"HAULIN' DAY"

For more than 60 years, John Thomas Gould wrote a column for the CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR from his farm in Lisbon, Falls, Maine. He also wrote more than 30 books.

Now, when my friend Kathy Kavanagh spots me practicing my putting at Webhannet Golf Club, she always tells me, “Val, that’s cheating! Practice is cheating!” I hope Kathy won’t consider it cheating when I substitute Gould’s “No Haulin’ Day” for my weekly words.

NO HAULIN’ DAY

by John Gould

The Maine lobsterman is a loner by nature and rather much by trade.  Even when he “goes two,” which means he has a stern man, or assistant, the arrangement goes “snacks” and neither is the boss. The IRS, back along, tried to tell the Maine lobsterman that going snacks, share and share alike, had to be handled taxwise as employer and employed, causing a tidal hilarity that bounced along the Maine coast all one summer.

Much of the satisfaction of being a lobster catcher, I’m sure, derives from being out there in your boat, man against the sea, having every bit of the beauty and the challenge for your very own. Few lobstermen admire to have a rider, a visitor, and while almost every summercator would like to “go to haul” to see what it’s like, invitations to do so are seldom. As a retired highlander coming to live by the tide, I was much touched when Harold asked me if I’d care to go haul “some mornin’.” Some foolish people might prefer a seat on the Supreme Court bench — I went to haul. 

But at his independent best, the Maine lobsterman stays close to all other lobstermen. While hauling, his eyes keep attention over the water to see who’s around. If a motor fails, and some boat isn’t back in harbor on schedule, community uneasiness settles over the waterfront, and you could cut it with a knife. Those who have “come in” recollect where they last sighted the boat — off Mosquito Rock, down eastward of Rack Island — and there is a kinship framed in anxiety. Then, when the overdue boat returns to harbor the tension eases, nobody admits to being concerned, and all go home to supper.

The communion is reserved for members only. That first morning when I arrived in the pitch dark of a 2 AM, Harold spoke a causal greeting and wanted to know if I was “down for the summer.” Just to remind me I was a guest; that I was different. Harold was standing shoulder to shoulder with Tom and John, and some others were there that I didn’t know or didn’t recognize in the dark.  “Mornin’,” I said, and got silence. Everybody was communicating, and I joined the witan to face the harbor and wait for light enough to see the lobster boats on mooring. Fueled and with bait aboard, the boats would not cast off and go down the bay until the big decision had been arrived at as to whether or not this was a “haulin’ day.”

To haul, or not to haul?

Was this a day to run five, six, seven miles to sea, to be there at sunup when the law permits traps to be lifted, and would the sunrise be propitious? Nobody spoke, and the silence was communication.

After a time, Harold said, “Well — I dunno.”

Some minutes later, Tom said, “Well — I dunno.”

There began to be some light, and the shapes of the fishing boats appeared. Another few minutes, and John pushed his skiff off the wharf into the water, stepped in, and quietly skulled off towards his mooring. So, too, did Tom, and the others, and so did Harold and I — Harold taking the thwart to row his overloaded skiff. A decision had been made and agreement arrived at, and the day was a haulin’ day. We were well down to Magee Island, when the sun burst from the ocean and dripped great red blobs back into the tide. John, when he pushed off his skiff, had said it would be like that, but not in words. He just communicated.

On the other hand …. a year or so later Harold stopped by and I gave him some Brussels sprouts from my garden, and I asked, “They crawlin’?”

“Eyah,” said Harold. “Some.”  

“I haven’t been able to haul this year,” I said.  Harold smiled.  “You can go anytime you want, you know that.”  “Eyah.”

He looked at the Brussels sprouts and said, “That’s enough. I’m good for just about that many once a year. They don’t taste so good second time.”

“You haulin’ tomorrow?”

“Plan to.”

“‘Bout four?”

“Prolly. Four-thirty, more likely.”

I said, “If I’m not there by four-thirty, I’m not coming.”   I was there at four-thirty.

On a haulin’ day, Friendship harbor comes to life all over. Each engine, some 300 of them, is started and idled long enough to listen to the rhythm. It must sound right. Pumps empty the bilges. Each lobsterman gets his waterproof clothes, because no matter how calm the weather, water flies when the pot warps are brought in over the snatch blocks. The cumulative roar of all the engines keeps up until the fleet disperses “down below.” Radios are turned on, and talk will continue among boats until the business of hauling warps interrupts. Friendship is a working harbor, and the fishermen have little use for summer mahogany. Even if they did, one can’t start up a motorboat and head for the sea without making a noise, and once the fleet is outside Garrison Island, the cottagers and the yachtsmen can go back to sleep.

Again I found Harold, with Tom and John and the others, standing in the dark facing the harbor — communicatively silent.  I got the usual small hello, and I got the foolishness about being down for the summer. I had my breakfast and lunch in a clam hod, weather gear under my arm, and as a touch of light developed in the east I could see that Harold’s skiff (incidentally, one I made for him) was on the wharf and hadn’t been bailed after last evening’s shower. There was no surge of engines off on the harbor. I didn’t hear the squawk of a boat radio, turning to the Coast Guard weather. Nobody said, “I dunno.” Nobody had gone off to mooring. They knew. A decision had been reached and it was unanimous. John went first, shuffling up the ramp in his rubber boots, and then one by one they all went home.

It was not to be a haulin’ day.

(PHO

AND thanks for fabulous Kennebunkport photographer Bob Dennis for the use of his great photos.