Tribute

In the hour before dawn, we slip out in the darkness, gliding over the deep black Atlantic.  The only sound is the chug of the engine. The boat noses east, where the sky pales to grey, and then magenta, until a crescent of rising sun casts golden rays upon the rolling water.  As the sun moves higher, the water and the sky merge into the brilliant piercing blue of impending autumn.

For more than seventy summers, we have bobbed and rolled in this old boat. In these later years, in the winter, he'd haul her out of the brine for the last time, her old ribs giving up the ghost to the cry of gulls. But, each spring, his second thoughts would wake her from her rusty slumber with a scrubbing and a coat of paint, for one more season of sun and water.  Come autumn, the paint was cracked and peeling again, and his old ribs sighed and strained along with hers, against the tides, and back to the dock.

They were tied together, he and the boat.  Built for him by his father when he was just a boy, she gave him his life on the water.  Together, he and the boat would set the traps, laying them out in long lines dotted with painted floats.  Later, the boat would move patiently forward, or bob alongside his lines, while he pulled the traps back over the stern, and emptied them onto her deck.  

The island was always his home, along with a few other fishermen and their families. Six miles off the mainland made for self-sufficiency. Desolate winters and howling gales left the islanders snug in their cottages, interdependent until the business of fishing resumed. Even after ferry service began, trips to the mainland were few and far between. On a day that was no good for fishing, he would ferry his own boat back and forth to the mainland, shopping for things the island and the boat could not provide.

I was a later addition.  I was a summer resident on the island, and I was ten years old.  I remember that he was tall for his sixteen years, with black curly hair and eyes as wild and blue as the North Atlantic.  I followed after him like a duckling, in my Keds sneakers and my blue crew hat, begging him to take me on the boat. Ecstatic the first time he let me come along, I worked the lines until my hands were raw. On the second day he brought me gloves, well worn and too big, but very welcome.  He didn’t speak much, but he kindly showed me the work: baiting the pots, dropping them over the stern, keeping the lines untangled, and, the hardest of all, pegging the claws.

Each summer after that, it was he, and me, and the boat; the three of us, pulling and hauling, measuring the lobsters for the legal limit, pegging the claws, and bringing the catch back to the raft in the harbor.  There, we'd empty them into the holding pots attached to either side of the raft, moor the boat, and punt our way back to shore.  On market day he would haul out the pots full of clicking lobsters and ferry them to the docks on the mainland for sale.

Somewhere along the way, we began to communicate without speaking, keeping a hand for the boat and a hand for the work, in the silence of understanding.  Day after day, rain or shine, we and the boat, together.

We summered through hot sun and easy winds, through thunderstorms and gales, through both our marriages, through weddings and births and funerals. The only interruption was his military service, and his tours of duty in Vietnam. He came home one summer, wounded and broken of spirit, and he reached for the boat before anything else. She welcomed him with grace and eased him back into a kinder, gentler world. 

Years gone by, he still sets his day by the tides.  He is one of only a few now, and he has grown older and leaner.  His black hair has turned to a wiry gray, his face is leathery and lined.  The gear is gone, sold off or given away.  There are no pots, no lines, no floats.  I watch him guide us over the water he knows and loves, his hand on the wheel, his senses tuned to the heave of the swells, the will of the wind, and the engine, as faithful as a lover's heart. 

This is our last ride for this summer, and soon the boat will be hauled up for winter.  She may not return to the sea next summer, but he says that when fishermen can't go to sea, they repair nets.  Whether or not he sails, the sea will live in him forever.  His 83 years have been full and simple. A life on the water and lobstering on the boat have left him steely and impervious on the outside, and as gentle as a summer breeze on the inside. His simple strength has dimmed a little, replaced by a flow of memories, and a steady stream of satisfactions and regrets. He has outlived his wife and one of his children, and has passed through grief and into the awareness of the circle of life. There is a serenity that embraces him now, an understanding of life that goes beyond words.

The life of a fisherman has changed. Gone are the days when he would bring his catch to the mainland docks, and barter a fair price. Gone are the simple boats and the unending days of sun and sea. All have been replaced by a newer, more streamlined method. Sleeker boats, faster engines, and a crew have emerged from the necessities of commerce.

The art of fishing, much older than he, has disappeared, leaving only the vestige of old boats and old knowledge.

He opens the throttle once more, and the old boat meets the challenge.  Hair blowing and raggedy sweater flapping, he turns to me with a wide smile, and his eyes are still as wild and blue as the North Atlantic.