"50% of people want you to fail. The other 50% don't give a shit..."
"Bad blow on the way... Think I'm gonna stay home and spank mama."
German Joe Story:
"German Joe" as he is known on the docks, owns perhaps the finest deep water lobster boat on the Southern Maine coast. Over 70, short and stout, demanding and direct, he captains the Mary Lou IV and fishes "outside" in the frigid deep waters of the Gulf of Maine. MOst of Maine's 4,000 lobster fishermen
He up in Germany during WWII. Father went to the Russian front. Mother beat him severely. He would go to school and get beat by the teacher then go home and get beat by his mother. Every time he opened his mouth he was beaten, so he stopped talking. At one point he didn't utter a word for a year. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, he stuttered. And he stutters today.
When Aliied troops overran Germany, his cattle were straffed by fighter bombers. He hid in the attic of his house and peered out the louver vent at the approaching soldiers. Thinking he was a sniper, the troops machine gunned his house and he barely escaped with his life.
After the war, his parents somehow received permission to move to the US and the fmaily entered the country through Eliis Island in New York City. His mother enrolled him in school. Unfortunately for him it was a Jewish school. He woke up every day knowing he would have to fight someone. It was a brutal, violent upbringing.
Joe had happy memories of fishing in the river near his home in Germany and so he set his mind to fish. He dropped out of school and spent his time on the docks of NYC until he gained enough information and a fundamental grasp of English. And then he went to sea
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Skully and the IRS
They call him Skully, but his real name is Lawrence. I learned this while standing beside him at the counter of the Internal Revenue "Service" (what an oxymoron...) on Monday as he faced the music for not filing taxes since 1998.
Skully is a native son of the state of Maine, a Portland boy who fell through the cracks at an early age. 56 years old, he announces his birth date with the same line... every time.
"7 /7/54...3 days after the 4th of July. Mahahaha!!"
To say that Skully is a little odd would be like saying that the waters of Casco Bay were a little chilly. Or that spring mud season in the cedar swamps of the Great North Woods was a little buggy. Even among the characters that make their living and live their lives on the waterfront, he is unique. He has his own language which few understand, for instance he calls maggots "cousins", wharf rats "little buddies", often acts out what he is attempting to communicate with sounds and actions. "
For the past 30 years he has worked this harsh environment, fishing, clamming, scalloping, working in the cutting houses filleting haddock, scraping the roe from the shells of sea urchins. Brutally hard and monotonous work. But for a man who cannot read or write, who is proud that he can tell the time from his prized wrist watch, who has lived his life trying unsuccessfully to stay out of jail and out of societies sight and mind, there are few other alternatives.
He could, of course, just give up as many in the growing welfare state have done, accepting the food stamps and the housing subsidies, the transportation stipends and the fuel oil assistance. But he is very proud and, if nothing else, intensely stubborn. It is how he has survived.
"Skully tales" filter through the waterfront. One disturbing story regards his childhood. As the story goes, his father beat him severely as a child and one day threw him out of the house. It had no running water, no toilet, no shower, but it had a porch. And the boy lived under the porch for several weeks... like a dog. He was asked what he ate during the ordeal and he explained that he was able to reach him fingers up through the cracks in the floor of the porch and eat the dogs food... unspeakable abuse.
Another story took place years later. Years of heavy drinking, drugging, 3 illegitimate children later... He had been dumpster picking, collecting cans and bottles is his second income, and felt the need for a bath, but being homeless, he was without the means. He improvised by buying a bottle of bubble bath from Joe's Smoke Shop and heading down State Street to Deering Oaks, a large public park with a pond which has a fountain in the middle. Before he waded into the pond, he hid his money, all $300, in a plastic bag wrapped in tin foil high in the crotch of a maple tree. When he got to the fountain, he poured the entire content of the bubble bath into the intake and made a huge amount of soap suds, took off his clothes and swam screaming and naked around the middle of the pond disappearing into the mountain of billowing suds.
The police responded and demanded he return to shore to which Skully replied "Come and get me!". And two police officers did paddle a canoe out to the fountain. And Skully did tip it over, retreating into the subs and laughing hysterically. He tipped over the second canoe as well, but by this time the pond was surrounded by policemen and they eventually got their man. The judge might have given him a lighter sentence if he hadn't flipped him off.The judge said "You can't do that in this court room!" Skully growled "I just did, didn't I!" Skully's comment was "I got a clean bed, 3 meals a day and even a shower in County. How bout that!... Good deal!" When he got out he went back to the park, climbed his tree and felt like the richest man in town, buying drinks for everyone at Bubba's Sulky Lounge.
In July, they found him. The letter from the IRS informed him that he owed $3500 in unpaid taxes and penalties for tax years 1999, 2000 and 2001 and placed a lien on his paycheck, this on top of the $20,000 attachment for back child support. For weeks he ignored the letter until the bait company pushed him take action... or his weekly paycheck would disappear.
He approached me as the sun was just breaking the horizon over Peaks Island. "Doin anything after work?" he mumbled. ""What do you need, Skully?" I asked. "Need a ride to the IRS..." he growled. I nodded.
At 1:00 he climbed into the passenger seat of my truck dressed in his best holy jeans, a wife beater tee shirt, a backwards baseball cap and wearing a black elastic back brace. He wears the back brace because his back is shot from 30 years of hard labor and because he thinks it looks cool. He keeps 2 packs of Camels tucked in the waistband at all times. We both smelled like a bait barrel.
He was nervous, distant as we drove across the draw bridge to the IRS office. As we pulled into the parking lot he said, "They're probly gonna put me in jail. You keep this safe for me." He pulled a baggie of marijuana and a pipe from his waistband and shoved it in my glove compartment.
We took the stainless steel elevator to the second floor and he walked into the waiting area right passed the sign that said to push the green button and take a number. I followed the instructions and handed him his number. He wouldn't sit, shifted from foot to foot, looking disinterested, distant. Skully had his game face on.
The computer generated voice announced "Number 116 to window 3". "That's you Skull", I coached. The young woman behind the counter attempted to appear professional and businesslike though visible startled when Skully walked briskly to the window and scaled his ID at her like you would flip cards into a hat. He put one hand on the counter, turned sideway and stared into the distance. He learned long ago that the best defence is a good offense. The IRS agents nose began to crinkle up and several of the customers in line next to us covered their noses. I said, "Sorry for the smell. Just came from work." The woman in the next line stated the obvious. "Smells like fish". I smiled at her. "Yep, that's what we do". She smiled back. But the IRS agent didn't smile.
"What's the nature of your visit today, sir? she queried warily. Skully whipped the document envelope from his back pocket, threw it across the counter and resumed his nonchalant pose, leaning on the counter, gazing at a bug on the wall across the room. She looked at me cautiously. "Am I authorized to discuss this information with this gentleman", she asked motioning to me. Skully nodded without making eye contact.
She reviewed the documents, accessed her computer and spent 10 minutes reviewing screen after screen, occasionally rubbing the offensive stench from her nose. Finally, she spoke. "You must file taxes for years 2006, 2007 and 2007 before any further action can be taken. From our information years 2002 through 2005 need not be filed. Though you were due refunds in those years, because you did not file, your refunds are forfeit. The statute of limitations is 3 years for refunds." "What is the statue of limitations for taxes due?", I asked. "There is none", she responded curtly. I smiled. No surprise. "And then what?" I asked. "Any refund will be applied to the outstanding balance. Penalties will continue to accumulate until payment is made in full," she responded.
I said "OK, let's talk about the 06, 07, 08 filing. Can he claim the children to whom he is currently paying child support?" "Did the children reside with you during those tax years." she asked. Skully said, "What?" "Did your kids live with you Skull?" I asked. "Haven't see them in 18 years." he said. No deductions there.
She continued down her checklist of questions. "Did you pay interest on your home mortgage", she asked. "He's homeless", I said.
"Did you have any interest or dividends from bank accounts or investments", she continued. "He's never had a bank account", I answered. "What about credit cards?, she asked. "Never had one of those either", Skully said with pride.
"Did you pay excise tax on your vehicle"? she asked. "He has a bicycle", I answered. "Yup, a nice one." Skully commented. "Did you have a second income?" she asked. "He collects bottles and cans." I said. "Does that count." She was beginning to get flustered. "No, I don't think so. I'll have to check."
She continued down her list. "Did you employ any household employees?" immediately sensing the stupidity of the question. "He's homeless", I said sharply. "He lives in a storage room over a bait shop on the waterfront." Skully said, "I've got no place else to go."
Her final question was, "Did you suffer any physical or financial disasters during these tax years that impacted upon your estate." I looked at her, spread my hands, looked her in the eyes. "What could be more disastrous than this?" I implored. She shook her head. She had the picture.
A supervisor walked over to review the situation. His Name badge said Harold Davis. "Are you a South Portland Davis?" I asked. "No", he huffed and walked away. Skully looked at me. "Just wondered if he was a cousin", I said. He grinned devilishly and said "They're ALL cousins!" (read maggots) and laughed loudly.
She provided us with reams of papers, copies of W2s, financial statement forms, tax booklets. Skully was impressed with the size of the pile, 2 inches in height. He looked at me and said, "Lotta words..." I winked and reassured him. "Don't worry Skully. we'll work these up slick as a load of poggies." He grinned a toothless grin.
He strode out of the IRS with long cocky strides, visibly relieved and breathing deeply. "He looked at his prized gold watch, "It's Beer:30," he crowed "Take me to Bubba's. I'll buy you a cold one!" I grinned. Budweiser cures many woes. We got to the truck and he immediately reached into the glove box, flicked his lighter and took a long hit on the pipe... right in the IRS parking lot. "Skully, not now! Let's get out of here!" I implored.
By Friday the tax forms were files, the financial statement was submitted and the installment agreement was agreed upon... $6 a week in perpetuity. He will no doubt default on that when the fishing season ends and he becomes unemployed again, but for now he is in compliance. Mailing in monthly tax payments just isn't going to happen.
When I dropped him off at Bubba's on Friday, I declined the beer. He reached across the seat and shook my hand, not with a typical handshake. It was the handshake that bikers and dockworkers use. He placed his 3 fingered hand over our grasped hands and spoke softly, gruffly. "Thank you ,brutha."
No... Thank you brother, for opening my eyes and for this story.
He approached me as the sun was just breaking the horizon over Peaks Island. "Doin anything after work?" he mumbled. ""What do you need, Skully?" I asked. "Need a ride to the IRS..." he growled. I nodded.
At 1:00 he climbed into the passenger seat of my truck dressed in his best holy jeans, a wife beater tee shirt, a backwards baseball cap and wearing a black elastic back brace. He wears the back brace because his back is shot from 30 years of hard labor and because he thinks it looks cool. He keeps 2 packs of Camels tucked in the waistband at all times. We both smelled like a bait barrel.
He was nervous, distant as we drove across the draw bridge to the IRS office. As we pulled into the parking lot he said, "They're probly gonna put me in jail. You keep this safe for me." He pulled a baggie of marijuana and a pipe from his waistband and shoved it in my glove compartment.
We took the stainless steel elevator to the second floor and he walked into the waiting area right passed the sign that said to push the green button and take a number. I followed the instructions and handed him his number. He wouldn't sit, shifted from foot to foot, looking disinterested, distant. Skully had his game face on.
The computer generated voice announced "Number 116 to window 3". "That's you Skull", I coached. The young woman behind the counter attempted to appear professional and businesslike though visible startled when Skully walked briskly to the window and scaled his ID at her like you would flip cards into a hat. He put one hand on the counter, turned sideway and stared into the distance. He learned long ago that the best defence is a good offense. The IRS agents nose began to crinkle up and several of the customers in line next to us covered their noses. I said, "Sorry for the smell. Just came from work." The woman in the next line stated the obvious. "Smells like fish". I smiled at her. "Yep, that's what we do". She smiled back. But the IRS agent didn't smile.
"What's the nature of your visit today, sir? she queried warily. Skully whipped the document envelope from his back pocket, threw it across the counter and resumed his nonchalant pose, leaning on the counter, gazing at a bug on the wall across the room. She looked at me cautiously. "Am I authorized to discuss this information with this gentleman", she asked motioning to me. Skully nodded without making eye contact.
She reviewed the documents, accessed her computer and spent 10 minutes reviewing screen after screen, occasionally rubbing the offensive stench from her nose. Finally, she spoke. "You must file taxes for years 2006, 2007 and 2007 before any further action can be taken. From our information years 2002 through 2005 need not be filed. Though you were due refunds in those years, because you did not file, your refunds are forfeit. The statute of limitations is 3 years for refunds." "What is the statue of limitations for taxes due?", I asked. "There is none", she responded curtly. I smiled. No surprise. "And then what?" I asked. "Any refund will be applied to the outstanding balance. Penalties will continue to accumulate until payment is made in full," she responded.
I said "OK, let's talk about the 06, 07, 08 filing. Can he claim the children to whom he is currently paying child support?" "Did the children reside with you during those tax years." she asked. Skully said, "What?" "Did your kids live with you Skull?" I asked. "Haven't see them in 18 years." he said. No deductions there.
She continued down her checklist of questions. "Did you pay interest on your home mortgage", she asked. "He's homeless", I said.
"Did you have any interest or dividends from bank accounts or investments", she continued. "He's never had a bank account", I answered. "What about credit cards?, she asked. "Never had one of those either", Skully said with pride.
"Did you pay excise tax on your vehicle"? she asked. "He has a bicycle", I answered. "Yup, a nice one." Skully commented. "Did you have a second income?" she asked. "He collects bottles and cans." I said. "Does that count." She was beginning to get flustered. "No, I don't think so. I'll have to check."
She continued down her list. "Did you employ any household employees?" immediately sensing the stupidity of the question. "He's homeless", I said sharply. "He lives in a storage room over a bait shop on the waterfront." Skully said, "I've got no place else to go."
Her final question was, "Did you suffer any physical or financial disasters during these tax years that impacted upon your estate." I looked at her, spread my hands, looked her in the eyes. "What could be more disastrous than this?" I implored. She shook her head. She had the picture.
A supervisor walked over to review the situation. His Name badge said Harold Davis. "Are you a South Portland Davis?" I asked. "No", he huffed and walked away. Skully looked at me. "Just wondered if he was a cousin", I said. He grinned devilishly and said "They're ALL cousins!" (read maggots) and laughed loudly.
She provided us with reams of papers, copies of W2s, financial statement forms, tax booklets. Skully was impressed with the size of the pile, 2 inches in height. He looked at me and said, "Lotta words..." I winked and reassured him. "Don't worry Skully. we'll work these up slick as a load of poggies." He grinned a toothless grin.
He strode out of the IRS with long cocky strides, visibly relieved and breathing deeply. "He looked at his prized gold watch, "It's Beer:30," he crowed "Take me to Bubba's. I'll buy you a cold one!" I grinned. Budweiser cures many woes. We got to the truck and he immediately reached into the glove box, flicked his lighter and took a long hit on the pipe... right in the IRS parking lot. "Skully, not now! Let's get out of here!" I implored.
By Friday the tax forms were files, the financial statement was submitted and the installment agreement was agreed upon... $6 a week in perpetuity. He will no doubt default on that when the fishing season ends and he becomes unemployed again, but for now he is in compliance. Mailing in monthly tax payments just isn't going to happen.
When I dropped him off at Bubba's on Friday, I declined the beer. He reached across the seat and shook my hand, not with a typical handshake. It was the handshake that bikers and dockworkers use. He placed his 3 fingered hand over our grasped hands and spoke softly, gruffly. "Thank you ,brutha."
No... Thank you brother, for opening my eyes and for this story.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
So, how's the family...
Conversation with Craig.
I've worked down here on the waterfront for 30 years now. I don't know what normal is any more. This is the only place I feel comfortable... like I fit in my own skin. So when I get together with regular people I find myself thinking "What would normal people say in a situation like this?" I'll say "So, how's the family..." And then they go on and I try to look interested. Don't tell anyone I said that...
I've worked down here on the waterfront for 30 years now. I don't know what normal is any more. This is the only place I feel comfortable... like I fit in my own skin. So when I get together with regular people I find myself thinking "What would normal people say in a situation like this?" I'll say "So, how's the family..." And then they go on and I try to look interested. Don't tell anyone I said that...
Waterfront Justice
Craig told me a story today about waterfront justice. He had noticed some lobsters missing from his tank room. Stealing is a serious charge down here, but is happens... not infrequently. And, like everything else, they have their own way of dealing with it. It is, after all, the waterfront and they have their own code of conduct and retribution.
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..." 
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... 
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..."
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...
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...
Bill
Bill lives at Dave's house, dates his mulato daughter... went to alternative school in Windham with Mikey... worked as a form carpenter, foundations, concrete. Drank too much, got hurt and started taking pain killers, moved onto Oxy, moved onto heroine, convicted of aggrivated assault on a drug dealer, spent 2 years at Warren. When he got out, found his girlfriend had left him, his friend had sold his vehicles, his tools had been stolen. Wants to get his head up, buy back some tools, get back to construction. Worked as a mover for awhile. Opened up to me on the second day.
"Only people in Windham are Skinners and Rats... (pedophiles and snitches). Skinners do hard time. The other inmates abuse them. Brian was labeled a skinner because he stayed in his cell and read. "The inmates and the guards hated me and I hated them. Hard time."
The brakes were fixed on the forktruck. Watching Skully do donuts with a full exacta of fish on the forks, skidding on the slimy floor, screaming like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, Ralph said, "Well Skully's got brakes. All he needs now are brains."
Story about coaching Ralph to ask for a raise and how to deal with the rejection and the ultimate success when he got it.
Story about Skully's tote.
sent down to spy ion the competition. if they were receiving a pogie truck that was promised to us.
sent to run an errand across town. felt like I had been promoted until I was told that I was the only one with a license...
My position as a coffe bitch. Skully calls from his forktruck across the shop to ask me to bring him his coffe which is closer to him than to me. I threw up my hands in disbelief as the crew laughed, then I got him his coffee. Later when the crew was all around the desk I yelled across the floor to him and told him to bring me my soda... which was arms lenght from me on the desk... they all laughed.
Skully was showing off his numerous scars and stitch marks. " 54 here from a bar bottle at Ricky's... 26 here from a pool que at Bubba's... 2 in my eye lid from a fist... Not to be left out I showed him my surgical scar on my neck from parotid surgery... He said, Where'd you get that..." I lied "Knife fight... New Orleans". My stock went way up...
"Only people in Windham are Skinners and Rats... (pedophiles and snitches). Skinners do hard time. The other inmates abuse them. Brian was labeled a skinner because he stayed in his cell and read. "The inmates and the guards hated me and I hated them. Hard time."
The brakes were fixed on the forktruck. Watching Skully do donuts with a full exacta of fish on the forks, skidding on the slimy floor, screaming like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, Ralph said, "Well Skully's got brakes. All he needs now are brains."
Story about coaching Ralph to ask for a raise and how to deal with the rejection and the ultimate success when he got it.
Story about Skully's tote.
sent down to spy ion the competition. if they were receiving a pogie truck that was promised to us.
sent to run an errand across town. felt like I had been promoted until I was told that I was the only one with a license...
My position as a coffe bitch. Skully calls from his forktruck across the shop to ask me to bring him his coffe which is closer to him than to me. I threw up my hands in disbelief as the crew laughed, then I got him his coffee. Later when the crew was all around the desk I yelled across the floor to him and told him to bring me my soda... which was arms lenght from me on the desk... they all laughed.
Skully was showing off his numerous scars and stitch marks. " 54 here from a bar bottle at Ricky's... 26 here from a pool que at Bubba's... 2 in my eye lid from a fist... Not to be left out I showed him my surgical scar on my neck from parotid surgery... He said, Where'd you get that..." I lied "Knife fight... New Orleans". My stock went way up...
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