Dad said, it wasn’t half bad.

The Calico Lobster

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I was helping Dad unload the boat when he got in late the other night.

Dad: Not such a hot trip. But look what we came up with.

He pulled a tote from inside the wheelhouse and lifted up a kind of lobster I’d heard about but had never seen.

Me: What’s that called again?

Dad: A calico lobster.

Me: What makes them like that?

Dad: Pigment mutation. I’ve seen them orange and black like this before, and mottled yellow and black, too.

I’d seen a blue lobster before that Dad had caught—so bright blue it was like a popsicle.

Dad: The say blue lobsters are one in a million.

Me: That’s pretty rare.

Dad: But not as rare as calicos. They’re supposed to be one in thirty million.

Me: Wow. Did you ever catch one of these before?

Dad: Fishing with your grandfather, we caught just about everything in the sea. We caught six of these as best as I can recall.

Me: Ever catch an albino one?

Dad (shaking his head): Can’t say I have. Maybe you will one day. There’s an even rarer one, a two-tone kind that’s sometimes orange on one side and green on the other.

Me: What are we going to do with it?

Dad: It’s good luck to catch one, bad luck to eat one. So even though we did lousy, I’ll probably give the Lobster Institute a call to see if they’re taking donations. Hate to see a bug like this end up in a pot.

The Herring Run

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Dad told me that when the water temperature gets to forty-eight, the herring run begins. Meaning the herring—they’re really alewives— would swarm in from Fog Island Sound to swim up the streams to spawn in the ponds.

So when Skip Greenlaw came by after school yesterday, we took a hike over to the flume beyond Saltworks Cove to see what was up.

“They’re here,” he said even before we got to the flume. You could hear the gulls screaming and see them flapping above the scrub pines.

When we got beside the flume, which is a fish ladder with steps so the herring can swim upstream in stages, just like mini salmon, a gull stood on the ground beside the concrete rail, pecking at a herring. It grabbed the fish in its beak and strutted off. Other gulls roosted in the treetops, watching for their chance. Some of them flapped off when we got there, looking peeved, while others patrolled back and forth, yelling to each other about the feast in the form of fish flashing up the ladders into the stream leading to the pond above.

The pond itself was filled with dead trees, and the gulls were waiting in those, too.

You could see the fish slashing up the rapids in threes and fours, sometimes one at a time.

We went over to the head of the flume where the fish jetted out of the ladder into the deeper, slower water. An eddy swirled around a small inlet right beside the bank. Now and then a fish or two would swim into the inlet for a breather.

Skip pushed up the sleeves of his jacket and squatted by the edge. Ever since we were kids, Skip’s been the World Champion Bare-Handed Herring Snatcher. He’s patient—and he strikes fast.

He hunkered down. He stretched his right arm toward the water, staring at the fish approaching.

Me: You’re lucky, you know it?

Skip (without turning around): About what?

Me: I could push you in with a feather.

Skip: You wouldn’t dare.

Me: Don’t tempt me. Temperature’s forty-eight degrees.

Skip: Quiet. There’s one.

I stepped closer and peered into the clear water. I saw fish flit past as they made their way over the bulge of the falls into the smoother water.

I saw one circle around and fin closer to Skip.

He shot his hand out. Water splashed. Gulls cried. He fell backwards, a silvery flapping herring wriggling in his grasp.

Me: My dad says they used to come here with wooden barrels and net up the herring for bait. Sometimes they pickled them to eat, too.

Skip was still holding the fish. Too bad you couldn’t net them for bait now but instead had to pay someone else to catch bait for you.

Skip: This guy’s strong. Look at him.

The fish flapped its tail and worked its mouth.

Skip (getting up): Back in the water with you.

He kneeled down and slipped his hand back in the water with the fish. He waited till the fish gave a lurch, then released it. The fish shot away.

Skip: There he goes. Off to do his herring thing.

He splashed his hands on the water, then stood up and wiped them on his pants.

Skip: That water’s some cold.

Me: Sure you don’t want to go for a dip?

Skip (turning to me, a grin wrinkling his face): Go ahead. Try it.

The Weather Story

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Our barn

 

Out here on Fog Island we’re not getting the weird warm weather those of you who live away from the water are. Briggs wrote to say that the temperature was eighty-two at his school the other day—hotter than Costa Rica was one day when he was on break.

But the weather’s still not normal even here. Usually this time of the year I seem to feel the coldest. I really don’t know why. It’s not as icy and frigid as the dead of winter. Usually the temperature sticks in the forties. Lately it’s been in the fifties, and the fog has been as thick as it is in the summer, when the humid air rolls over the cold ocean currents and fog blankets everything.

I guess I get colder in the spring because after a whole winter of bundling up against the cold, my blood thins out or something.

Dad and I were painting some buoys in the barn when I got home from school, and I asked him about it.

He dipped his brush in a can of paint. The smell of fresh paint rose up in the air. It was warm enough to leave one of the barn doors open. We hadn’t even lit the woodstove.

Dad: You’ve got me there. Maybe it has to do with not wearing the same layers of clothes. You get fooled into thinking it’s warmer when it really isn’t, especially the water.

He told me that one time when he was fishing with his dad a long time ago in April he heard the forecast. It was supposed to be calm and warm everywhere, even offshore, and he decided to leave the longjohns at home.

Dad: We got offshore and before we even hauled the first trap the wind shifted and the temperature never hit forty. I shivered every moment I wasn’t hopping around trying to get warm by doing everything double time. My old man told me he was considering banning the wearing of longjohns. Said he’d never gotten so much work out of me.

I asked him what he thought was going on with the weather—the mild winter, the summery early spring.

Dad: It has to do with two large influences on our weather: the Arctic Oscillation and the North Atlantic Oscillation. When they shift, which is what I guess they did this year, they shove the jet stream into strange contortions. Right now our jet stream is stuck in an S shape with the upper part looping into Canada. It’s blocking the cold air and allowing warm air to stream in from the south, even the Gulf of Mexico and beyond.

Me: So what if it shifts to the south in April or May?

Dad (holding up the buoy to inspect his work): I’ve seen it snow in May. Usually Mother Nature balances things out. One year we had a July and August so cold people said it was the year with no summer.

Me: Kind of the opposite of what we’ve had this winter.

Dad (nodding): That’s New England for you.