We were talking one morning, and he offered that he would like to go lobstering. I told him that everyone this side of Seattle has the same thought, and that it isn’t as easy as it looks. 

A license is hard to get these days, but I’ve kept mine for the last 50 years and put over 15 or 20 traps in the summer, so I asked him if he would like to be my sternman sometime. 

A sternman puts bait on the needle, baits the traps, puts the little handcuffs on the lobsters, cleans up the boat when we get done, and other stuff that fishermen don’t like to do. 

He took the bait and I set it up so we could go on the following weekend and it wouldn’t bother our work schedule. He tends to like money and won’t miss work for play. 

Saturday was one of them dark, dingy, nasty kind of days when a fella wishes he was a stay at home kid-keeper, but Big Gare wasn’t about to give in. This guy was tougher than a bag of nails, or so he thought. 

Once we got aboard the boat, he wanted to know why we called the floats on our traps “buoys.” He thought that something pretty and all painted up should be called a girl. I didn’t have an answer. 

First thing he did wrong was put his oil skins on backwards (I hear that’s the way they do most things in Lewiston). After I got him turned around I told him to untie the bow line, never seen a fella go around in so many circles. This guy didn’t know the bow from the propeller — and I was going to have to spend the day with him. 

Hauling the first trap was an experience that should have been on America’s funniest videos, I get the trap aboard the boat and told Gare to take the lobsters out and handcuff them. The first one he grabbed muckled on to his hand with a death hold you wouldn’t believe. 

He was jumping and running around the boat and I thought he was going overboard. His hat started to fall off, so he grabbed for it and when he did that, the lobster took his free claw and hooked on to Gare’s nose.

What a picture of happiness. A fella with one lobster claw clamped to his nose and the other clamped to his hand, dancing and screaming and hollering at the beast to let go. 

I hated to tell him, but lobster don’t release their grip until you put them back in the water, so without telling him I threw him over the side. Bad move. The lobster let go all right, but Gare went straight down — he couldn’t swim. I could see him on bottom with these big bubbles popping up. I think he was trying to communicate, but I didn’t get it, and he was starting to turn blue (a bad sign), so I had to do something quick. I can’t swim, so the only thing I could do was set that trap right on top of him. 

It worked, hit him square on the noggin and knocked him out, but I figured if he ain’t breathing he ain’t taking in water. 

I hauled the trap up and there was Gare, caught and all tangled up in the rope. 

I got him untangled and pumped his bilges, and he was as good as new, except for the duct tape we put on his nose and hand. 

I was beginning to think that I should have hauled the last trap first and get this over with quick. 

Now that Gare was all squared away, we commenced to haul another trap. As I began hauling I told Gare to put some bait on the bait needle by spearing the fish through eyeballs. He said it was cruel and he would not be part of it. I told him they were dead and wouldn’t feel a thing. I ended up doing it myself.

The rest of the day went pretty smooth, except for a few dumb questions from you know who. I finally gave him something to do that a brain dead person could do — measure lobsters. 

We finally got done after the longest day I ever spent on the water and headed for the lobster pound to sell our catch. 

Before we headed for the pound, we tied up to a pot buoy and cleaned the boat. I told Gare to put the crate of lobsters overboard so they would soak up some water and weigh more when we got to the pound. He did and we cleaned the boat. 

When we got the boat clean, I told Gare to haul the crate aboard and we could get on our way. He couldn’t find it. 

“What?!” I yelled. “What do you mean you can’t find it?”

He said it wasn’t where he threw it overboard. I looked and there was nothing. The fool didn’t tie it to the boat.

With the wind and tide going out to sea, they are probably somewhere between here and England. Needless to say, neither one of us got paid that day. 

I did hear a couple of months later that the wardens had found a crate of lobsters somewhere south of Monhegan (claimed over half of them were shorts, I’m glad I didn’t put my name or number on that crate). Maybe Gare should stick to publishing after all.