Me and the Sea

From the earliest of my memories, there has been a boat in my life and that distinctive odor of redfish bait.

My father was a machinist on the afternoon shift at the shipyard and lobster fished in the mornings before work.

Where as, we only had one vehicle, the car was for everything.

In the morning we'd load the 5gallon bait buckets from the larger salted down 55gal drum, put them in the trunk and head for the beach.

Each of us kids got to go on the adventure and have fond memories relating to it all.

Most times, some of the very odoriferous juices would spill from the bucket and soak the mat in the trunk.

A lame attempt, if any, was made to rectify the situation, pleasing my mother to no end .It wasn't just the smell, it was the flies that it attracted.

Upon arrival at the beach, we'd unload the trunk of the bait buckets and carry them to the boat, adding to the spread of these lovely juices and their lasting smell.

At the time I wasn't the largest fella in the crew, but did what I could to wrestle a bucket or two, down to the boat while the Old Man made preparations for getting underway.

Enough of that, Yuk!

The boat was known as a Grand Banks Dory, a16ft long craft, with eight foot oars. A very seaworthy vessel that could withstand what Mother Nature could throw at you.

Actually, he was the last fisherman in this area to have his Dory pulled up on the beach and secured to a hand operated winch and gang box, to store items needed while away from the barn.

Things like knitting needles and a spool of nylon to repair the heads in the traps, laths, hammers, nails and extra buoys, beer bottles with rubber stoppers and some pot wop

(rope), just in case. Just possibly a nip or two tucked into the corner.

There might have been a little kerosene to dab on the bricks to attract the lobsters. An old trick I guess. Not quite environmentally friendly. Who thought about that then?

My job was to keep the dozen or so pine post's or rollers ahead of the boat as my father, a six foot, 240lb man pulled the boat to the water , at launch time and cranked on the winch to pull it into it's berth, upon our return.

Once underway he was pulling traps by hand, the weight of the trap would cause the boat to list to the port and the gunwales would be licking the surface. He'd pick the lobsters out, measuring them and throwing the keepers into the basket. The shorts got a reprieve and if he had a female laden with eggs, he'd cut a V notch in its tail for future identification. Then he would add a redfish or two to the bait hook, straighten out his lines then carefully position the boat so he could put the trap in a slightly different location, hoping the next haul would produce a few more keepers.

I would entertain myself by line fishing for Pollock, Flounder or the unwanted, Uglier than anything, Sculpin.

Whatever wasn't wanted for the table at home, soon found its way to the bait hook in the lobster trap.

Occasionally a dogfish made its way into the lobster trap's parlor and it too, after a sharp blow to the head with an 18inch section of an oar, could be found as part of the lobsters' attraction.

Most days, fishing was a way to keep my mind off the concatenation of waves which in turn set the stage for the daily onset of seasickness..

Being in the wide open on a hot day, with the constant rocking of the boat was enough in itself. Throw in that fragrance emanating from our cherished bait barrel and viola, seasickness.

Not every day, but often a harbor seal would find us and beg for whatever I caught. Throughout the summer I'd look for him and was delighted to have his company while my father was busy at his hauling.

Remembering those gorgeous eyes and little whiskers, makes me smile. Hi buddy, anything for me today ?

The seal to me was like an ocean going puppy and thrilled me to think that we were regulars on his route.

As it turns out, most fishermen don't care for seals, mainly because they're thieves. Nothing is sacred to their voracious appetite. Nobody likes the competition.

When all of the traps had been pulled, I was elated to finally head for the beach. Along the way, we would ground out on some rocks and cover the fresh catch with kelp.

When we approached the beach, the people that resided in the trailers at the seaside campground would converge on us like locusts for the opportunity to procure some bugs, as we called them.

The Old Man looked the part with his long billed cap, wearing a tan work shirt and pants with his hip boots rolled down. It was picture right out of Norman Rockwell.

No wonder people love it here. I can't blame them.

Most are fine but with large numbers of people, there is a percentage thing.

We call them Pot hawkers! Among other things!