In a fortuitous turn of events, I had won the trip in a school essay contest. My 4th grade essay on Why I Love Living by the Ocean had apparently moved the judges so profoundly that they had no choice but to award me with the sought-after week long voyage on the Erica Lee, the area’s most prestigious (read: only) educational fishing vessel.
The first day of the trip finally arrived after several weeks of preparation and painful anticipation. We all intrepidly jammed onto the boat in our neon-colored wind breakers and jean shorts and stoically nodded goodbye to our land-lovin’ counterparts. We were people of the sea now.
Wobbly-legged and wide-eyed, we watched the passing scenery as we motored slowly out the mouth of the river and onto the open sea. The bearded, salt-encrusted man who called himself the “First Mate” started to unfurl the mysteries of all things nautical to a never-before-so-attentive bunch of tweens and teens. Unfortunately, during the unfurling, I became searingly aware that the gentle rocking of the boat, which I had initially found pleasant, was now making my stomach slosh around the inside of my abdomen like it had somehow decided that it just had to try skydiving. I must have been turning colors because the First Mate asked if I was ok, to which I somehow slurred a response without letting the surging vomit in my throat escape, and flopped down on the nearest bench. I spent the remainder of the day face down, sweating profusely into the foam rubber seat, communicating in monosyllabic grunts and wishing that death would somehow find me.
I think all of the boat crew was surprised to see me the next day. But I was drunk on Dramamine and any sense of nausea-related dread had quickly dissipated with the excitement of learning that we were going out to set lobster traps that day. Inwardly, I was glowing with the notion that this would truly be a skill I could rely on for the rest of my life.
As it turns out, lobster traps are like casinos. The poor, scavenging lobsters get lured in with the promise of some free food and a watered down margarita and the next thing they know, they’re trapped inside without the slightest idea how to get back out the way they came. Unfortunately for the lobsters that lack extraordinary critical thinking skills, they don’t stand a chance.
What made lobster trapping so unfathomably awesome was that the bait used in the traps was fish heads. The heads were loaded into the trap by laying the fish head on its side and impaling the head through both eyes with a metal rod, thus assuring the lobsters can’t abscond with the head. One does want ones fish head as secure as possible. That being said, lobster traps, we learned, were specifically designed to allow for entrance only, and as such, the fish head impaling/securing/eye-gouging activity seemed slightly superfluous. But getting to shove a metal rod through a the rotting head of a fish was an unprecedented and wildly exhilarating experience so I wasn’t about to question the system. Especially not when it meant fresh lobster for dinner.
One of the other kids, Scarlett, was slightly older than the most kids on the boat. She was somehow related to one of the members of the briny crew, and got to go out on the boat everyday to help out with the activities. She was rough around the edges; swore like a sailor (occupational hazard, I suppose) and far too leathery-necked for someone her age, which made me think her mother didn’t spend 15 minutes every morning slathering her with sunscreen and telling her to hold still or for Christ’s sake she wasn’t going to get to go on the boat at all. Naturally, all of the kids flocked to her like lost little ships to a lighthouse.
As she was older, wiser, and had already developed an impressive knack for lying and manipulation, in an effort to keep herself entertained she had told several of the kids that she was, in fact, a mermaid. The virulent rumor, of course, spread like wildfire. Some kids said they had seen her fins, and some had heard her mermaid song. There were the naysayers of the group, but no one could really be certain where they stood, having no real irrefutable evidence one way or the other. She had created a quagmire of half-truths and scaly, slippery secrets. It was mermaid-gate.
I was below deck one day, waiting to use the head, and Scarlett came out. She held open the door for me, looked me squarely in the eyes and said very matter-of-factly: “It’s true, you know.” I watched her walk up the stairs, her long, sun-soaked and tattered braid swinging behind her as she ascended.
The problem, I realized as I relieved myself and let this new information wash over me, was that I could not, with any real certainty, refute this claim. I was pretty sure she was lying, but I couldn’t shake the fact that she had said it so candidly and was so unaffected. It was precisely how a mermaid would act.
Nevertheless, the week continued. We saw whales, explored the Isles of Shoals, and went fishing. Never having fished before or having been an angler of any sort, perhaps the most traumatic portion of the week long edu-experience came on the day we caught bluefish. Bluefish, as it turned out, had a reputation as an unyielding and vicious predator. They were known to hunt utilizing a technique known as the “bluefish blitz” where they create a gyre around their prey, washing-machine style, disorienting the prey to the point where they can’t put up much of a fight. Fish had been said to accidentally run themselves ashore in an effort to escape, further cementing the bluefish’s rep as one of the baddest ass fish in the Atlantic. With their razor sharp teeth and shearing jaw movement, we learned (perhaps most notably) that bluefish would eat almost anything they could catch and swallow. In other words, mind your digits, kids.
There is something invigorating about plucking something living out of nature’s salty blue bounty. Wrangling a fish up out of the water and into the air as it squirms and thrashes in the fight of its life is a truly awing experience. I watched one of the crew members wrestle the fish off of my hook and onto the boat deck, and felt for that brief instant, that this was the life for me. I could fish! Fishing wasn’t just something that people did, it was what I did. I fished. The moment was fleeting though, as I then watched one of the deckhands drape a towel over the fish’s head and learned in dramatic fashion why it was that they kept a baseball bat handy on deck. As they bludgeoned my fish until it stopped moving, I couldn’t help but think - an unyielding and vicious predator indeed.
My week aboard the Erica Lee was a week in which I experienced nuances of emotions that I had not yet in my 10 years on earth been exposed to. There was a good deal of terror, punctuated with moments of utter confusion, exasperation and glee, all interspersed with a hearty dose of nausea; I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Unfortunately, we never did solve the mermaid conundrum. I assume Scarlett ended up as a fishing boat captain, a stripper, or congresswoman, any of which would have suited her quite nicely, but I suppose I’ll never know. Something tells me that’s exactly how she’d want it.
The first day of the trip finally arrived after several weeks of preparation and painful anticipation. We all intrepidly jammed onto the boat in our neon-colored wind breakers and jean shorts and stoically nodded goodbye to our land-lovin’ counterparts. We were people of the sea now.
Wobbly-legged and wide-eyed, we watched the passing scenery as we motored slowly out the mouth of the river and onto the open sea. The bearded, salt-encrusted man who called himself the “First Mate” started to unfurl the mysteries of all things nautical to a never-before-so-attentive bunch of tweens and teens. Unfortunately, during the unfurling, I became searingly aware that the gentle rocking of the boat, which I had initially found pleasant, was now making my stomach slosh around the inside of my abdomen like it had somehow decided that it just had to try skydiving. I must have been turning colors because the First Mate asked if I was ok, to which I somehow slurred a response without letting the surging vomit in my throat escape, and flopped down on the nearest bench. I spent the remainder of the day face down, sweating profusely into the foam rubber seat, communicating in monosyllabic grunts and wishing that death would somehow find me.
I think all of the boat crew was surprised to see me the next day. But I was drunk on Dramamine and any sense of nausea-related dread had quickly dissipated with the excitement of learning that we were going out to set lobster traps that day. Inwardly, I was glowing with the notion that this would truly be a skill I could rely on for the rest of my life.
As it turns out, lobster traps are like casinos. The poor, scavenging lobsters get lured in with the promise of some free food and a watered down margarita and the next thing they know, they’re trapped inside without the slightest idea how to get back out the way they came. Unfortunately for the lobsters that lack extraordinary critical thinking skills, they don’t stand a chance.
What made lobster trapping so unfathomably awesome was that the bait used in the traps was fish heads. The heads were loaded into the trap by laying the fish head on its side and impaling the head through both eyes with a metal rod, thus assuring the lobsters can’t abscond with the head. One does want ones fish head as secure as possible. That being said, lobster traps, we learned, were specifically designed to allow for entrance only, and as such, the fish head impaling/securing/eye-gouging activity seemed slightly superfluous. But getting to shove a metal rod through a the rotting head of a fish was an unprecedented and wildly exhilarating experience so I wasn’t about to question the system. Especially not when it meant fresh lobster for dinner.
One of the other kids, Scarlett, was slightly older than the most kids on the boat. She was somehow related to one of the members of the briny crew, and got to go out on the boat everyday to help out with the activities. She was rough around the edges; swore like a sailor (occupational hazard, I suppose) and far too leathery-necked for someone her age, which made me think her mother didn’t spend 15 minutes every morning slathering her with sunscreen and telling her to hold still or for Christ’s sake she wasn’t going to get to go on the boat at all. Naturally, all of the kids flocked to her like lost little ships to a lighthouse.
As she was older, wiser, and had already developed an impressive knack for lying and manipulation, in an effort to keep herself entertained she had told several of the kids that she was, in fact, a mermaid. The virulent rumor, of course, spread like wildfire. Some kids said they had seen her fins, and some had heard her mermaid song. There were the naysayers of the group, but no one could really be certain where they stood, having no real irrefutable evidence one way or the other. She had created a quagmire of half-truths and scaly, slippery secrets. It was mermaid-gate.
I was below deck one day, waiting to use the head, and Scarlett came out. She held open the door for me, looked me squarely in the eyes and said very matter-of-factly: “It’s true, you know.” I watched her walk up the stairs, her long, sun-soaked and tattered braid swinging behind her as she ascended.
The problem, I realized as I relieved myself and let this new information wash over me, was that I could not, with any real certainty, refute this claim. I was pretty sure she was lying, but I couldn’t shake the fact that she had said it so candidly and was so unaffected. It was precisely how a mermaid would act.
Nevertheless, the week continued. We saw whales, explored the Isles of Shoals, and went fishing. Never having fished before or having been an angler of any sort, perhaps the most traumatic portion of the week long edu-experience came on the day we caught bluefish. Bluefish, as it turned out, had a reputation as an unyielding and vicious predator. They were known to hunt utilizing a technique known as the “bluefish blitz” where they create a gyre around their prey, washing-machine style, disorienting the prey to the point where they can’t put up much of a fight. Fish had been said to accidentally run themselves ashore in an effort to escape, further cementing the bluefish’s rep as one of the baddest ass fish in the Atlantic. With their razor sharp teeth and shearing jaw movement, we learned (perhaps most notably) that bluefish would eat almost anything they could catch and swallow. In other words, mind your digits, kids.
There is something invigorating about plucking something living out of nature’s salty blue bounty. Wrangling a fish up out of the water and into the air as it squirms and thrashes in the fight of its life is a truly awing experience. I watched one of the crew members wrestle the fish off of my hook and onto the boat deck, and felt for that brief instant, that this was the life for me. I could fish! Fishing wasn’t just something that people did, it was what I did. I fished. The moment was fleeting though, as I then watched one of the deckhands drape a towel over the fish’s head and learned in dramatic fashion why it was that they kept a baseball bat handy on deck. As they bludgeoned my fish until it stopped moving, I couldn’t help but think - an unyielding and vicious predator indeed.
My week aboard the Erica Lee was a week in which I experienced nuances of emotions that I had not yet in my 10 years on earth been exposed to. There was a good deal of terror, punctuated with moments of utter confusion, exasperation and glee, all interspersed with a hearty dose of nausea; I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Unfortunately, we never did solve the mermaid conundrum. I assume Scarlett ended up as a fishing boat captain, a stripper, or congresswoman, any of which would have suited her quite nicely, but I suppose I’ll never know. Something tells me that’s exactly how she’d want it.
