He came around the corner from the dock and spied a long haired wino wearing a long coat standing beside the tank looking furtively back and forth as he snagged lobsters from the tank and stuffed them under his coat. Craig quietly moved in behind him and when the wino bent over to grab another lobster, he grabbed him by the back of his collar and drove his head into the tank where he held him, flopping like a fish for an undetermined length of time.
When he finally pulled him out, drenched with water dripping off the end of his nose, he grabbed him by the front of his coat and pulled him close to his face. He said the wino made excellent eye contact, never wavering as Craig told him in no uncertain terms to "never, ever come in this lobster shop again" (expletives deleted). The wino nodded his head, never broke eye contact and said, "Fair enough". End of story
We worked up a load of fresh herring today. They were small and a goodly number worked their way through the flights of the conveyor and washed down the drain holes into the ocean. The seagulls flocked and 3 harbor seals circled just off the dock. We began to throw them shovels full of tasty, fresh, bite sized fish and they put on a tremendous show diving and weaving, snagging herring at every turn. We offered them salted fish as well but they never ate one.
Great day despite the heat. As one lobsterman said, "We're gonna miss this in February..."
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Smells
Sunrise was breathtaking this morning. And there are, of course, other things that take away your breath...When the tide is at just the right level, the stack exhaust from some of the boats blasts directly into the face of the person operating the winch. Breathtaking...
When redfish turns sour from sitting on the dock in the morning sun. Breathtaking...
The smell of fresh herring and pogies is actually sweet, pleasant to the nose
But the smell of a barrel of skate is by far the most impressive. It will paralyze your senses, cause an involuntary closure of the muscles in your throat. Literally, breathtaking...
And then, there's the bathroom...
Fog
After 2 weeks of searching, the offshore trawlers located the herring schools and we have been busy offloading and salting down 150,000 pounds of fish. Makes for long and busy days. The early morning hours are spent tending boats and getting set up for the operation; fueling the fork trucks, setting out pallets, organizing tools and gear, assigning work details. Once the pumping of the fish begins off the boats and the big 2000 pound exactas are being filled off the boat, the sea gulls join the party in great numbers.
They are so thick and aggressive that it looks, all the world, like the Alfred Hitchcock movie "The Birds". They swoop and fight, squawk loudly, swallowing the spilled herring whole, attacking each other trying to make the other disgorge their prize. They fly around the bait shop, big Black Backed Gulls swooping clockwise and Herring Gulls counter clockwise, dodging and weaving, an aerial dog fight (bird fight?). For kicks, the crew throws fish, sometimes with cans attached with string to watch them swinging from the beaks of the flying birds. Ralph caught one and it tried to take off my gloved fingers. Quick little buggers.
The conversation on the dock at break was about jail. I learned that if you are ever in jail and someone offers to give you the candy "Skittles" don't accept. There are prisoners that lick the skittles and use the colored coating for make-up...
Later, one of the guys sat looking at the sea and said to nobody in particular, "I hate whales." OK, I'll take the bait so to speak. "Why would you hate whales", I asked. "I don't like their attitude" he said. "They think they are better than everyone else." I laughed and asked "So I know they call you Simpson, but what's your real name". "Mike" he said "but I prefer my prison nickname."
"What's that", I asked.
He said "Skittles..."
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
My New Best friend, the Car Thief
When I got through today at 1:00, Skully was walking down the wharf. Hot day. He accepted my offer for a ride to Bubba's Sulky Lounge down on Park Ave. Nice place. Lots of local color and characters.
I ended up drinking a beer with Randy. 42 years old. Been on the waterfront since he was 16. He tells of being out on Georges Bank in 1991 during the hurricane. You remember... The Perfect Storm? They received the may-day from the fishing vessel that was lost, the Andrea Gail. He is the stern man for German Joe on the Mary Lou III, perhaps the most seaworthy deep water lobster boat on the Maine coast.... until last week. He stepped through a hole and broke his ankle. Self employed, he has no workers comp, no medical insurance, no disability... on the high wire without a net. Just like most of the guys down here.
I walked back to my locked truck and spied my keys hanging from the ignition. The emotion is a sudden thud of realization, a sinking feeling of being number than a stump. Know what I'm talking about? Sure you do... So I don't see the old guy with a cane sitting in the shadows outside the bar watching me circle the truck, stupidly trying the locked doors, vainly attempting to cuss the windows down.
"Locked out." he stated the obvious. "Yup", I agreed. "Want me to open that?" he whispered, the smell of beer strong on his breath and evident in his bleary eyes. "Yup", I agreed. He pulled a slim jim from under his shirt, tucked down the leg of his pants. "Cost you a beer." he set the terms of the transaction. I shook my head and watched him work. He talked to the truck as he slipped the thin metal bar between the window and the door frame. " Old little truck... now where's the guard plate on the lock on this one... what year?" "94... Mitsubishi..." I answered for the truck. "Oh yeah, they have that connector rod... right about heeya." Maine through and through. He tugged gently and the lock button popped up. "Now that's worth a Budweiser" I praised. "Frickin-A" he winked, "Cheapa than Triple A". Back in the bar he bragged about being a car thief even though he got caught and spent time in jail. He complained about the new high tech locking mechanisms "Getting so a guy can't make a decent living." I shook my head dumbly and consoled him," Yeah, times are hard... the economy and all." He was suggesting we drink another as I slipped out the back. "Gotta go let the dogs out..." I called back to him. "I'll be here later" he offered. My new best friend, the car thief...
Katie is running in the Beach to Beacon 10K on Saturday. What a woman! I couldn't run 10 blocks...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Don't molest the Fish
Fish or cut bait. The phrase has a whole new meaning for me.
Mike didn't show up for work yesterday or today. He lasted one week. The crews reaction is interesting... as if he didn't exist. There are lots of interesting quirks. For instance, no one makes eye contact or says much for the first hour or so, just keep their heads down and get the job done.
There are two electric drills near the loading dock for drilling holes in the plastic barrels in order to hook them to the winch cable and lower them onto the boats. Of course, you're standing in water and even the rubber boots and gloves don't prevent the occasional electrocution. Usually it is mild, sometimes moderate, but yesterday the drill had been dropped into a barrel of fish guts so when you pulled the trigger you got 110 volts direct, strong enough so that even the toughest couldn't endure it. We laughed behind our gloves when Pete marched over and picked up the drill "Bunch of Sissies" he growled as he pushed the trigger. The jolt threw him backwards, caused his arms and hands to convulse and his eyes bulge. He turned around and stormed away. "Dry that thing out" he yelled over his shoulder.
The most asked question from the fishermen is not about the bait or the prices. It's "What's today's date?" They work hard and the days blend together. Today I answered, "It's Tuesday the 28th." "July?" he asked. I nodded. He shrugged and muttered " Couldn't tell it by the weather..."
Today one of the guys got a letter from the IRS. He can't read, but he understood the number. $3,500 back taxes and penalty for 1999, 2000 and 2001. And he hasn't filed for the past 7 years either.
There is no city water, no city sewer, but there is a hopper. Where it goes, we don't ask. Beside the hopper is a 55 gallon barrel with a submersible pump in it and which we fill with a hose. The discharge hose flows into the tank of the toilet. You have to turn on the light switch in order to turn on the pump and you get shocked if you don't wear gloves. Water sprays all over the floor, the walls are rotting, the ceiling falling down. It smells worse than a barrel of skate... well, maybe not that bad. On the wall is a typed notice in a dirty, plastic sleeve. "Employees must wash hands before returning to their station." They call it dark humor.
During brief periods of down time the guys goof off. They bowl with pogies, play soccer with herring, chuck them at the back of each others heads and at sea gulls. Pete walked by and growled " Don't molest the fish!"
Mike didn't show up for work yesterday or today. He lasted one week. The crews reaction is interesting... as if he didn't exist. There are lots of interesting quirks. For instance, no one makes eye contact or says much for the first hour or so, just keep their heads down and get the job done.
There are two electric drills near the loading dock for drilling holes in the plastic barrels in order to hook them to the winch cable and lower them onto the boats. Of course, you're standing in water and even the rubber boots and gloves don't prevent the occasional electrocution. Usually it is mild, sometimes moderate, but yesterday the drill had been dropped into a barrel of fish guts so when you pulled the trigger you got 110 volts direct, strong enough so that even the toughest couldn't endure it. We laughed behind our gloves when Pete marched over and picked up the drill "Bunch of Sissies" he growled as he pushed the trigger. The jolt threw him backwards, caused his arms and hands to convulse and his eyes bulge. He turned around and stormed away. "Dry that thing out" he yelled over his shoulder.
The most asked question from the fishermen is not about the bait or the prices. It's "What's today's date?" They work hard and the days blend together. Today I answered, "It's Tuesday the 28th." "July?" he asked. I nodded. He shrugged and muttered " Couldn't tell it by the weather..."
Today one of the guys got a letter from the IRS. He can't read, but he understood the number. $3,500 back taxes and penalty for 1999, 2000 and 2001. And he hasn't filed for the past 7 years either.
There is no city water, no city sewer, but there is a hopper. Where it goes, we don't ask. Beside the hopper is a 55 gallon barrel with a submersible pump in it and which we fill with a hose. The discharge hose flows into the tank of the toilet. You have to turn on the light switch in order to turn on the pump and you get shocked if you don't wear gloves. Water sprays all over the floor, the walls are rotting, the ceiling falling down. It smells worse than a barrel of skate... well, maybe not that bad. On the wall is a typed notice in a dirty, plastic sleeve. "Employees must wash hands before returning to their station." They call it dark humor.
During brief periods of down time the guys goof off. They bowl with pogies, play soccer with herring, chuck them at the back of each others heads and at sea gulls. Pete walked by and growled " Don't molest the fish!"
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Gray Day
The sun rose and the gray day brightened. Gray sky, gray bay on the waterfront, gray weather. The boats cruised into the wharf to pick up their bait and the conversations ranged from the price of lobster to the impending lobsterman's strike to the fishermans shooting on Matinicus Island. Things are tense on the waterfront.
The boat price of lobsters (paid at the dock by the retailers) is $2.75 per pound. Demand is down with the economy and all. But the lobstermen claim they can't operate profitably at below $3 a pound. So they are talking about tying up for a week, reducing supply, driving up demand. Might work. Might not. About half of them plan to keep on fishing so probably not.
Out on Matinicus things are getting heated. Yesterday a 75 year old fisherman shot a young guy in the neck at the town dock in front of a marine resources warden. The talk at the wharf went something like this.
"That's valuable bottom out there. The old salt has probably be fishing that ground for 50 years. And some young buck has moved in on his fishing ground. The old guy probably said, "You set over my traps one more time and I'll shoot you in the face." The young guy probably said, "Go piss up a rope old man." So the old guy shot him in the neck."
The young guy is in the hospital. The old guy is out on bail. Crime of passion. Justifiable attempted homicide? Only on the waterfront...
The boat price of lobsters (paid at the dock by the retailers) is $2.75 per pound. Demand is down with the economy and all. But the lobstermen claim they can't operate profitably at below $3 a pound. So they are talking about tying up for a week, reducing supply, driving up demand. Might work. Might not. About half of them plan to keep on fishing so probably not.
Out on Matinicus things are getting heated. Yesterday a 75 year old fisherman shot a young guy in the neck at the town dock in front of a marine resources warden. The talk at the wharf went something like this.
"That's valuable bottom out there. The old salt has probably be fishing that ground for 50 years. And some young buck has moved in on his fishing ground. The old guy probably said, "You set over my traps one more time and I'll shoot you in the face." The young guy probably said, "Go piss up a rope old man." So the old guy shot him in the neck."
The young guy is in the hospital. The old guy is out on bail. Crime of passion. Justifiable attempted homicide? Only on the waterfront...
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Zen of Shoveling Bait
A flash of expanded consciousness. Ryan was right. Something Zen-like takes place while forking pogies from barrels... a rhythm... a flow. As Oprah said, "Who would have thought that shoveling dead fish could be a spiritual experience." A part of the show that was cut included a conversation where she asked me what I would do for work next. I answered, "I don't know, but it won't be shoveling dead fish." Never say never.
The sun rises have been spectacular and we all find a few moments between the flurry of activity to watch the colors develop in the morning sky down the bay. A couple harbor seals bob off the pier waiting for someone to toss a fish their way. The sea gulls don't wait, swooping down to steal breakfast right out of the barrels. Osprey, sea ducks, a few Lesser Bittern. And later in the morning the tourists begin to line up over on the State Pier for the ferries out to the islands. The Machigonne, the Aucocisco II, the Island Romance ferrying cars and mail, supplies and tourists out to the islands; Peaks and Long, Little Chebeague and Great Diamond. They call them the Calendar Islands because there are around 365 in total.
The green offload stanchon arms at Portland Pipeline Pier One where my father, Uncle Bob and Grandfather Goodwin worked break the horizon and the oil tankers rise out of the water as they offload their foreign cargo. Bug Light blinks at the end of the breakwater in South Portland near my mother's memorial bench at Spring Point. Pier Two is right across Casco Bay where I spent a summer painting pilings on a float under the pier. My Grandfather Davis used to shuck clams and row across the bay to sell them on Commercial Street in his day. And my Great Grandfather Willard was a hard hat diver setting the underwater footings for the bridges, laying electrical lines, setting pilings. One time he dove to salvage cannon balls from a sunk barge. So much history. It seeps into you quietly, just a whisper.
I think the crew has accepted me, more or less. They call me the "old guy" and I am the oldest man though I look younger than half of them. Life on the water doesn't age a person gently. 3 or 4 of the lobstermen are classmates of mine. Goat, Willey, Stan, Tim; all at South Portland High School in the 60's. Good guys although Goat and several of his buddies punched me out in the corner of the bath room at Thornton Heights Elementary School when we moved back to Maine from Vermont in 1962. Not that I hold grudges, but I might drop a tote of herring on his head.
I listen a lot. Conversations range from which jail serves the best food to which bars serve the cheapest beer to which video games have the best graphics to which marijuana has the best buzz. And of course lots of sex conversation. One of the crew got arrested the other night at 3:30 while walking to work. The cop said, "You're going to work... Yeah right." They handcuffed him and took him to the station. It didn't help that he is Guatamalan, doesn't speak good english especially when handcuffed in the back of a cruiser and didn't have his papers on him. Another guy lives upstairs in the bait shop, does speak english, but isn't intelligible half the time. I bought him a couple beers at Bubba's, a local dive, the other day after work. We didn't talk much, but the beer was cold and the ice was broken.
Only 2 in 7 have a drivers license. Most have criminal records. One guy spent 4 years at the state penetentiary as a habitual offender... 4 years. He gave up driving, not drinking. You hear lots of stuff you never would have. Like this morning, somebody said, "Hey Brian, you've got seagull shit on your neck." And then there are long moments of silence when the crew sits on the dock smoking hand rolled cigarettes, smelling like fish, watching the sky in silence waiting for the next boat, the next truck, the next beer...
The sun rises have been spectacular and we all find a few moments between the flurry of activity to watch the colors develop in the morning sky down the bay. A couple harbor seals bob off the pier waiting for someone to toss a fish their way. The sea gulls don't wait, swooping down to steal breakfast right out of the barrels. Osprey, sea ducks, a few Lesser Bittern. And later in the morning the tourists begin to line up over on the State Pier for the ferries out to the islands. The Machigonne, the Aucocisco II, the Island Romance ferrying cars and mail, supplies and tourists out to the islands; Peaks and Long, Little Chebeague and Great Diamond. They call them the Calendar Islands because there are around 365 in total.
The green offload stanchon arms at Portland Pipeline Pier One where my father, Uncle Bob and Grandfather Goodwin worked break the horizon and the oil tankers rise out of the water as they offload their foreign cargo. Bug Light blinks at the end of the breakwater in South Portland near my mother's memorial bench at Spring Point. Pier Two is right across Casco Bay where I spent a summer painting pilings on a float under the pier. My Grandfather Davis used to shuck clams and row across the bay to sell them on Commercial Street in his day. And my Great Grandfather Willard was a hard hat diver setting the underwater footings for the bridges, laying electrical lines, setting pilings. One time he dove to salvage cannon balls from a sunk barge. So much history. It seeps into you quietly, just a whisper.
I think the crew has accepted me, more or less. They call me the "old guy" and I am the oldest man though I look younger than half of them. Life on the water doesn't age a person gently. 3 or 4 of the lobstermen are classmates of mine. Goat, Willey, Stan, Tim; all at South Portland High School in the 60's. Good guys although Goat and several of his buddies punched me out in the corner of the bath room at Thornton Heights Elementary School when we moved back to Maine from Vermont in 1962. Not that I hold grudges, but I might drop a tote of herring on his head.
I listen a lot. Conversations range from which jail serves the best food to which bars serve the cheapest beer to which video games have the best graphics to which marijuana has the best buzz. And of course lots of sex conversation. One of the crew got arrested the other night at 3:30 while walking to work. The cop said, "You're going to work... Yeah right." They handcuffed him and took him to the station. It didn't help that he is Guatamalan, doesn't speak good english especially when handcuffed in the back of a cruiser and didn't have his papers on him. Another guy lives upstairs in the bait shop, does speak english, but isn't intelligible half the time. I bought him a couple beers at Bubba's, a local dive, the other day after work. We didn't talk much, but the beer was cold and the ice was broken.
Only 2 in 7 have a drivers license. Most have criminal records. One guy spent 4 years at the state penetentiary as a habitual offender... 4 years. He gave up driving, not drinking. You hear lots of stuff you never would have. Like this morning, somebody said, "Hey Brian, you've got seagull shit on your neck." And then there are long moments of silence when the crew sits on the dock smoking hand rolled cigarettes, smelling like fish, watching the sky in silence waiting for the next boat, the next truck, the next beer...
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Sunrise over Portland Harbor
Work starts early on the docks... 4:00 AM. Yesterday it rained and blew... hard. Couldn't even see Pipeline Pier 2 across Casco Bay. But the boats still went out. This morning the sunrise lit up the sky down east and the boats lined up trying to capitalize on a rare day of good weather. It's been a rainy spring and summer so far.
On Monday we moved 220 barrels of bait, a record... herring, pogies, red fish, skate, mackerel. The mix and quality of bait is part of the art of lobster fishing I am told. Lobstermen (95% males... only 4 woman to date) are a unique bunch. Very secretive, wary, leathery skin, hard hands. It's tough work.
They looked at me, the new guy. cautiously... curious. I was taking notes on my pocket pad trying to make sense of the operation and one of them yelled at me, "What are you writing?". I replied "Boat names and numbers." "Why" he bellowed. "Trying to learn" I said. "You don't make any sense", he huffed. The next day he barked "Who are you?" I said "I'm with the IRS".and then laughed at the look of horror on is face. That took the wind out of his sails.
The 7 man crew in the bait shop were also pretty warry of me, one openly hostile. They knew I was the bosses cousin and thought I was there for an easy job. But there are no easy jobs on the dock. I kept my mouth shut and watched the flow of work. Filling boat orders is priority one. Everyone drops whatever job they are on when the call goes out "BOAT!". And between boats there is fish and salt to unload off the trucks, barrels to fill. move to the coolers. wash and stack the empties, totes to drag, slips to fill out and money/checks to collect. It is a fast paced, orchestrated circus of activity with rusted, brakeless fork trucks whizzing around at full throttle, people yelling for this or that, forking fish out of plastic barrels, working the winch up and down, up and down.
I ran an errand to the marine supply shop, picked up a dozen gloves and my "skins" and boots. First set is on the company. Rip 'em or lose 'em and you buy replacements. When I got back I suited up, punched in and pitched in shoveling herring off the floor around the conveyor. After a few days, the guys began to see that I was here to work and warmed up a bit.
They didn't want to know much about me except if I drank beer and how I felt about legalizing marijuana. I told them that I drank and enjoyed an occasional brownie. I told them I worked in a paper mill and had been driving around the US for a couple years. That seemed to satisfy them. And I stay busy.
I'm impressed with the way they work, staying one step ahead, anticipating, jumping into the heaviest, dirtiest jobs without hesitation or waiting for the next guy to take it on. I won't name names here. In the off chance someone read this blog, they wouldn't like it. And cousin or not, I'd likely end up in the harbor. Suffice it to say, they are Mainers, native sons who earn their living by the bend of their backs and skills learned on the docks, not in some ivy covered hall. Hard living and hard working. Proud. And I'm proud to be among them. I'll learn a lot. And it will get me back in shape... for sure.
Craig called me after the first day of work, concerned that I might be unhappy with the work, giving me his blessing to back away. I told him I was happy to be there and thanked him for the job. He said "Well, some people don't like the dirty work, covered in blood and guts, the smell of dead fish." I laughed and said "Craig, I worked in Maine politics for six years. Compared to that sewer in Augusta, shoveling dead fish is clean, honest work. I'm staying."
Who has more fun than people...
No comments:
Post a Comment