After a long winter
dry-docked at Sunset Bay Marina in Hull, the snow has finally melted from
beneath the Viking’s stilted home along side other boats awaiting their spring
plunge back into the Bay of Boston. This year the Viking will return to her
destiny: a working fishing boat. Captain Matt has passed the Viking over to a
true fisherman, Mike Wheeler.
“This was my dreamboat as a kid,”
Mike said taking a break from beneath the car I found him repairing when I dropped by with the Viking’s title.
“I grew up in Scituate fishing out
of Boston Harbor with my dad. Everything from lobsterin’, scallopin’ and gill
netting. I had a 36 Novy (lobster
boat) of my own once,” Mike continued on as I handed him the Viking’s engine
gasket parts for Captain Matt, the Viking’s previous owner. Matt is passing on the rest of the Viking's restoration job as well. These two savvy mechanics are the only guys brave
enough (more like patient enough) to step aboard the old Viking- she turns 84
this year. Age doesn’t matter to Mike nor to his 21 year old son who will be,
“Putting her back in to fish.” Mike, a father of five, plans to make a living
fishing the Viking; he’s after cod and haddock with his long lines.
After I drove away, I wondered what
kind of living a fisherman on a boat like the Viking could earn. Living in Hull
for the last eight months, I’ve listened to story after story about how hard it is
for fisherman these days. Between government regulations and depleted fisheries,
its not the prosperous industry it once was for a single fleet commercial fishing vessel.
Matt has spent many years of his life on commercial fishing boats out of New England. He says the United States
is “ass backwards” compared to Canada when it comes to fishing regulations. It’s taken me many
conversations to wrap my mind around what exactly he means by this.
Hopefully, I have it right. My intension is to explain "ass-backwards" in short and simple terms so the next time you sit down for a store bought or restaurant's fish dinner you know the journey that fish traveled to get to your plate and hopefully, you'll enjoy it with greater appreciation.
The
United States sets quotas for the amount of fish that can be caught each year, the limits
vary for each type of fish. The US government no longer issues fishing licenses. They are sold between fishermen, hence the lucrative part of the Viking’s sale;
she was bought for her fluke and flounder license, not for her beauty as a part
of historical maritime history. (That’s a whole another story)
Back to the
point of why commercial fishing is bankrupting fishermen each year and
why our ocean's fish populations are in danger…
Once a fishermen has obtained his
license, its doesn’t guarantee he can sell his catch-for many reasons. Here's the first reason: A lobsterman, like
Avery I met in Maine, can set out 800 lobster pots with his state license, but he can’t
sell one lobster without a separate federal license. Therefore, he only scallops. The regulations
set by the state often collide with federal regulations, making the process of commerical fishing a tedious paper trail like the rest of America. The mission of the United State's federal department for managing our oceans ( NOAA-fisheries ) is "Stewardship of living marine resources through science-based conservation and management and the promotion of healthy ecosystems." NOAA is doing just the opposite according to the everyday fishermen whose nets continue to get tangled up in their management.... as does my mind each time I try to understand this whole commercial fishing ordeal from Matt,
“Look babe, its like a gamble,” he says drawing letters A B C on the cocktail napkin, “Everyone goes out with net A, and say they have cod licenses. Everyone with net A catches a ton of cod that week. It drives the price of cod down and you make no money because there's so much cod on the market,” he circles A on the napkin.
“You with me?"
"Yes, yes," I insist looking away from the rushing Kennebec River flowing by in Bath, Maine, where we sit sipping Grizzly Bears, one of Maine's many micro-brews.
"So fisherman pull up net A, wishing he had a C license because the net is full of fish, say monk
fish, which he would be permitted to keep if he had a C license, but he doesn't. So he throws back thousands of dead monk fish,” he continues on scribbling out the C letter, “This is why the US has nearly 70% by- catch, fish you can't keep." Matt, we'll call him by his nickname now, Hoppy, says taking a gulp of beer. The kind of gulp a man takes when something is weighing heavy in his heart, the kind of gulp I've watched over and again during all my years bar tending, the kind of gulp you know leads to too many gulps.
"Dead! Why are the fish dead when the nets are still in water?"
"No time to equalize from such depth. You see their stomachs in their mouth most of the time."
"Well, if you pulled them up slower then that solves the problem," I say like a woman who knows what she's saying. I take a sip of beer. The dry fizz in my throat reminders me why I don't like beer, just the idea of it. It looks so fun with all its bubbles and sounds even funner with names like Sexy Chaos.
"It would take weeks to pull them up that slow, time is money," Hoppy says, knowing I don't know the waters I am treading in. My ignorance adding to his manliness, and yet another gulp, bigger than the last, he continues, "This is just one of the first
ass-backward regulations, babe! " He begins
drawing lines on the napkin.
“Tick tack toe time?”
He scoots forward
on his barstool, I can tell the booze is firing up his "ass backwards" sermon. “No, these are the nets. Here you have A, B, C….” Perhaps this why I still
haven’t fully apprehended the regulations.... My mind finds measuring the effects of alcohol on a person more interesting than fishing. A minor detour, bare with me dear readers,
I spent an entire winter around
boozing Irish seamen and have come to the conclusion: alcohol helps them fully understand what
they are thinking, feeling and saying, even if they forget their epiphany come morning. With redden checks, they become a one directional wind unable to understand what others are saying back to them; such breezes continues to blow me away. Like their boats they are rocked into a vast sea,
far beyond the demands of daily life and man's ticking clock, a pace far away from nature's ebb and flow of the tides. Once enough booze has flowed into their hull, they float into the realm of their inner ocean, that eternal sea some call God. A place where judgments subside,
emotions surface and the truth enlightens us with meaning and purpose for living.
Alcohol is a type of medicine when I look at in this light, helping one to let go of the reality at hand and open them selves up to feeling and being square in the moment. It becomes a drug when one uses it as the only way to get this state or when one becomes dependent upon it for that yummy does of oxytocin (the euphoric "love hormone" released by the brain).
Last conclusion about boozing Irish seaman... Hoppy’s captain on the commercial boat he worked on out of Mystic, CT did not ever allow fish to be cooked on his boat. He only ate meat (steak). Conclusion: fisherman are the most sane lunatics I've ever met, the most contradicting creatures out there. A fisherman's superstitions outweigh little old Italian women by miles of buoys.
Alcohol is a type of medicine when I look at in this light, helping one to let go of the reality at hand and open them selves up to feeling and being square in the moment. It becomes a drug when one uses it as the only way to get this state or when one becomes dependent upon it for that yummy does of oxytocin (the euphoric "love hormone" released by the brain).
Last conclusion about boozing Irish seaman... Hoppy’s captain on the commercial boat he worked on out of Mystic, CT did not ever allow fish to be cooked on his boat. He only ate meat (steak). Conclusion: fisherman are the most sane lunatics I've ever met, the most contradicting creatures out there. A fisherman's superstitions outweigh little old Italian women by miles of buoys.
Hoppy finishes
drawing his nets on the napkin (NOT to be confused with tick-tack-toe) and the waitress arrives with another cold pint, “Thank you, miss," he says sliding it across the table. Before the sermon ( that I somehow signed up as did you if you are still reading) continues, Hoppy takes a sip of his holy IPA communion before offering me one. "So license A, B and C is also based on the net's hole size, not just the species you are permitted to catch. Yet, the difference in the net’s holes are so minimal that even if you are fishing for haddock, you are bound to catch fish of similar sizes, but you can't keep em!” He scratches out the A,
the napkin rips like fisherman's nets sometimes do. Like a current of
death floating through the open sea, miles of nets roam our oceans and like ghosts they don’t eat what they kill.
"So you throw back perfectly good fish?" My heart feeling the heaviness of a fisherman's gulp.
“We would throw away thousands of pounds of monk fish in one trip. Why? We had the license to keep em, but we were over our federal quota for the year. Another ass-backwards regulation: you can only keep the limit even if you caught more."
Observation #76 of the effects of alcohol: cockiness. "And here's why the Canadians have only 20% by-catch,” he says wading up the napkin, "They have multi-catch nets, so whatever a fisherman pulls up, he keeps."
Observation #76 of the effects of alcohol: cockiness. "And here's why the Canadians have only 20% by-catch,” he says wading up the napkin, "They have multi-catch nets, so whatever a fisherman pulls up, he keeps."
I wipe the defrosting mug’s sweat clearly revealing the deep amber color through the glass. I finally get, I think to myself and announce, "I'm never eating commercial caught seafood again." A demonstration of observation #11 of the effects of alcohol: making promises and resolutions you will not keep. The waitress arrives with lunch: oven roasted scallops over a parsnip mash and asparagus.
"Think of it this way, babe, you are supporting guys like Avery," Hoppy says stabbing a scallop. A demonstration of observation #141 of the effects of alcohol: ability to make the equally drunk person next to you feel better about them self.
Well..... After writing this farewell Viking article, (much longer than intended, god bless caffeine)
I think of men like Mike, a father with mouths to feed by making an honest living, when I eat commercially caught fish. I also feel guilty knowing how their nets are damaging our seas. I also wonder why I don't feel the fish's suffering from all the meditation I've done and naturally feel deterred from eating it like my vegan buddhist cousin. I also wonder if it would be better sauteed or with lemon and capers. As you can see, I have some confusion when it comes to food. Hence, the book I am writing. Soon to be published!
In conclusion to the Viking:
Its not the
fishermen’s fault their nets are tangled up in "ass-backward" regulations.
Commercial fishing, like booze, is a true catch
22.
PS apologizes in advance for typos, the cafe is closing. And if you are curious about mine and Hoppy's next adventure (We are moving to Roque Island, Maine) then look out for our new blog coming this summer. And if have a canon FX300 camera to spare, send it our way. We promise a great story will return your way.
