“Every man has his personal colors,” Levi had yelled over the noise of the engine. “Makes it easy to pick out your own.”
The morning air was refreshing, brushing my hair back from my face, blowing steadily on the boat and covering up its smell, which at that early hour was fishy but not yet sour. We whizzed over calm water, attracting an audience of gulls that circled overhead checking for breakfast and, finding none, winged off toward another possible meal. Before the sun was fully up, we’d reached an area dotted with Levi’s buoys, which were painted with alternating stripes of shocking pink and lime green.
“Some of the lobsters’re still hardenin’ up after the molt,” Levi had told me. “We’ll start layin’ the traps farther out today, where we think they’re goin’ to go. Each day we move ’em ahead a bit more.”
“How do you know where the lobsters are going to go?” I’d asked.
He pointed to his head. “Experience. What got passed to me from my father and his father before him. You learn and you keep a weather eye out all the time. You got to balance the time of year, the tide, the wind, the current, the wave height. It all matters. Today, o’ course, we got a lot of technology helping out, too. It’ll make it too easy for his generation,” he said, eyeing Evan.
Levi’s technology included a combination compass and depth finder, a global positioning device, and a citizens band radio, explaining the forest of antennae that sprouted from the roof of his wheelhouse. On the outside wall of the cabin was a piece of equipment that looked like a yellow lantern. Levi said it was an emergency transmitter. He also had something he called a “Thistle box.”
“We’re part of a study lookin’ to track where the lobsters are and make sure they stay healthy,” he said, patting the top of a computer screen that was covered with numbers and symbols. “Got to take care o’ the little ones or else they won’t grow up to be keepers.”
Everyone in Cabot Cove knew that Maine had come through several years in a row in which each landing, as the lobster harvest was called, exceeded the previous one, although no one seemed to know exactly why we were so lucky. Some said that global warming was making the lobsters grow faster. Others credited overfishing of sea bass and cod, which like to feast on baby lobsters, and whose declining numbers left the ocean bottom safer for crustaceans. While the lobstermen thrived, other fishermen were not so fortunate, struggling with catches insufficient to cover the cost of keeping up equipment, much less feeding and housing a family. One of Mara’s cooks had signed on this year after cashing out, selling his boat, and giving up the sea.
Of course, there were no guarantees of bounties for the lobstermen. This year had started out slow and stayed that way, with the rain and fog limiting fishing and the hauls more meager than expected. Mary had said the prices were rising. It made sense to me. It was a logical case of supply not being able to keep up with demand. And lobsters are always in demand.
The festival committee had arranged with Tim Nudd to store lobsters for the festival. Tim had a small lobster pound—a series of holding bins with cold water flowing through them—on his side of the dock. But Henry Pettie was the broker, and it was he who determined what was saved and what was sold.
We’d gotten spoiled by the boom years, I saw now. No one had ever expected that there wouldn’t be enough lobsters in stock by midsummer for the coming festival. I was still confident the star of the meal would show up on time, and I prayed I was right. Today was sunny, not rainy. I hoped the change in weather would bring the lobsters out of their holes, or wherever they were hiding, and make them hungry enough to crawl into Levi’s traps. And I was about to see if that happened.
The whine of the pot hauler was a siren song to the gulls that materialized so quickly, I thought they must have been waiting nearby.
The top of the trap broke the surface of the water and, as the boat swayed from side to side in the swell, Evan lifted the box onto the rail, deftly untying the string that held the door shut. Through the metal grid, I could see three, maybe four lobsters. Evan reached into the trap and pulled one out, keeping his fingers well away from its crushing claws. He wore heavy gloves, but even so, if the lobster’s claw caught him, it would be a painful experience till he could release its grip. He measured the lobster, aligning a brass gauge with the carapace, dropped the animal into a bucket, pulled out the next one, measured again, and dropped it back into the sea. “Short,” he shouted at me. The third one went into the bucket, but the last lobster had a notched tail—the sign of a breeding hen—and she was gently returned to the ocean as well.
The state of Maine has strict regulations regarding the size of lobsters that can be removed from the water. Take them too small and they haven’t had time to breed. Take them too large and you’re removing the breeding stock, endangering the future quantity of crustaceans. Woe betide the fishermen caught breaking the rules. Not only do they reap the penalty of the law; they’re prey to the wrath of fellow lobstermen, who understand that their livelihood depends on the health and longevity of the existing lobster population.
While Evan cleaned the trap of any unwanted wild-life that had climbed inside, Levi cranked up the engine and started moving on. Evan rebaited the trap, tied it closed, and dropped it over the stern, the warp uncoiling rapidly as the trap sank back to the sandy bottom.
“Had a numbhead helping out as sternman once,” Levi shouted. “Got caught in the warp and went overboard with the trap. Had to crank him back up with the trap hauler. Lost half a day’s work getting him to the hospital.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “Was he all right?”
“Red face and broken leg is all. But he had a hard time finding work on a boat after that. No lobsterman can afford to take on a novice in the busy season.” He nodded at his son, who was binding the claws of his catch with thick rubber bands. “He’s still a bit slow, but he’s able, Evan is. He’s careful and sharp, a good combination. He wanted the summer off to spend with friends of his, hanging out at the shore, playing at being lifeguards. I told him, ‘There’s plenty of time for pleasurin’ when school’s back in session.’ This is how we put food on the table, and he’d better be knowin’ it. Can’t abide a slacker in the summer.”
Evan glanced up at his father, a small smile playing around his mouth. I had a suspicion that even given the hard work, he was happier going out lobstering with Levi than he would have been parading on the beach in a bathing suit. Lobstering gave him a chance to impress the old man, and put him squarely in the ranks of the grown-ups. He mingled with the other lobstermen gathered at Nudd’s each morning, as they held their cups of steaming coffee with fingerless gloves and collectively used the daily ritual to swipe away the sleepy cobwebs of the mind before the day’s run. He eavesdropped on the advice Jim Patton passed along to his nephew Ralph, and watched as Levi chose the best bits of bait for his bags. He attended the lobstermen’s meetings, listening to the men’s complaints of interlopers setting their traps in Cabot Cove’s “territory,” and joining in their laughter with tales of when Monica Andresen opened her screen door and yelled for her husband to “come back to the yard, Mason. That dog of yours took off with my best housedress. I’ll be making dog pie for dinnah if I ever catch ’im.”
Evan would have stories to tell when school started again—and the confidence of having mastered a tough job. Whether or not he chose to follow his father to the sea, this summer would make him a man in the eyes of the community.
“We don’t bind their claws for our safety alone,” Levi said. “It’s for their safety, too. Keeps ’em from fightin’ and eatin’ each other. Crowd lobsters together and they become cannibals. No good to themselves and no good to the market. Used to tap wooden pegs in their claws to prevent them from closin’, but it’s all rubber bands now.”
We moved on to the next buoy and the next, hauling Levi’s traps and dumping the buckets of lobster into a water-filled hatch below the deck that would keep them alive and safe till they went to market. Occasionally we�
��d pass other lobster boats, and the men would nod or hail each other on the radio. Other craft were ignored, unless their captains made a point of greeting us. Common courtesy required an acknowledgment.
At ten thirty I spotted two lobster boats ahead. They were moored side by side, and the men were eating an early lunch, keeping each other company. Levi slowed, cut the engine, and let his boat drift into the huddle, careful not to ram a colleague.
“Hard work whips up an appetite,” he said, winking at me. “Didja bring yourself something to eat?”
“I did,” I said, unzipping my fanny pack and poking around inside. “I’ve got an apple and some carrots, a container of yogurt, and a bottle of water.”
“Yogurt?” Evan laughed.
Levi merely shook his head in disgust. “We’ve got plenty, and you’re welcome to share. Mother always puts in extra sandwiches, just in case. Right, Evan?”
“Right, Pop.”
“I guess we got the ‘just in case’ today.”
I tried to object, but Levi insisted, telling me, “I’m the captain heah, and the crew—that’s you—has to obey the captain.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, saluting. And, in fact, my stomach was grumbling, and the idea of one of Mary’s sandwiches was very appealing.
Evan pulled out a plastic pail that had been tucked under the washboard against the transom, pried off its lid, and held out two sandwiches to his father. Levi passed one to me.
“Whatcha got there, boy?” a fisherman from one of the boats called. He was tall and ruddy, and stood with one booted foot propped on the washboard. His sandy hair stuck up in spikes from the pomade he’d combed through it with his fingers, a combination of salt water and sea slime. I almost didn’t recognize Ike Bower from the meeting the night before.
“Baloney and cheese, turkey and tomato, and ham.”
“You had fried chicken last week.”
“Not today. My sister finishes everything on her plate.”
“Too bad,” Bower said. “I’ll trade you a tuna fish for the ham.”
Evan tossed him a sandwich and caught one in return.
Levi cocked his head toward the fisherman and looked at me. “You know Ike Bower?”
“I’ve seen him around town,” I said, “but I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Ike, this here’s Jessica Fletcher.”
Ike nodded at me and scratched his head. “You were at the meetin’ last night.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“I’ve heard of you,” he said.
“Sure you have, Ike. She’s a famous writer.”
“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head, embarrassed. “Not really—”
“That ain’t it,” Ike said. He squinted in my direction. “Wahn’t you a friend of Ethan Cragg?”
“Yes,” I said, relieved my literary career wasn’t under discussion.
“I thought I knew the name. We were schoolmates. Course, that was way before he captained his own boat. His mother’s cousin was my grandfather’s nephew on his wife’s side. Fair fisherman, but of course he didn’t go for lobster. Shared some good times, though.”
Lobstermen saved their greatest appreciation for other lobstermen, I knew. A “fair” fisherman was the best kind, worthy of admiration, but a lobsterman was a leader among men.
A man in the third boat, who’d been untangling a line with his sternman, stood up to greet Levi. “Hey, Carver, how they crawlin’?”
“Ain’t. Mostly shorts and notches,” Levi replied.
I was surprised. I’d thought he’d done really well this morning, getting at least two legal-sized lobsters out of most of his traps. But of course, I didn’t know how many would make a good catch. I looked over to Evan, who was trying to cover a smile by taking a big bite of his sandwich. He winked at me. Ah, I thought. Levi is not going to let his competitors know how well he’s doing.
“Alex Paynter, this is Jessica Fletcher,” Levi said, introducing me. “And that’s Maynard,” he added pointing to the sternman, whom I recognized as Brady Holland’s buddy.
I waved and the men waved back. I’d heard Paynter’s name before, but hadn’t been able to put a face to it before last night’s association meeting.
Paynter and Maynard took out their lunch bags and settled down to eat, one straddling a box, the other perched on the rail next to a boom box. Maynard flipped a switch and the whine of an electric guitar blared out of the giant player.
“Turn that blasted thing off,” Paynter yelled.
“I always play music when I have lunch,” Maynard said.
“You been playin’ that same record all week. I’m sick of it.”
“This is my new album. I just bought it. You never heard this one before.”
“That rock noise gives me indigestion. Keep it up and you’ll be sternman for Brady Holland again. Then you won’t be able to afford a new album.”
“No wonder you’re not catchin’ much,” Levi said. “You’re scarin’ the critters away.”
The men laughed and Maynard turned off his radio, but he put on a sour face.
“Hey, Alex,” Evan called over to Paynter. “Thought you were looking for an engine part today.”
Paynter scratched his jaw. “Ayuh. I was, but now that I think on it, it’s not comin’ in till next week.”
I’d been concentrating on my sandwich, but looked up at Paynter. He tipped his cap to me, and I smiled back.
“Too bad,” Evan said, laughing. “Your engine sounds like a sick moose.”
“We didn’t raise a quorum last night,” Bower said to Levi.
“Told you we wouldn’t.”
“Coulda used you to say a word.”
Levi darted his eyes in my direction. “Not the time,” he said in a low voice.
“She saw it all last night,” Bower said. “Won’t make no difference now.”
“Told you I’ll work behind the scenes,” Levi said, conceding the argument. “I’m not gonna challenge Linc in front of a crowd.”
“Someone has to or that Pettie will rob us blind. He’s slick, that one.”
“Did you notice how he dangled the lobsters for the festival over our heads?” Maynard said, deciding to join the conversation.
“What’s that bilge you’re spillin’?” Paynter said.
“He did. He just about said we won’t have enough for the town to serve if we don’t shut up and keep fishin’.”
“Linc’s on the take, I’m telling ya,” Bower said. “Just bought himself a brand-new truck, put in a fancy kitchen for the wife. They’re goin’ to Aruba for Christmas.”
“Mary got a new kitchen, too,” Levi said, “and I ain’t receivin’ any donations.”
“No, but you’re likely in debt to Pettie up to your eyeballs.”
“That ain’t none of your business.”
“No use gettin’ green-eyed over Linc,” Paynter said. “If he’s got another source of income, we’d better be able to prove it. Only way we’ll ever push ’im out.”
Maynard hooted. “That’ll be the day. A Williams has been head of the lobstermen’s association for over a hundred years. That’s what Brady says.”
Paynter eyed Maynard. “Forget what Brady Holland says,” he said. “I don’t want to find out you carried tales to that punk, you hear me?”
“Linc ain’t a real king, and I can think of a dozen men’ud do a better job protectin’ our interests,” Bower said, stuffing the last of the sandwich into his mouth.
“Mebbe. But the men don’t like change,” Levi said. “I ain’t for bootin’ him unless the charge is true.”
“Now, how you gonna prove that?” Paynter said, climbing to his feet and nudging Maynard, who balled up the paper that had wrapped his lunch and tossed it in a bucket. “I gotta skite along, earn my keep,” Paynter yelled over his shoulder. The loud growl of his engine drowned out further conversation, until his boat pulled away from the little conclave and headed out to sea.
“Whew, amazing tha
t motor still honks along,” Evan said, shaking his head.
“Alex is right, Levi. How’re we gonna prove it?” Bower said.
“We’re gonna keep an eye out is what we’re gonna do, and don’t be obvious about it or he’ll go all nasty-neat on us and that’ll be the end of it. If he sees us watchin’ and suspects we’re onto him, we might as well be shearin’ a pig.”
Shearing a pig, I thought. Well, there’s an unproductive task. Between the meeting last night and the conversations I’d heard today, it was becoming clear that the problems of the lobstermen were more and more complicated. They thought their dealer wasn’t dealing straight, that he was underpaying them. Even worse, they feared he was paying off their association president, the one man they looked to to safeguard their interests and to act as their spokesman. Pettie was holding the Cabot Cove Lobsterfest over their heads, and Linc Williams had said nothing. If they didn’t cooperate, Pettie had a unique way of punishing them. There might not be enough lobsters put away for the big shore dinner that was to be the highlight of the festival. And who would the town blame for the shortage? Not the dealer. That was certain. Henry Pettie wanted the men to buckle down, take what he gave them, and not complain. But the voices were getting louder, not softer. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to have a full-fledged mutiny on his hands.
Lunch hour over, we sailed away from Ike Bower and took up the day’s tasks again, Evan reining in his father’s lobster traps, relieving them of their cargo, rebaiting, and dropping them back in the water in a new location that Levi determined was better than the last. Fully half the creatures captured were illegal for one reason or another, either too small, too large, or a breeding female, and were returned to the ocean to be caught another day. I began to see that lobstering was a hundred percent effort for only fifty percent gain.
“There’s some days we’re just feedin’ ’em,” Levi said, as the third trap in a row without a keeper sank back to the bottom. He held up a notch-tail to show me the eggs that were affixed to her belly. “See these berries?” he said. “You let them grow and they put out twice as much as the smaller hens. Sometimes you gotta sacrifice for the future.” He leaned over the side, laid the lobster on the surface, and watched as she drifted down out of sight.
The Maine Mutiny Page 7