Salt Of The Earth

The town of Jonesport is the kind of place where the working man is celebrated, and the ocean dictates the everyday pace of life. No more than 40 miles from the Canadian border, way Downeast, Jonesport and neighboring Beals Island exemplify a blue collar work ethic and a dedication to one's craft, which around these parts, tends to be hauling traps. The minute you enter the town, you can smell the fish! All along the Main Street, narrow side streets lead to wooden wharves and decaying docks where rugged looking men break their backs to make an honest living. The roar of diesel engines can be heard almost anywhere you go in town, and the size and speed of these boats cannot be matched anywhere else in the state. A Jonesport lobster boat is a monster of hauling efficiency, and that's the way it has always been. They tend to be bigger in size and are built with a local pride that shows in their impeccable design. Much like Deer Isle's Stonington, or the salty mid coast town of Friendship, stories abound about the frosty glances and not so kind words that these men of the sea will give an outsider. Let me be clear, this is not a tourist town. If you come to Jonesport, be sure to watch your manners, and above all else, obey the speed limit. God help the tourist who speeds down Main Street with out of state plates! Yet, there I was shooting a waterfront lobster pound on Beals Island, when my car got stuck in the icy parking lot. It was 10 degrees out, and a stiff breeze was howling off the Moosabec Reach. I tried and tried to maneuver the car, but nothing seemed to work. Suddenly two men appeared, both dressed in the typical lobstering attire, offering to help. "Get her goin' and I'll push her forward," one of them said in a deep Maine accent. While very promising, his approach did not work. The other one, who was much bigger and seemed a little less friendly, simply motioned to me to drive the car on to a neighboring lawn, where a pile of dirt covered the front section of the snowy lawn. I did just that, and once my tires hit the dirt, the car lurched forward onto safe ground and I was able to escape my prison of frozen pavement. Before I could get out of the car to thank them, both men just turned and walked on down the hill towards the pound. I watched as they both went right back to doing what they had been doing before my embarrassing situation caught their attention. One man was cutting rope to tie up his traps with, and the other simply hopped back onto his idling boat and started back out to sea. It was the perfect example of Downeast hospitality. I was helped, but I was not given the opportunity to thank the help. It would have wasted time anyways, and up here, time off the water, is time lost. About an hour later I found myself back across the reach in Jonesport, where I walked down an old wharf to observe a lobster boat unloading the days catch. I asked the men if I could photograph them, and they obliged. While my lens was focused on the boat, I couldn't help but notice the two men who were standing next to me, chatting with the Lobstermen below. One was rather large, and had glasses on. The other one had a face that was wrinkled and looked like he had been working his ass off at this for years.I chatted him up, asking about the prices and the weather. He told me that Jonesport and Beals Island lobstermen bring in about 2 million pounds of lobster every year. He told me that lobster is what holds the town together. I then asked which months the fishermen usually take off around here. He just smiled, and looked at me. Pausing for a brief moment, he replied, "there are no breaks around here, 'dem boys be out there almost every day of the year if they can." I thanked the men for their time and headed off down the road, searching for another place to snap my faithful Nikon. As I mentioned before, the day was bitter cold, and the stiff breeze off Moosabec Reach was not about to let up anytime soon. My hands were almost numb, but my determination to get the right shot was steadfast, so I kept exploring the town's crusty waterfront. I had visited Jonesport before, when I was 10 or so. I don't remember much, except that it seemed a long way from almost everything. My mother had come to Jonesport as a child with her mother, in what had turned out to be the beginning of an enduring love affair with the Maine Coast. That love affair was passed on to me, and here I was, on a freezing cold December day, photographing the coast and one of the many towns that give it such a unique character. As I drove back to Camden later that afternoon, I felt so relaxed, so at ease with my surroundings. The snow covered pines looked quite lovely in the fading afternoon light, and the small, quaint towns that I passed through lay covered in a fresh covering of December snow. As I cruised through Hancock, I glanced out my window to the left. I almost drove off the road! Across Frenchman Bay, the Mountains of Mount Desert Island towered above the water. What a sight it was to behold. It is such a rugged and beautiful island. Quickly regaining my focus I made good time through Ellsworth, shot down to Bucksport and cruised back home to Camden. The day had passed and silence of a winter night was now here. As I woke the next morning, the sun was shining, but the temperature was plummeting down around zero. I had work to do that afternoon, helping my buddies build a stone wall in Rockport. As I made my way downtown to grab some breakfast, I dug my hands deep into my down vest and tugged my wool hat down as far as it could go. I looked out to the harbor and Penobscot Bay beyond. The water was like glass and the wind was perfectly still. Out towards Curtis Island, I noticed a lone fishing boat steadily churning her way out to sea. The boat and her occupants were in for a long cold day of work, but that back breaking work is what a Maine fisherman has come to accept, and it is what they live by. I know that those hardy boys up in Jonesport were out on such a cold morning, and I know they will be out almost every morning this year. From Camden to Jonesport, all along the coast, these men of the sea are the true workers of this state. They are, above all else, the salt of the earth!