Maine Pirates (A Rough Start)

Chapter One

"You boys know there are pirates in these here waters?"

My brother Al and I were on the Crow's Neck breakwater at 4:00 in the morning, loading lobster pots and buoys into a skiff to bring out to the "Carla Mae," his boat. It was the first run we would make together, lobster fishing. When we decided to try our hand together at this career, we were warned. To many of the local fishermen, we would be outsiders and could face trouble.

I knew there used to be pirates in New England Waters. My Uncle John, before he was lost when his oyster hauler exploded off Grand Manan Island, used to lull me to sleep with stories of Captain Kidd, Thomas Tew, and Daniel Plowman and their exploits in the north Atlantic.

Dad told me that the PETA or NORAD, or some other crazy letter made outfit, was smuggling Central American refugees onto Grand and Petit Manan Islands, and paying owners of small boats to help their cause. He said we better not get caught taking anyone's money for a free ride into Canadian waters.

Yes, we knew a little something of piracy, but no one was going to take the Carla Mae or our money and catch. Al was ready to make a go at fishing for real this time, after wasting away his first 33 years. He had been a good lobster man when I left home, but had hung up his buoys and pots. He thought a better life waited if he joined the military. A few of his boyhood friends spun stories of money, fame, and security awaiting him if he put on a uniform.

After a slow aborted chase of that dream in the United States Navy, and a brief stint as a non-traditional college student he was ready to get back to the helm of a leaky lobster tub with me as disgruntled first mate.

We stood together on the public boat landing, gazing at the distant stars in the night sky. Al was outfitted in a suit of squeaky clean L.L. Bean "Genuine Maine Fishing Gear." I was dressed in his moth balled and left over, duct-taped fishing chest waders, a dirty, rotted-bait smelling, off-yellow sou'wester hat, and my old hand knitted fishing sweater.

A shaky old voice asked, "you boys know there are pirates in these here waters?"

"I worry about pirates as much as I worry about ghosts and ha'nts." Al stood as tall and tough as a 5'8" 240 pound, ex-Naval Aviation Apprentice could.

"Still, you fella's could make some money fishin' if you played your cards right," said the greasy and odorous, broken-toothed man. He faced us through slitted eyes in a weather-beaten face. "Hauling lobster ain't paying so well these days and I guess you fella's still want to make some money."

Al hefted a gaff in one hand and Sand Shark loaded 12-gauge shotgun in the other hand and eyeballed the interloper, "I don't guess we are interested."

"Happy fishing boys." The icy chuckle filled the pre-dawn darkness, and my very bones. I was chilled quicker by the sound than by the water slowly creeping through the hole in my left boot.

Al and I finished filling the skiff with the remaining pots, buoys, rope, shark gun, Coleman coolers, and a thermos of whiskey laced black coffee. In the slowly gathering pink tinged light, I asked, "Al, what the hell did he mean by pirates? This is 1998, not 1798."

"Pirates scare me about as much as that asshole did!" With that, he yanked the pull cord on the out board's starting bezel. "Wrap up that god damned rope so we don't trip over it later."

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Chapter Two

It was the end of the piracy topic, at least for awhile, and the beginning of my education as a lobster man. An hour later we had the last of our personal gear, blue and yellow painted buoys, lobster pots, and ropes ready. A quick securing of the skiff to the running line, and we were headed out toward an early June horizon, just beginning to be washed with pinks and oranges. The Carla Mae's engine blew blue diesel smoke toward the sea gulls who soared in our wake waiting to see if we were going to provide their breakfast.

Four hours of rope, bait, pots, and the gentle swell and roll of the North Atlantic later we had 250 lobster traps awaiting our first paycheck. I shivered in the breeze, wondering why June on the ocean was so much colder than June sitting in the sun. The cold, raw, and exhausted feeling in my entire body, and sore work battered hands could not keep a smile from my face. Al eased the wheel of the Carla Mae to the starboard and headed it toward the channel marker that indicated the lower water heading into Crow's Point. Home and whatever mom had made for lunch awaited. It would only be 16 hours before we were reloading the old pickup with bait bags and getting ready for tomorrow's tide.

We dropped Carla Mae's drag anchor and threw her 50 yard mooring line into the skiff, along with our lunch pails, thermos bottles, shotgun, and empty bait buckets. In the mid morning sun, we motored toward the wharf.

"You done alright kid," Al said. "Be ready to climb the ladder and tie us off as soon as we get alongside." I grabbed the sea weed slick ladder and climbed with the rope. "Third piling on the left, double knot it around the D-ring, then get back down here and help me with this stuff." We secured the skiff and the Carla Mae to two large steel D-rings and headed up the cement walkway toward his rusted 1971 Chevy pickup. I pocketed my sou'wester, rolled down the top of my chest waders and pulled off my foul smelling sweater.

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Chapter Three

"Oh Shit! How the hell did I get two flat tires?" The truck was listed over like a schooner ship in a nor'easter. "Must have ran over something on the way down here. Jump up in the box and get me the spare and jack."

Twenty minutes of swearing, wrestling with an ancient rusty bumper jack, a bald spare tire, and corroded lug nuts fixed one flat.

"What are we going to do about the back tire, I am getting hungry."

"Reach behind the seat and grab the can of fix-a-flat," came Al's impatient reply. "Quit bitching about your stomach."

I flipped the seat forward and sorted through assorted detris "What a bunch of crap!" Sandwich wrappers, empty beer cans, two well thumbed adult magazines, a torn Louis L'Amour novel, a can of spam, jumper cables..."Ah a can." Not fix-a-flat, but WD-40..."Here it is, I said. It was in a Walmart bag with a flannel shirt and a squished Hershey bar.

Al wiped the melted chocolate on his pants, then shook the can a minute. "This should do the trick."

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Chapter Four

We were headed up the twisted gravel track toward the main road in 20 minutes.
Al said, "let's stop by Delia's on the way home and have some coffee."

The parking lot was pretty empty, as we drove across the muddy unpaved surface. Uncle George Beal looked up from his day old Bangor Daily News when the horse bells on the front door rang, announcing our arrival. "How was the fishing today boys," he asked.

"Cold as a witch's tit, but we got two hundred and fifty out at two hundred fathoms in the channel," Al said.

Uncle George asked me, "what do you think of it Junior? Real man's work ain't it?"

I kneaded my sore hands and rubbed my aching left shoulder, trying to show a tough exterior. "It ain't bad. I thought this was 'man's work!' If it wasn't for the old bastard that tried to scare us before we set out, it would have been a walk in the park."

Uncle George just nodded. "Have a seat. You want a beer?"

"Not now, just coffee now, heading home for lunch in a bit," Al said.

The door clanged open again. A voice bellowed, "there's the mighty fishermen!"

Great the old sea salt himself was back. I let out a shuddering sigh. "You bothering these boys Jack," asked Uncle George.

"Nah George, I was just telling them this morning there is more than one way to make money fishing."

"My nephews are about the two most honest fellows that live in the narrows," declared Uncle George.

"Well I didn't know these saints was your kin folk." He turned on a worn heel and headed back out the door.

"Who the heck is that Unc," I asked.

"Old Jack 'Mackerel' Peterson. He's been a goddam no good thief as long as I have known him. Never seems to be working but always prowling the docks when his nephews are loading and unloading their boats. None of them ever seem to have lobsters or oysters to sell, but always seem to have plenty of money and new pickups and all. When did you meet him," he asked.

"This morning before we set out pots he was trying to tell us something about pirates and how we could make good money fishing, but I told him to fuck off," said Al.

"Is that so? Was he around when you got back from setting them," Uncle George asked.

"Nah, no one was around. As soon as we changed our flat tires, we headed down here for coffee," Al said, as he grabbed the pot, turned two cups up and poured us both a mug of the steaming brew.

"Flat tires," Uncle asked.

"Yeah, two of the sons-of-bitches. We must of ran over nails or something on the way out to Crow's Neck," Al blustered.

"That sounds like one of Mackerel's tricks. Watch out for him," Uncle directed.

"I ain't scared of that old goat," Al said.

"Just the same, I don't want anything to happen to you boys. We already lost your mom's brother John and my dad out there. The ocean is hard enough on us without help. If he gives you any more shit, I'll deal with him," Uncle exclaimed.

We finished our coffee and talked a bit about fishing, fishermen and the size of the lobster this year. Uncle George told us how not to get ripped off by the buyers at the Jonesport Shellfish Exchange, the nearest place to sell catches.

"Well, we better get on up to ma's before Lou starves to death," Al said.

"Yeah, he is wasting right away to nothing," Uncle joked. "See you boys later."

"Later on Unc." We stopped by the cash register and paid Ms. Farris the $1.25 for coffee, and headed for home.

"I hope we don't see that creepy old bastard again," I told Al.

"Uncle George will take care of him if he gives us any crap," said Al. "Now lets get home so we can eat and bait up bags for the next tide."

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Chapter Five

Great. Baiting bags in the hot sun was already the highlight of my fishing career. I had to do it all over again after lunch. I would rather have had a shower and nap after I ate.

"Hey, I gotta run up to the dock," Al yelled over my radio. I had been listening to Alice in Chains loudly. I was elbow deep in rotted fish, transferring handfuls from five gallon buckets to bait bags. Reach into the bucket, grab a handful of mostly solid fish and innards, put them in the yellow plastic bait bag. When you have about two pounds of bait per bag, tie it closed with the pre-strung green twine. Repeat until you vomit, or all the bags are filled.

"What's going on," I asked.

"Unc called and said the skiff rope was cut and it had drifted over by the rocks on the other side of the neck," Al said.

"Need me to go with you," I asked.

"No, we are going to take his boat and go get it. Keep filling those bags," Al stated firmly.

Only 20-something to go.

Al came back in two hours soaking wet and angry. "Someone cut the rope on the skiff and stole the goddam outboard off it. I ain't even paid the first payment on it yet! Anyways, I have to run up to Tri-Town to see if I can get the money back from the warranty. Do you know where I put it?"

"Didn't you just mail your part in yesterday?"

"Shit, I never mailed it in! I wonder if they will still give me money for it?" Al jumped back in his truck and roared back down the street.

Mom came out of the house and across the yard, shielding her eyes from the sun, looking at the fast departing dust cloud that was Al's truck. "Turn that music down! Did he get the boat tied back up?"

"Yeah, but he said someone had cut the rope and stole the motor," I said.

"Lord, what is this world coming to? Does he know who did it," She asked.

"No, but that guy John or Joe Mackerel or whatever his name is was giving us shit...errr sorry mom, crap this morning and Uncle George said to look out for him, he's trouble."

"You know one of his sons used to hang around with your father before the bastard ran off with Delia's daughter," she asked.

Oh great, I thought, another story about how evil my dad was. I hated thinking the memories I had of him were all wrong and he was the terrible man that mom made him out to be.

"Anyway, I am going to run up to Tri-Town and see what Al found out about his warranty. I will be back in a few minutes."

"You be careful," my mother instructed.

"Love you mom."

I wiped my fish offal covered hands on the seat of my stained Levis and straddled my motorbike. The 1984 Honda started after four or five kicks, and a few complaints on my part. I wiped my cheap plastic sunglasses on my semi-clean shirt tail and wheeled slowly out of the driveway and down the dirt road. Mom hated it when I spun up dirt or mud, or rode wheelies, so I decided to take it easy for a change.

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Chapter Six

Tri-Town Marine is about two miles up Route One past Delia's, which made it about four and a half miles from home, with a few trails I could ride on. I was in a bit of a hurry though, so I rode down the public roads with with my loud, smoky off-road bike.

I pulled into the parking lot and leaned my bike against Al's truck, knowing he would complain, and I would have to tell him why it didn't have a kick stand. Then he would ask me why I didn't get my license, and I would remind him of the time I crashed his Corvair coming home from church. We had the same conversation every day for the last three years it seemed to me.

Al was in the service department arguing with the store manager, trying to explain why he should get a replacement motor, because, "the motor's got a goddam warranty on it, like I already told you twice. I bought it two weeks ago right here."

"Calm down, calm down. Did you file a police report," asked the manager.

"I need a motor for my skiff by four this afternoon, so I can check my lobster pots," Al said.

"Well, you need to start with a police report," directed the manager.

"I need to start by not getting a run around from everyone," yelled Al.

The manager reached for the desk telephone, handed the receiver to Al, and punched in the number to the county Sheriff's office up in Machias, about twenty miles away.

Al mumbled and grumbled about how sons-of-bitches up there couldn't help him and how his time was being wasted. I wandered over to a display of clearance Arctic Cat snowmobiles and wondered how they were selling this time of year.

Al slammed down the phone and said, "Jimmy Aller, one of the deputies, is over in Addison, he is going to meet me up at the dock. Said he needs to get statements or some damned thing. I suppose you came down here on your bike."

I nodded. "Of course."

"Well, get it home. I'll pick you up."

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Chapter Seven

"This rope ain't been cut," the sheriff's deputy declared.

"No shit," Al said. "We had to put another rope on it to tow it back over here to the dock and tie it up."

"Don't get wise with me. Where is that rope that was supposed to be cut," the deputy asked.

"I threw it over in that pile of busted traps and broken buoys," Al exclaimed.

The deputy examined the frayed end of the rope and made a note in a little blue covered pocket notebook. He balled up the rope and put it in the back seat of his muddy police Bronco. "Let's look at the outboard motor mount while we are here."

"What the hell good is that going to do," Al demanded.

"Well, I guess we could just get your boat impounded as evidence and brought down to the state yard in Bangor. The Staties can finish the investigation whenever they get around to it."

Faced with that ultimatum, my older brother was suddenly very cooperative.

"You know, Mackerel warned me you boys were around making trouble for him," the deputy stated.

"Us, making trouble for that old son-of-a... Jimmy, you know we ain't trouble makers. Lou and I are just trying to make some money fishing. He has been giving us crap all day."

"That doesn't sound like my kind great uncle at all."

Great, who would have thought the Aller's and Mackerel were related. I guess it would have made sense though, since everyone around here is related either by blood or marriage.

"So you ain't going to do anything," my brother asked.

"If I find cause, I might, but right now all I see is a replaced rope and an undamaged outboard motor mount," the deputy said.

"I'll give that old son-of-a-bitch a replaced rope," Al steamed.

Deputy Aller stood up strait and hitched his gun belt into place over his ample stomach. "Boy, you better keep in mind that I am a Sheriff's deputy, and that sounds like a threat."

I looked down at my boots and tried to pretend that I was in some far off land on a smooth beach, instead of standing beside a pile of fish guts someone had dumped alongside a broken down wooden dock.

Ten minutes later after a 'thorough' investigation and no small amount of grumbling by Al, the deputy returned to his county SUV and headed up the bumpy road away from the dock.

"Well shit, it's almost time for the afternoon tide. Let's head back to the house and get the shit we need," Al said.

"How are we going to get out to the Carla Mae," I asked.

"When was the last time you rowed a skiff?"

"Never," I said, dreading another hands on lesson in manual labor.

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Chapter Eight

After a fast load of the truck, we packed dinner and drinks into battered coolers and thermoses. Soon we rowed the laden skiff out to the Carla Mae for our second tide of the day. Three hours later, seventeen lobster and an illegal crab skittered and scratched in the wooden holding crate we transfered to the skiff for the ride back to the dock.

"With these, I should be able to get a bucket of bait and fuel for the Carla Mae, maybe fill the truck up with gas. We will be paddling this son of a bitch forever if the catch doesn't pick up. Looks like I can't pay you though," Al said.

"Shit. That old son of a bitch!" Now the theft was really making me angry. Lobstering was hard work to be doing for free. Along with sore muscles and smelling like rotten fish, I had assorted aches and pains, and an open blister on my left palm from rowing the skiff.

Al said, "I guess I will row back to tie up, since you look pretty damned worn out."

Despite all the events of the day, and a certainty of not getting paid, I was happy, though tired. I shivered from the cold North Atlantic spray that coated my face and hair.

We docked our skiff and downloaded the bait buckets and lobster crates with no further incidents. As we climbed into Al's old Chevy, I couldn't help but smile at the thought of a nice warm bed and old patchwork quilt awaiting me at home.

"All-and-all, I had a pretty good day," I exclaimed to Al.

Al just grunted and shrugged, shifting the old gray truck into second gear as we slowly made our way up the bumpy washed out road.

"Wake up, we are home," said Al with a hearty teeth rattling shake of my shoulder.

"Huh....uh huh...oh..." I mumbled.

"Let's go, we have to unload this stuff and pack the truck for tomorrow morning!"

After 30 more minutes of toil, I tumbled into my bed with Al's stern warning echoing in my ears. "You better be ready to roll at 4:45 am.

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Chapter Nine

"BBBBBRrrrrrrrriiiinnngggggggg," shrieked the battered Weston alarm clock.

"Get up Lou, time to roll out," yelled Al.

As always, the sleep seemed too short, and the previous day too long, but after a hot bowl of oatmeal and a steaming mug of instant coffee, I was fortified and ready to go.

"I put the rest of the shit in the truck, so anytime you are done screwing around, we need to get moving. Grab your thermos and lunch pail and lets go," Al demanded.

I urinated on the ground next to the truck and shushed our hound dogs then climbed in, ready to start another day.

"About damned time!" Al seemed a little grumpy this morning, but I put his bad humor out of my mind as I contemplated hauling and baiting lobster pots for the next few hours.

The pre-dawn was calm and warm with a slight breeze as we again stood on the dock. All was quiet as we loaded gear into the skiff, and took turns paddling out to the Carla Mae. The day seemed alive with promise, as a brilliant red and orange
color filled the eastern sky. "Red skies in the morning, sailors warning," I repeated the old saying, appreciating my own wit.

"Good thing we ain't sailors," Al reminded me. "Now get the bait bags ready. That's our string of buoys right ahead." He started cranking the first lobster pot up off the ocean floor as I carried two five gallon pails of filled bait bags toward the rail.

The taught rope dripped water. I waited with a hook to pull the aluminum trap onto the deck. "How many do you think we will get today.?"

"Hopefully enough to start making this pay," Al said.

"Looks empty," I offered.

"No shit Sherlock...Hey, what the fuck? The chamber is torn out," he yelled, pointing to the jagged bits of netting used to entrap the lobster. He unhooked the broken trap from its lines and threw it onto the deck.

"Fuck. This one has a beer bottle in it."

"Shit. A stove in top." So it went for our entire haul of the morning tide. 27 damaged lobster pots, 30 missing, and the rest empty.

On the way back to the dock, our conversation was limited. "Port. Starboard." More "Uh huh," and "Nah," than any real conversation. After such a terrible start to the day, we couldn't help but feel defeated, to say the least.

It was a long silent row, interspersed with slapping of wooden oars against a flat ocean, and the creak of oarlocks against worn iron sockets. "Jesus, can't you row any faster?" I hung my head and pushed my tired arms harder. Trying to will the old oak deeper into the unforgiving salted brine.

After a seemingly endless row, we reached the slick ladder that I was already accustomed to climbing. Neither Al nor I were in a hurry to scramble upward to put the period on the sentence that was this failed morning's lobster harvest. Al squinted upward into the morning glare and said, "remember, double knot it around the D-ring, then get your ass back down here and help me." I groaned.

Just then Uncle George Beal looked down upon us with wizened eyes and said, "I can see you boys ain't got much of a catch again."

"No shit...errr...No sir..." I called back, while Al grumbled and grunted something about a certain old man's parentage and taking a long walk off the short pier. I was busy tying the skiff's mooring line to. The presence of the family patriarch and the three or four extra sets of helping hands he brought with him made quick work of hoisting and drag gear, broken pots, and cut lines onto the dock. My damaged spirits, were quickly lightened, though Al still seemed to harbor deep seated grudges.

"You boys got any coffee left," Uncle George asked. My thermos was empty, but Al had about a quart left in his 2 quart steal LL Bean tankard. "Pour some of this in there and make 'Irish Breakfast.'" The luke warm bitter liquid made me grimace, then spread an agreeable warmth slowly through my body.

"Thanks Unk, that makes me feel better already," I said, after a few sips, while Al, silently, drank straight from the Thermos mouth.

"You boys ready to get back at that old son-of-a-bitch Mackerel, or what," asked Uncle George, "or are you gonna let him keep pushing you around?"

I shuffled my feet, and then cleared my throat. "...Ummm...ahhh.." I cast a fearful, sideways glance at Al, hoping to avoid violence. He was standing up strait, tall, and true, like the American fighting man, and former American Sailor he was. "Do I want to fight? Hell yes!" Right then, I could picture him with his right hand high, answering his Nation's call, those many years ago when he first got ready for Naval Boot Camp during Operation Desert Storm.

Had someone shouted, "damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead," I would have envisioned him at the helm at that moment. There was no blockade of a harbor, or pivotal moment of American history impending at that moment, just a plan being worked to retaliate against an injustice being done.

"Okay boys," said Uncle George, "Me and Cliff, and Billy will go down to Mackerel's slip and wait for his boys to come along...you and Lou go over to Deputy Aller's house at about 9 o'clock..."

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Chapter Ten

"Why the hell do we need to be over here when all the action is happening somewhere else," I asked.

'Maybe Uncle George didn't want you getting into trouble again," Al said.

I slowly got out of the truck. "So what are we supposed to do now," I asked through the open window to Al, still sitting in the driver's seat.

"I don't know what we are 'supposed' to do, but I know what I am going to do," he exclaimed, shoving the old pickup truck's shifter back into first gear and leaving me in a cloud of dust in front of the deputy's house in the evening gloom.