The Viking legacy lives on

           

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.   

 

         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."

    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.

   

Drownhogs of 2014

 

The Drownhogs of Oz awaited their plunge into the frigid February ocean at the MJM bath house, the warm gathering spot for all drownhogs. Together we filled up on Marylou’s complimentary hot coco and coffee, turned in our pledges in trade for tye-dye t-shirts and drownhog towels Wellspring sponsored. The stir-craziness of winter found an outlet to let loose! All types of Drownhogs came out of hibernation ready for some fun: families of hogs, highschool hog pods, elderly hogs, superhero hogs, mermaid hogs… forget telling you, here’s some pictures

                                               Even better here's the youtube video!!!!!

Curious as to how drownhog day began? It started in 1985 with a dare between some friends one lousy winter morning. The leading daredevils were Al Bolleninger and Tom Haddock, Hull resident and champion drown hog (he’s jumped 19 times!) They convinced four other friends to join and the six drownhogs were off, only before they dove in someone suggested that they should at least raise  charity money in the process. Wellspring came to mind! They picked up the wooden well in the Wellspring window and headed for the pubs. $50 in donations were dropped in the well by the time they made it to the last bar, only they drank $80 in beers. Let’s just say the first drownhog day wasn’t quite a financial success, but the spirit of these original drownhogs lives on today!

                                                     

 

Curious as to how drownhogs day began? It started in 1985 with a dare between some friends one lousy winter morning. The leading daredevils were Al Bolleninger and Tom Haddock, Hull resident and champion drown hog (he’s jumped 19 times!) They convinced four other friends to join and the six drownhogs were off, only before they dove in someone suggested that they should at least raise some charity money in the process. Wellspring came to mind! They picked up the wooden well in the Wellspring window and headed for the pubs. $50 in donations were dropped in the well by the time they made it to the last bar, only they drank $80 in beers. Let’s just say the first drownhog day wasn’t quite a financial success, but the spirit of these original drownhogs lives on today!

Endless Summer 2013 hotdog contest

 

this year's winner

JOHN PERALTA

now dancing!

            VODOU MOVEMENT                                                                                                 ………The magic is in you

                                          

                                 

 vodou movement is a potion of yoga, dance and meditation.

Its effects will take you deep into your body to discover authentic movement, and feel your heart beating along with the drums… let go and feel your magic.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Dress for yoga. Bring water and a towel.
 $10 per class      6:00-7:30pm-      Monday nights-     

                                                                                        

                   Sunset Bay Marina   2 A Street in Hull   (private room 2^nd floor, the Bay view)                                                                                                                                               

For details email- annablash@gmail.com                                                                                                                                                 You don’t have to be a dancer or know anything about yoga, just come play!

Thats the flyer for the dance class I will be teaching on Monday nights Sunset Bay Marina.

Last night the golden rays of sunset flooded across the dance floor. I basked in the light, looking the bay and feeling the ancient rhythms of Africa awakening my spirit (from the stero). 6:15 no one showed up. Thank god I thought as I stumbled through the choreography I practiced for the first time. After a few sequences of planned movement and strict dedication to the ways in which these movements and stretches were taught from my teachers, I let go and just moved, danced and made strange sounds.
I turned off the African music and yoga chants and turned up Madonna, Nina Simone, did the Macarena dance, rocked out to this group I know from dancing in Miami night clubs, Timothy Brownie. Hours flew by, my tank-top  and tights soaked were soaked, my body electrified, the mind sharp and deep in observing the breath; the ongoing 'to do' list left replay in my head and the guilty feelings of eating too much all weekend vanished. Now dark outside, I sat overlooking the lights of Boston in the far-away horizon. I thought of the west african dance classes I am taking in Cambridge, the hundreds of classes I've taken in Miami and the years of yoga I have practiced and taught. 
In the silence, alone with my still heart beating out of my chest, I finally felt the liberation, the silent 'its okay, go ahead' to teach and dance in my own language, blending and combining all that I've learned into movement authentic to my body. Authenticity that inspires others to step deep within themselves. Funny, exactly what I wrote on the flyer. 
I asked myself why did I even want to teach a class, why not just go into this beautiful space, let go and dance? The answer came before I could finish the thought, my mind was flooded with the same golden light: community, a circle of women, a safe space to heal, cleanse, release, and a dance, dance, dance... a party is so much more fun with friends! 
The other whys came later, actually was I write... I want to share with others the journey of my own discovery of dance, my adventure to following it to Haiti, and how dancing has healed me from my own demons: eating disorders, emotional meltdowns, anxiety attacks, drugs, drinking, the whole caravan of self sabotage... you 
know, normal crap we all pretend we don't have.   
Next Monday, I hope to see you ladies for some dancing. Sorry guys, you aren't invited. I will teach a yoga class soon which is open to whomever wants to stretch. 

TOMORROW!

The antique roadshow comes to HULL, kinda...

The Library is sponsoring a TRINKETS to TREASURE event at the Salt Water Club tomorrow 9/28 from 1-4pm. They will appraise your antiques (jewelry, china, coins, no artwork) for $5 each or 3 for $10.

Perhaps I'll take my stern to stem trinkets and see how much treasure I actually scored.

soup of the day

       

                                                            Squash you soup

49 degrees. I can’t feel my toes. After spending the last few incredibility windy nights on the rocking unheated Viking, I’m land sick. I stumbled into the bakery this morning to get the captain his favorite coffee this time of year, pumpkin spice. I think this sweet Hullonian couple I met, Dave and Barbara of the ‘Rose Kennedy dollhouse’ thought I was drunk. And the old guy in his signature denim overalls the corner, who is usually on his 4^th scratch off card by 8:15am, gave me an approving smile.

Today is soup day! I starting making a Haitian soup called soup Joumou, which conveniently calls for whatever veggies are laying around.  It is a pumpkin based soup that I fell in love with while living in Haiti; it was the only meal the chef of the house I stayed in made that was 'vegetarian'; the most un-com-pre-hin-ble, western word to Haitians. I might as well just said I ate asteroids and lived on Venus. The soup is traditionally made with meat, but Haitian chef Lifete, the Whompi Goldberg of Haiti, had her own version. Just like me.

 I like to create and experiment each time I cook. Perfect for the captain who puts thai hot chili powder on everything I make anyways, killing all subtle delicate flavors. He could live on to-go foods at Tedeschi’s (7-11 of the Northeast) "Food is fuel. It doesn't matter as long the engine runs." 

Little does he know my little creations balance out all those corn syrup solids and mystery meats he involuntarily gets from eating a SAD diet- Standard American Diet. (such a apropos acronym)

                                                You Soup Recipe

              Make it up and be sure to use surprise items found in your refrigerator's bottom drawer

1.     Steam squash, pumpkin, whatever. Toss some chopped up Russet potatoes in the water beneath the squash (so efficient this boatlife is making me)

2.     Drain and set aside (funny how recipes tell you to do the obvious)

3.     Using a little coconut oil (it can handle high temps unlike olive) sauté garlic, onions (if you have, one- shit I meant to buy one), fresh fennel and ginger (great for digestion), cumin, fresh turmeric root and burdock roots, booth of which have powerful properties for cleaning the blood of impurities, like a captain's bag of Milano cookies and half bottle of Goslings mixed with case of high fructose corn syrup Ginger Ale. "Give me a break, babe? Its Sunday funday!" as he continues ripping the linoleum floor from the Viking's galloy to reveal the beautiful dark wood beneath.

‘Let thy food be thy medicine.’- Hippocrates

4.     Add those steaming carbs back into the pot.

5.     Pour in a can of Veggie stock/broth, unless you are a real woman and have time to make a batch.  Add wakame; seaweed is a smart way to get missing minerals like magnesium into the diet. Most of our soils are depleted these days from commercial farming practices of fertilizing, so: ‘Buy local, buy organic.’ I guess Chinese imported seaweed breaks that new age cliché I preach. How can one win?

6.     And my secret ingredient: dock water. I ran out of bottled water, errrh.

7.     Simmer, stir, top with sprouts and serve the ‘starving’ captain before he eats the bag of pretzels while waiting. The Viking will be serving lots of pretzels,compliments of Deli Pretzel Crisps Rep. Nicholas.
iI earned a stack of free pretzels coupon after cutting Nic, a surfer on Nantasket Beach, out of his wetsuit because the zipper was stuck. 

f                                               fine dining on the Viking

 Coming later this week: The Daddy's Hotdog Eating Contest I filmed at this year's Endless summer,                           

                                               Disgustingly awesome! 

The Viking days begin....

...After a 70 mile voyage from Woods Hole, through the Cape Cod Canal, up the eastern seaboard and across the Bay of Boston, the Viking, a 40ft wooden dragger (fishing vessel) built in 1929, is at her new home: Sunset Bay Marina in Hull with her new Captain, Matthew Henning. He plans to restore the Viking this winter at the marina, a restoration that will begin with phase one: a new deck and ribs and maybe even a below deck living quarters that doesn't smell is like moldy fisherman's socks from the 1930s. We will see how much gets accomplished after we launch a kickstarter (this is not a link to our kickstarter page, just the site) campaign to raise funds. Next summer the Viking plans to host charters and historical tours around the Boston Bay. As for now, she (I've learned boats are female) is at the dock.

 It feels as if we have a new baby, only the cry is the bilge pump dumping leaking gallons of water out every 15 mins. Matt has been diving into these freezing Northeastern waters at all hours of day and night to repair newly leaking seams since the voyage. It used dump every hour according to Peter Rowell and Jake Fricke, her previous owners in Woods Hole. These noble boys acquired The Viking from a guy who bought the boat from long time captain Craig Coutinho for the Viking's more commercially valuable fishing permits. The idea for the actual vessel was to sell it or send it to the graveyard; an idea that Peter and Jake refused to let happen. They saved the Viking and did their best to keep her afloat, but after a year they realized they didn't have the facilities to restore her. That's when they Craig's listed her.

After finding the Viking's listing at midnight, Matt insisted on going to see his "dream boat" the next day. And on September 6th, oddly the same day the Viking came into the Coutinho family in 1946, we made the trip down to the Cape. Peter and Jake picked us up from the dock and we took the skiff out into Great Harbor, where the Viking was floating like a scene out of a children's book at the mooring.

                                     
Matt hoped aboard and disappeared below deck. An hour later he came up from the engine room, covered in grease (as usual) to announce, "She is pretty rotten, really rotten down below. Geez, she's in pretty bad shape."

Jake and Peter nodded, "Yeah man, we know." They went on to explain if she stayed in Eel Pond, a harbor in Woods Hole where boats are stored for winter, she might sink; well probably would sink and besides, as an oyster farmer (Jake) and carpenter (Peter) with a new baby, they don't have a couple of extra thousands laying around to store her anyways. The sun began to fade behind Martha's Vineyard in the distance, yet the chilly late summer evening was warmed by Wood's Hole stories of the Viking: the drunken summer nights of skinny dipping and jumping off the crow's nest, hosting pirate parties for kids and tying up regatta style along a half pipe built in the harbor for the wake of a teen who passed in Woods Hole last November. Jake and Kim (Jake's lovely marine biologist girlfriend) spent a romantic summer living aboard. Kim jokingly shares that she basically only slept on the Viking and turned her marine biology lab into her closet and bathroom.
As for a kitchen, breakfast was always at Pie in the sky and dinners were around town or at Jake's parent's house; his dad, "the Rooster" crafts micro batches of salsas and chocolates these days with his insane collection of the world's hottest peppers. Holy Trinidad Moruga Scorpion! Along with the light hearted fun stories of summer, the evening air held a deep reverence for what the Viking is, and will always be: a part of New England maritime history. We spoke about the Viking's legacy, which included an explosion and a sinking; a more detailed history can be found in the Vineyard's Gazette .

"This boat has been through WWII and 'Nam, heard the Beatles and the Y2K bullshit, man."

"Yeah, she fished the whole time too. Up until 2012."

"It would be a shame to let her go down."

 The wind began sweeping harder, The Viking's old plank deck creaked 'save me' as she rocked under the stars and Milky Way that have been smiling down on her all these decades. The Viking held us in silence. 84 years. She is older and wiser than all of us, built in an era long before our generation with its throw away mentality. She a 'real boat'.

"I'm freezing!"

"Beers?"

 At Land's Fall Restaurant, an eclectic crowd of sports coats accompanying Christian Laboutin heels from the Vineyard mingled with working man's Carhartts and marine biology types. Wood's Hole is a mecca of international marine science labs; the NOAA is home to the country's oldest aquarium. The boys finished another round. I sipped hot tea and dreamed of ordering the 34 dollar Scallops.

 "I want to say yes, man, but I just don't know if I'm the guy for The Viking. She's alotta work."

"I think your the guy, man."

"I'm going to sleep on it."
   
 Perhaps, Matt head the same creak I did at 3:00am a week later. He got of bed, "Babe, I'm buying the Viking."

A yawning reply, " You sure?"

"For the record, I decided sober."
He drank half a bottle of Gosling and went soundly back to sleep.

On Friday the 13th, we returned with all a wad of $20s pulled from multiple ATMs with their $500 limits to purchase the Viking. Matt dived in and began scraping underneath the boat, that year's barnacles and algae covered the surface. After she was scraped and Matt's hands too, it was time to check the engine, something Jake and Peter confidentially said was working fine, but on this auspicious date, nothing was. After two trips for parts and friends of Viking showing up with other random needed things, the engine was steaming.

almost midnight- Matt hooks up some lighting, navigation equipment and all other sorts of wiring work I have no clue how to explain other than it felt as if he's been on this boat before, another life. How did he know how to fix the 1941 471 Detroit engine by a little flashlight he held in his mouth as his blackened hands pulled oil lines and unscrewed rusty bolts?

1:00am "Last thing we need is the submersible pump (pumps out water if a boat starts to sink) outta of the backseat of Anna's car. Just in case," Matt laughed from the crow's nest 30 feet up where he was finishing the navigation lights.

"Geez, if need that thing," Simon, a friend of Viking who lives on his boat a few moorings over, shouts as he climbs aboard with provisions for the journey that is to begin a few hours with the outgoing tide.

3:00am I make Matt stop fixing things and try to sleep a few hours on the couch (our new living room) before the rays of dawn crept up on his already fatigued body.

6:00am "Coffee is hot!" Jake and Kim show up with Pie in the Sky. Simon with the first of the provisions: loxs and bagels. First mate Peter and Captain Matt fire up the old diesel engine. Black steam puffs across the harbor. Jake, Kim and I watch her disappear into the rising sun, a moment I feel weighing heavy in Jake's heart.

"You going to miss that boat eh, Jake?"

"Worse and best decision I ever made in my life. At least, I 'll get some sleep now."

noon- The Viking makes her way to the Cape Cod Canal just as the main engine starts having fuel issues. They decide to pull into Sandwick, a marina at the east end. Upon entering the marina the Viking loses steering. With Simon at the throttle, Matt wrenching the steering gear by hand and Peter getting the lines ready, they make it on the dock just fine. All fixed in an hour's time and the Viking is off again, heading northward.

3:00pm- A boater from the Vineyard recognizes the Viking from childhood and steams along for a half hour catching the story of where she is heading.

4:00-11:00pm, the boys share no updates other than they are 'out of cigarettes, damn.'

11:00pm A port running light appears across the Boston Bay from Sunset Bay Marina. It looks like a sailboat from afar, but its the light up on the dragger's beam. The wild Texan cowgirl and her gangster Bostonian husband who spend their summers boating, have thrown a party for the Viking's arrival. The Viking's new marina friends have gathered to welcome her home to dear, Hullonia. Resident DJ Dave blares The Irish Rover's Drunken Sailor song.

The Viking (like her on facebook) days begin yet again...

                             Superstitious sea man of a boyfriend, Captain Matt, thinks a vessel won't sink 
                             if a picture of the Captain's lady is aboard (my pic for him, thanks Jean)
                                     

Coming soon in October:
    Full interview and vintage photos and film footage of the Viking's days with the Coutinho family!

alchemy of love: transforming crap into treasure

Last weekend over 120 yards participated in the Hull wide yard sale, Stem to Stern. Although I'm banned from, "bringing anymore crap on the boat" (my boyfriend and I share 34ft of floating space these days) I ventured out in promise of only documenting the event for blogging purposes.
Arriving at 9 Nantasket Ave to Horizon condominiums at 2:30, rows of tables lined up down the sidewalk, each rented from the city for $10. I didn't realized the sale ended at 3pm. The Rotary Club's three tables were still filled with "junk" according to the volunteer, who moments before three o'clock decided, "Everything is free people, just take it! Load up, because don't want to again." An ensuing frenzy and battle of hand-outs began, myself as greedy as the other Hullonians as we pilfered through: used winter clothes, glass ware, random plates, old appliances, tools, piles of Christmas decor and once memorable, cheap souvenirs. I scored two pairs of leather gloves and small lantern candle. An easy sneak onto the boat.

                                          ROTARY give-away

Next stop, a Horizon condo retiree's table displaying his world travels: hand-carved wooden African elephant envelope opener, hand painted Japanese Porcelain sushi sets, the accompanying rice cooker for 25, dive gear... the years he's given up on living. "I just don't want anything anymore. I'm done." I wish I felt the same: I want everything! My mind raced to think of hosting sushi parties on the dock, diving reefs, perhaps, I might even get a real letter one day ( I'm of the AOL generation) and use that awesome opener, and the rice cooker too, of course. Oh and those wooden bowls from Costa Rica marked $12, the big pot for cooking steamers....

"Okay give me $5 for the sushi set, $4 for the bowls, $1 for the pot, kid."

"You are invited to my sushi dinner for sure!"

Next stop, a lady packing up a beautiful hand-painted Chinese plate. The perfect match for my sushi ware.  Sold! Half off- $4, down from the marked $8 and two complimentary dish towels.
Pushing her shopping cart of unsold goods by my next sidewalk stop, the table with free strawberry cake with purchase, she stops, "Watch, Chinese plate ware is going to be worth a fortune soon and I sold you my best one."

"Don't worry, I'll find you and we'll split e-bay sales."

 She half smiles and carts on.

The last stop: the everything is a nickel table. I collect wooden handled grill-ware and my favorite item, the faded 80s  beach chair. I unfold it in the sidewalk and sit, trying it on. Wobbly.
  
"How much?"

"How much do you want to pay?"

I look at the ripping seat and then back at her.

"Well all needs is some sewing here on the seam or some tape if you can't sew, honey. I've fixed these type of chairs before."

"So what is it worth to you?"

"25 cents is fine."
Five times the inflation rate of her nickel table, more than the black velvet suit and crystal.  

One giant brown grocery bag later of "crap" and the pot (wooden bowls stuffed inside) that won't fit inside the bag, I carry my "treasures", along with the beat up chair under the arm and my a apart of my promise, one measly photo to document the sales, to the boat. Hopefully he isn't there, I can stuff things away and present them in ways they will be appreciated as treasures. Sushi dinner by romantic candle light, new spatula when we finally get a grill....

Reality bites. He's there, enjoying a beer (of course)
"What is all this crap?"

"It is only crap when its not valued any longer."

He peaks in the bag, gloves on top, "More clothes!'

"Now they are treasures."

"You need two pairs?"

"Hey- the rule is one bag and they fit."

I toss them into my one permitted bag of clothing allowed on the boat. I down-sized my Miami walk in closet and beautiful guest house of 'treasures' into one suitcase, well three actually (two I stashed at his dad's). A girl sacrificing her wardrobe for one shelf in a boat with a forever breaking head... doesn't he know that means i love you, the boy who lived out of a backpack for the last three years while traveling the world and building a ship in the process while I spent the last three years settled, teaching kids and collecting.  An old romance rekindled here in Hullonia. A romance that began in our early twenties when he moved from his hometown of Old Saybrook to Miami with my best friend, his girlfriend at the time. one dinner party at my condo later, "He's all yours babe."

"What are you talking about? You can't hand-me-down a boy! Bags and shoes are different."

"Trust me, he's for you." She left, alone.

Totally offended and deep inside knowing she was right, I gave him a hammock on the patio for six months until he moved onto a boat next to my current boyfriend's boat. The boyfriend, who met him and tearfully broke up with me the next week, "You belong with this guy, not me." Finally, years of friendship later, it all changed during the christina vicky barcelona flick. As fast as love came, it left. We traveled our own ways for the last four years, until this summer.

I opened a fortune cookie: The love of your life will appear before your eyes. Moments later a Facebook message: I'm coming back to America next week, where are you?

And here we are,  in Hull, playing ping-pong: treasure vs crap. It continues into many evenings, continues until we for once have dinner in proper bowls and plates, not the minimalist boyfriend's love of less: eating out of pots and the bonus of not having to do dishes. Candle lit. Fresh New England flounder on the fancy chinese plate. Hingham farmer's market salad greens in our own wooden bowls. Chop stixs. soft jazz. Another golden pink sunset across the boston bay sinking into the horizon. A few beers later.... a lot crap becomes priceless treasure. Just like us.

                                          tah-dah!



 

"I hold the world record of hotdog eating, well around here anyway."

Hull's annual Endless Summer party is nearly two weeks away.  I was informed this morning, while having coffee with my boyfriend at the Salt Water Diner,  by last year's Daddy's Dogs Hot Dog Eating Competition winner -Good looking gal you got there fellow? She could do better though. -Yeah, she's alright, I guess.  - Just alright? You single sir? -Yeah, but I'm bald they say, you like bald guys? Hey, you kids going to the festival on the 21st? -What festival? -You must be new to Hull? -Yep, three weeks now. -Well you are looking at last year's winner of the hotdog contest.12 dogs with buns in 9 minutes.    And I got third in the pizza eating contest. - Can I snap a photo of you? -Louie Rivieccio. -Say cheese Louie! He looks at his photo snapped with the phone's camera -Damn they are right, I'm bald!

the carpeted supermarket

    Riddle’s is the only supermarket on this four mile long and less than a mile across peninsula called Hull. It still has the 1960s maroon red carpet in every isle, except the vinyl strip in front of the meats and seafood. I went to buy bananas all of which were green, so I asked the pale produce guy in his red Riddle’s apron if he had any ripe ones around. He questioned my motives, “Banana bread, eh?”

“No, I just like them really ripe.”

“Oh, well you can check the discounted section.”

He lead me to a shelf adjacent to the meat counter. On it were boxes of $3.79 strawberries now 79 cents, boxes of $2.99 mushrooms for 89 cents, mixed peppers, cabbage and potatoes for $1.49, the gourmet cupcakes marked from $5.99 to $2.00, old breads and bagels for 99 cents. I felt I had entered temple. Ecstatic, I reached for a box of strawberries just as two old Hullonians ladies carted up. The first, in a hot pink sweatshirt and with a heavy polish accent quickly began swiping each shelf: all the boxes of mushrooms- gone! The rest of the four boxes of strawberries- gone! All the cantaloupes- gone!  The other Hullonian lady, much leaner and with less vigor, began to shout.

“Well aren’t you going to leave any for the rest of us?” she pushed her way in clearing the breads into her basket.

“Take what you want, I am not stopping you,” the first replied not stopping. Her accent was as bitter as the old cabbage she complained was still over priced at 1.49.

Within the next 45 seconds the Hullonians cleared the shelf, leaving behind some cupcakes, stale bagels, a torn box of organic cheerios and a dented cans of beets. Upon departing, the leaner one asked if I wanted anything and if so, to hurry up a get it. I smiled and grabbed a loaf of day old hard Ciabatta bread.

the discount shelf is hidden behind the right of deli in case you are new to Hull

Sincerely, one Jew to another

the diggers of Hull

The Diggers of Hull

            The soft yellow dawn full moon hangs low over the steel blue Atlantic reflecting hints of rose from the encroaching sunrise. The tide is dead low, exposing the long stretch of dark smoky grey rock beach. Trails of upturned mud and rocks already speckle the shoreline. The diggers must have been here earlier than 5:30am, although that’s when they told me they would start yesterday when I inquisitively stopped jogging to see what a man was lugging from shore on a small green floating plastic boat; as a Miami girl, I call it a Northeastern boogey board. Behind the seawall was the Joe Malick Shellfish truck. The man, a digger, squat, strong backed with Italian brown eyes and matching jaw line, unloaded the 'NE boogey board'. He had two giant plastic red bags filled with clams; I later learned it's called a bushel. The other man, who I would be introduced to as Neil, handed the digger a wad of cash once the bushels were loaded in the truck headed to Newberry for treatment. The clams are considered mildly contaminated by the EPA these days.

            “See you in the morning,” Neil said to the man taking off his rubber gloves.

            “That you will! I want to learn to clam. I’ve been reading about it and-”

“This isn’t for you. It takes a strong back and weak mind,” Neil interrupted me. He began writing up a receipt from the passenger side door. After a minute I replied,

            “I’ve got neither, so I’ll be perfect.” I leaped across the 3 ft. break in the seawall where the stairs cut down to the beach and continued jogging along. I think he smiled and half chuckled.

                                                                        0()()0

            Man has been clamming since before recorded history. Long before nets, hooks, shovels, spears, rakes man has used his hands to dig. Paleolithic men used the shell’s sharp edges to make jewelry and tools for wood work and agriculture; the shell was attached to a stick, making the first known hoe used by the Native Americans for planting corn. Thousands of years later, man continues to harvest from the sea finding the same satisfaction and having the same appetite for a hearty dish of seafood. While the ways of clamming have only slightly changing over the centuries, man now uses rakes, metal pails and the floating boogey board, this elemental act of connecting to the sea remains the same: simple, hard work done with the same, yet ever fluctuating, low tide.

            “Ten years ago you used see 100 guys on this same beach,” Neil said without looking up from this rake that he stabbed through the rocky mud with two hands before using one to snatch up the steamers (clams) before they burrowed quickly back down. “Now look around, there are four of us. Laws have changed turning lots of guys away. Less money now. Less clams, too.”

            “Could be five if you’d give me a rake already.” I’d been pestering him to let me dig since I arrived just after dawn. “I’m a lot tougher than you think.”

            He finally paused from digging, but still not looking up, “Its too late in the season anyways. By the time you pay off the $200 permit you won’t make anything.”

            “Its not about the money. I just want to dig, so I can eat all the clams I want. It’s $20 bucks a plate at these restaurants!” The truth came out: I admitted to myself in this moment too, I really didn’t want to be a digger; he already knew it.

            “I don’t do it for the money either, although with three kids under 10 in private school it helps.” He threw another handful of clams into the bucket, “I want to break my dad’s record.”

            “How many bushels is that?”

            “Not bushels. Men. How many diggers I have working for me,” he stood up, the sweat beading down from beneath his faded, well broken in baseball cap, the hat of a professional. “I’ve had so many guys come and go over the years you wouldn’t believe it. The best, a burly guy, 6’3 from Maine came in the middle of January, ice everywhere! I felt so bad for him that I gave him a pair of boots he lined with plastic. Four weeks later, he was hauling in 8 bushels a tide making $400 a day. That’s a better story. Then you have my family member.  They came out saying how clamming has been their lifelong dream, blah, blah, blah... they lasted three days and dug up maybe 12 bucks worth,” he squinted as the salty sweat squirted like a steamer into his eyes and promptly went back to digging.

            I understood why he wasn’t making the minutest gesture to help me get started digging. I was one of hundreds he’d met with high hopes and probably little delivery. He was digging for a legacy and had no time to mess with amateurs, hobbyist, and assumably, a yuppie like me on vacation. Real diggers are like the terns diving for fish, they know exactly when and where to dive; their system is efficient. They, like real diggers, simply do it right, wasting no energy and time.

             If only these diggers knew I am planning on earning my Hullonian status and am staying through winter, they might give me a fair chance. I walked away mindfully over the small wet rocks looking out for the long squirts shooting up, a sign of a colony of clams according to the book I’ve been reading, The Compleat Clammer by Christopher Reaske.

           According to this little clam bible, Clam means “bond” in English, “close” or klammp in German and the verb “clamor” describes stopping or quieting. As an age-old expression, we call someone a clam if they can keep a secret or say someone made a clam if they goof up and as Neil says, ‘Happy as a clam at high tide’ we relate the clam’s mannerism to our own. 

Its open shell looks like a smile. 

            As I walked around the diggers still in ear distance I listen to their conversations about new taxes the city sited them with for, more bills they were having to pay, the headaches about their families, their own frustrations with themselves, the normal daily ups and downs of life. “I might as well own a cow with all the milk my kids drink!” one digger exclaimed in a conversation about trash collection.  I laughed to myself thinking of the bond clams represent, the human bond, something being replaced by text messages and ipads. I thought about what Neil said about digging so his kids didn’t have too, so they could grow up with the educations to enter our fast paced high tech society.  A world far away from the ebb and flows of tides and natural way of connecting to nature, a way of life no longer valued and seen as a less superior to the SEOs (search engine optimization) Google has paved a promising future for.

            As a teacher, I wonder what kind of education should we not klammp towards? In my humble opinion not one based wholly in technology, competition and route learning (memorization). Instead, earth based learning: teaching kids to use their hands and hearts, appreciate nature and co-create with it rather than against, to live in harmony with earth’s systems, a system we are apart of and no form of technology can set us apart from. We have already klammped closed part of our perspective to marine life ecosystems in the ways we harvest from the sea. The commercial fishing industry’s inevitable “bycatch”, unwanted, marine life such as turtles, sharks and fish is 1 ton to every 4 tons according to the NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmosphere Association). So, for every 8000 pounds of  fish that makes it to the shelf, 2000 pounds of sea life is tossed back into the ocean dead. Along with bycatch, commercial nets are dragged along the ocean floor destroying reefs.

Getting back to clamming and children, there is a bond to nature and even our own children we are in danger of losing the more we disconnect from seemingly primitive ways of life for modern lifestyles devoid of physical activity and bonding with each other. Most of us are overwhelmed with the speed and busyness of life, we check to relax with TV or Facebook, virtual games and the average kid lives half his life on ipads or video game. There is a you tube video of a baby trying to figure out how to make a magazine work like an ipad, that says enough: behold generation touch screen.

If only we could eat those virtual clams.

            Clams are classified in the phylum of Mollusca and are known to be one of the 110,000 kinds mollusks identified by man; more like scientist as most of us know only the popular edibles: steamers (soft shell clams) and the hard shelled, oysters, mussels and and. For true North Easterns, there are quahogs also called round clam or hard shell clam, and the soft shell razor and jack knife clams. These mollusk tend to be where they were the year before, and the year before, and before, and before, they live in the same places, although the grasses and landscapes evolves. Mollusks stay the same, taste the same and continue to invite us to live off the land. 

          These age old clams like humans don’t change in the deepest essence: we live in community and have a need to feel connected, understood and loved. And also like the mollusks, we come in many varieties, making it seemingly to feel this connection. Some people are more like the hard-shelled oyster, others are mussels moving where ever what it is attached to goes or like a scallops they move freely through their life, and some of us are dramatic, feisty, quick and with a soft shell, like a steamer; I’m a steamer.

            As the golden morning rays cast their glow upon the diggers this morning, I'm softened as I think about the clamming profession viewed as menial and something one without education would do, the dwindling bounty of clams available today, the contamination of our oceans and the fading ways of bonding with one another and nature. The tides of life change and so do we when we wake up and realize the world we are creating and passing onto future generations. And without further contemplation, like a steamer, I was feisty to leave and quickly find my own rake for tomorrow’s low tide at 5:49am.