Lobster Boy

by Rodman Philbrick

  Which reminds me I’m out of food and water, too. Wish I hadn’t chomped down that last sandwich. I sure could use it now! My stomach feels so empty, it hurts. Scrambled eggs and sausage and toast with raspberry jam, that’s what my stomach wants. Then a warm bed and a soft pillow. Or curl up next to Dad on the TV couch and forget about everything wet and cold.

  “Hey Big Bluefin,” I say. “Give us a push, why don’t you?”

  Big Bluefin ain’t talking. Every now and then the giant tail makes a feeble slap, but the strength is fading and pretty soon that tail will stop moving for ever. The great head lolls around and looks at me as it rises on a swell. Big sad eyes that say goodbye.

  I pull hard on the oars, and then the rope comes up tight and the whole skiff jerks to a stop.

  Got to find the rhythm or I’ll never get anywhere. Pull, ease. Pull, ease. Pull. Pull. Pull. Time it so the rope never goes slack. And don’t forget to check the compass. Without a compass you’ll row in circles, sure as Christmas, because one arm is always stronger. Same as a hunter lost in the woods will walk in circles, if he don’t have a star to guide him, or know that moss mostly grows on the north side of trees.

  Fog this bad, no way to know exactly where land is until I hit the shore. So stop thinking about home and the harbour and the creek you know like the back of your hand. Stop thinking about how hungry and thirsty you are. Don’t think about nothing but rowing.

  Don’t think about how much it hurts.

  Don’t think about the blisters on your hands.

  Don’t think at all.

  Pull.

  Ease.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  I’m like a machine. A tired and worn-out machine that can’t stop or it’ll fall apart. Can’t hardly tell where my arms end and the oars begin.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Don’t think.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Hours go by. Or it could be days and weeks and months and years, for all I know, because time gets strange when every part of you is tired and hurting.

  I remember sitting at my desk in school, last period of the last class of the last day, and waiting for the minute hand to tick along until the bell rang. The last ten minutes of that class took a week at least. This is worse, much worse. As if each minute is an hour and an hour is for ever.

  All that’s left of me is the rowing part and the hurting part. The thinking part of me is hiding in the back of my head and won’t come out. Why should it? Nothing out here but hungry and hurting and thirsty and miserable.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  The glow in the fog fades to a dull grey. Takes me a year or two to realize the sun is going down. That’s how long I been rowing. And every lick of it feels like I been rowing in place, never getting anywhere. Rowing against the tide, against the weight. Moving around the same patch of black water, towing a giant fish. Like walking up a steep hill with heavy iron boots, only you can never get to the top of the hill because it keeps getting higher and higher and the boots get heavier and heavier.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  I want to tell the fish it won. It beat me. For every stroke of the oars it pulled back harder. It never gave up. It tuckered me out. It drowned me in fog and dark.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  The fog turns from day fog to night fog. It must be getting cooler, but I can’t feel it. My hands been numb for a long time, but when night comes they feel warm, which don’t seem right, and then my hands slip off the oars and I fall off the seat and land in the bottom of the skiff.

  Put my hands to my face and realize my hands are bleeding and that’s what made ’em slip away from the oars. I get back into the seat and take a deep breath and try to clear my head, which ain’t easy. I stopped being hungry a long time ago, but not eating makes it hard to think.

  What can I do? Comes to me there’s only two possibilities. Cut the fish loose, or find a way to keep rowing.

  Cut the fish loose is giving up, and that means breaking Rule Number Three. But Rule Number One is think smart. Maybe thinking smart is cutting loose the fish. Which is more important, never giving up or thinking smart?

  I’m trying to decide when I notice something under my foot. A lumpy sandwich bag. Which don’t make no sense, since I ate all my sandwiches a long time ago.

  Or did I?

  Takes all my strength to reach down and pick up the plastic bag with my bloody fingers and hold it up so I can see it. I’ll be darn. A plain old peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  Bar of solid gold couldn’t look any finer.

  My hands are so slippery and shaky, I have to tear the bag open with my teeth. Sandwich! Squished and soggy don’t matter when you’re starving. I eat the whole thing in one fat, wonderful bite. It tastes sticky and sweet. Better than candy. Better than anything.

  That little bit of food clears my head and stops me shaking. It helps me decide what to do. Helps me think how to be smart and never give up, both at the same time.

  What happens is I remember a true story Mr. Woodwell told me once, that happened long ago. In the old days they fished from schooners, big wooden ships with white canvas sails that took the fishermen far offshore to the Grand Banks fishing grounds. Each schooner carried a bunch of wooden dories stacked on deck, and when they got to the fishing grounds the men got into the dories and rowed away, looking for cod and haddock.

  This one guy got lost in a winter storm and couldn’t find the schooner. He’s a hundred miles at sea and can’t find his ship. All his gear is washed away, except for his oars. He knows his hands will soon get frostbite and then he won’t be able to grip the oars. Before that happens he dips his hands in the cold water and freezes them to the oar handles so he can’t let go. And he rows all the way from the Grand Banks, off Nova Scotia, to Gloucester, Massachusetts. Lost his hands to the frostbite but rowed all the way home and lived to tell the tale.

  He never gave up. He did what he had to do.

  What I got to do is somehow keep my hands from slipping off the oars. So I cut two pieces of rope. Lash my left hand to the left oar and tie the rope with a good knot.

  There. Can’t let go.

  Lashing my right hand is much harder, so hard it brings tears to my eyes, but I finally manage to pull the knot tight with my teeth. Both hands tied to the oars. Can’t let go, can’t give up.

  Ready?

  Ready.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  One day near the end when my mom was really sick she called me into her room. Her voice was so small and quiet, I had to lean close and smell the sick on her breath. I didn’t care. I wanted to be that close. I wanted to feel her fingers feather-light on my cheek.

  I know you’re still a small boy, Skiff Beaman, but I’ve got a big job for you.

  Anything, Mom. Anything at all.

  I want you to take care of your father. You understand?

  Sure, Mom. Take care of Dad.

  Swear on a stack of pancakes?

  I swear, Mom.

  Thing is, I’d have done that anyhow, without her asking. Mom knew that, but she wanted to hear me say it, to put her easy in her mind.

  Comes to me that the only really good reason to keep on rowing is to keep that promise. And if I cut the fish loose I can get home sooner. Makes sense. Only thing, I can’t cut the rope because my hands are lashed to the oars. So there it is.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  One time we all went out for a picnic on the Mary Rose. Anchored behind Boone Island, out of the wind, and Mom put a chequered tablecloth over the engine cover and passed out fried chicken on paper plates and potato salad and pickles and stuff, and home-made blueberry pie for dessert. I ate so much, I like to bust and started complaining about a full stomach
and too much food, and she said never complain about too much food, that’s an insult to the cook and an insult to all the hungry people in the world.

  I sassed her and had to stay down in the cabin for the rest of the picnic. When we got back to the dock, Mom came down in the cabin and said have you got over being a smart mouth? and I said no. Mom shook her head and sat down on the bunk and said what am I going to do with you? Don’t care what you do, I told her, my stomach hurts and you don’t care. Mom said look me in the eye and say that and I looked her in the eye and I couldn’t say it because it wasn’t true. She smiled then and said, you have as much stubborn in you as a full-grown man. I hope someday you put it to good use.

  That was our last picnic on the Mary Rose.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  When Mom got sick I kept wishing I had a time machine so I could go back and fix things. Take back all the mean words I ever said to her. Change what made her sick. Change myself into a better person that didn’t ruin picnics.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Can’t feel my arms. Can’t feel my hands. All I can feel is the weight of the skiff and the big fish and the fog pressing down. Brain ain’t working right. Something wrong but I don’t know what. Almost like I’m asleep but I can’t be asleep because I’m still rowing. My eyes are wide open but the compass has gone blurry. Am I still headed for shore?

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Can’t stop. Want to give up but can’t. Now I’m watching me pull on the oars. Like I’m floating just above, watching Skiff Beaman row and row and row. Crazy boy, where’s he think he’s going? Going to Boone Island for a picnic. Going to get it right this time.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Pull.

  Can’t see the compass, can’t see the fish, can’t see the end of my oars dipping into the water. Only thing I can see is the funny-looking giant striding high above the fog. Tall thing with skinny legs and a bright white halo shining behind its head. Do giants have halos? Can’t be a giant. Giants don’t exist, do they? Must be an angel. An angel in the mist with eyes like beams of light.

  Don’t matter. Must keep rowing.

  Then the angel comes out of the fog and it’s a boat not an angel and the halo is a spotlight shining down from the tuna tower and a man shouts from the tower but I can’t understand what he’s saying and it might be a dream tempting me to give up so I don’t stop rowing, I never stop rowing until my father jumps down from Fin Chaser and picks me up, oars and all, and carries me to sleep.

  25

  The Tail on the Door

  Small Boy Harpoons Biggest Fish

  Portland Press Herald – The largest bluefin tuna taken by harpoon in Maine waters this season was caught by twelve-year-old Samuel “Skiff” Beaman, Jr., of Spinney Cove. The 900-pound fish fetched a record price but very nearly cost young Mr. Beaman his life. After harpooning the trophy tuna and securing it to his ten-foot skiff, Beaman ran out of fuel and rowed from Jeffrey’s Ledge to within five miles of shore, a distance of twenty-five miles, in unusually heavy fog.

  The Coast Guard cutter Reliance and a number of commercial fishing vessels had been searching through the night for the young harpooner when he was found by his father, Samuel Beaman, Sr., aboard Fin Chaser, a private tuna boat owned by Jack Croft of Spinney Cove. Mr. Croft reports that the boy was badly dehydrated by the time he was discovered, and that he had apparently been rowing without pause for more than twelve hours.

  The boy was treated at the Maine Medical Center in Portland and released the next day. He is expected to make a full recovery.

  The newspaper article is in my scrapbook now, along with a photocopy of the cheque from Mr. Nagahachi. Too bad they didn’t take a picture of the fish, but everybody was so worried about me, I guess they forgot. Dad says not to fret, there will be other fish and we can take a picture then. Have to wait until next year, at least, what with getting the Mary Rose fixed and school starting and things to do around the house.

  Today Dad vacuumed the living room, which is a first. We’re cleaning up because Mr. Woodwell has been invited to supper and Dad says it don’t matter if the old man is halfway blind, he still knows dirt from dirt. Plus he’s an honoured guest and I’m lucky he didn’t have me arrested for stealing the harpoon.

  The deal is, Dad is going to show me how to make a new harpoon for Mr. Woodwell, to replace the one I lost. Also I’m supposed to help the old geezer around the shed for nothing, for as long as he needs me. Like I mind, right? When the truth is I’d rather be in that boat shed than almost anywhere else in the world. Except out in a boat, of course.

  The other good thing, besides fixing the Mary Rose, is that Dad is going to meetings to help him stay sober. Says he has to take it one day at a time. Says that looking for me in the fog scared the beer right out of him. We’ll see. So far, so good.

  As for Tyler, the lying weasel, he swore up and down he didn’t cut my traps, but his father didn’t believe him, so he lost the use of the Boston Whaler for a year. Big deal. Dad says Jack Croft doesn’t know what to do with the boy and probably wishes he had me for a son, but somehow I doubt that. Blood is blood, and you got to keep together with your family, even if they mess up. Friends, too. Like Dad says, he found two things in the fog, me and his old pal Jack, who didn’t think nothing of risking his boat for a true friend.

  Which brings me to the biggest fish. The fish that almost drowned me and then saved me and then took me for a ride, and then nearly killed me all over again. The biggest fish in the big blue sea got flown to the other side of the world and was served up at weddings and ceremonies and birthday parties all over Japan, where they call the giant bluefin tuna hon maguro and believe that it melts in your mouth and into your soul.

  All except the tail. The tail I nailed up above the outhouse door, where everybody can see it. Dad offered to tear down the old outhouse so nobody would think to sing that stupid song again, but I said leave her be.

  I like things just the way they are.

  A Conversation with Rodman Philbrick

  What was your inspiration for writing Lobster Boy?

  My younger brother Jonathan was a commercial fisherman for years and crewed on a boat that harpooned giant tuna when he was a teenager. Some of the stuff about the big fish comes from him, the rest of it from research. I’m aware of at least one or two anecdotes about young men going after giant tuna in small boats, but have no idea if the stories are true or just “fish stories”. The fact is, I doubt I would have thought of this particular story were it not for Hemingway’s classic story The Old Man and the Sea, and the book in some sense is, therefore, a “homage”. I’m assuming most of my readers will not have read Hemingway first, and will not necessarily be aware of his story. Hopefully when they get around to Hemingway, they’ll recognize where I got my original inspiration for a tale about a boy and a big fish – just as those who read The Old Man and the Sea may wonder whether Melville and London had any influence on Hemingway.

  Are you a fisherman yourself? Did you draw on personal experience in writing the book?

  I am indeed an avid fisherman. I grew up in a small town on the coast of New Hampshire, within walking distance of the harbour. A number of my ancestors were mariners and fishermen, and all of that history seeped into my life. As a boy I rowed and sailed small boats as far as the Isles of Shoals, seven miles offshore. My mother never knew this until I was an adult!

  My routine is to write in the morning and go fishing in the afternoon or evening. I’ve never harpooned a giant tuna, but I have caught giant tarpon from a small boat, as well as many game fish from larger boats, further offshore.

  The theme of relationships between fathers and sons is a strong one in many of your books. Do you make a conscious plan to explore that parent-child connection when you write?

  I think that all parent-child relationships are marvellously complex. My own
father was an alcoholic when I was Skiff’s age. He later quit drinking (an act of courage akin to rowing a small boat in a very large sea) and was sober for the last 20 years of his life. He also loved books and would have liked to be a writer himself, if circumstances had been different. Complex father-son relationships come naturally to me, and to the characters I create. All children struggle to comprehend that their fathers and mothers are real people, not just parents, and have lives and problems apart from their children. You can’t be a real adult without understanding this! Unfortunately it sometimes takes a parent’s death to bring it home.

  The relationships that Skiff develops with the older men in the community are very special. Are those characters based on mentors in your own life?

  As a young man I was a boat builder and once owned a small, rundown boat yard where I built and repaired wooden boats. Mr. Woodwell’s boat shed is based on my memory of a legendary boat builder located a mile or so up “the creek” from where I lived at the time. He was quite elderly, but the personality I used to conjure up Mr. Woodwell was inspired by a real Mr. Woodwell, a retired schoolteacher who at 80 years of age was sailing an old Friendship sloop to Friendship, Maine and asked me to crew for him.

  Skiff’s feeling of respect for the bluefin towards the end of its struggle is very strong. What is his connection to the fish he needs to kill?

  This regard for the animal that a hunter or fisherman is about to kill is, I think, almost universal, and has been remarked on by many writers and tellers of tales through the years, including Hemingway in The Old Man and the Sea. If you don’t love and respect the animal you have no business taking its life. Hemingway knew this, as do most of the other anglers I know. You certainly don’t do it for pleasure! Most of the fish I catch these days are “catch and release”.

  About the Author (In his own words)

  “I believe that we have the ability to change our lives using our imaginations. Imagination is a muscle – the more you use it, the stronger it gets.” Rodman Philbrick