Commuting to work takes many forms these days. Some people take the train or the subway, some take the car or taxi, and some walk the crowded sidewalks of their city streets. In many of the fishing villages throughout the Maine coast, a dinghy or skiff is the best way to get to work. Who needs a road, when the ocean will do! For all of those people who spend their mornings stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, or find themselves stuffed in a subway car like a pack of sardines, the Maine
lobster man offers his sincere apologies. For as you slog through another traffic jam or busy city avenue, he quietly rows out in the morning calm to his office, which usually takes the shape of a 30-40 foot boat. When the traps have been hauled and the work day has ended, the
Lobster man and his partner in crustacean crime, the
sternman, hop back onto that skiff or dinghy and row back to shore, no stoplights or crossing guards telling them when or where to go. Such is the life of the sea! On an unusually warm November afternoon, when the cool fall winds let go for once and the
temperatures nudged 60, I made my way down route 131 to Port Clyde. I Had a few things to pick up at the summerhouse, but my true intention was to do Otis
Redding proud, and sit on the dock of the bay, with no intention other than to just watch the tide and the boats roll away. I sat there, my faithful Nikon in hand, as the sun shimmered off
Muscongus Bay and illuminated Port Clyde, which at this time of year, resembles a ghost town, the way I like it. Not a summer crowd to be found, just fisherman and locals, all going about their daily rounds, as if nothing else could be more important. One
lobster boat would roll in, while one fishing boat would roll out. One Boat would unload it's catch, while another would speed off to ply the cold blue waters of
Muscongus Bay. Around 3, my friends John and Matt came in from another day of hauling, visibly relieved to have the next few days off. I bought them a couple of cold ones, and we three shot the breeze while the afternoon slowly faded into dusk. "Taking the wife out of town for the birthday," John said, as a wide grin spread over his weathered face. "Rather be playing golf though,
Jesus she's gonna be a beauty this weekend." It was true, the weatherman had called for a sunny few days with with temps in the 50's. For this time of year, it might as well have felt like a heat wave! Matt had plans to see his girlfriend up in Augusta, but admitted that he was too tired to make the drive. Hauling traps is damn hard work, make no mistake about it. "I'm going to sit on my couch for the next few days," Matt said, sucking down the last of his suds. "Patriots better fucking git it done." We all agreed and parted ways. I stuck around town to watch the sun fade over the bay, which by this time of the day, was dead still and rapidly turning pink. I walked out to the end of an old wharf on the western side of the harbor.
Hupper and Caldwell islands sat off in the distance, their green pines standing tall and proud against the silky sky. A crescent moon hung over the harbor as the sun made it's final appearance for the day. Dusk settled over town and a certain stillness
spread over the water. I took my last shots of the day, battling the ever fading light. As I drove back home to Camden, 131 was dark. The
temperature was back in the 40's, and the wind had picked up, gently pushing the pine trees back and forth and I raced past them. That brief but intoxicating spell of warmth was over the time being. The night was cold now, and the stars lit up the sky. In a few hours when the morning light would arrive, those hardy men of the sea, the fishermen, will climb back on to their dingies and skiffs, and make that short trip out to their office for another day of hauling, all while enjoying a rather different kind of commute .
Commuting to work takes many forms these days. Some people take the train or the subway, some take the car or taxi, and some walk the crowded sidewalks of their city streets. In many of the fishing villages throughout the Maine coast, a dinghy or skiff is the best way to get to work. Who needs a road, when the ocean will do! For all of those people who spend their mornings stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, or find themselves stuffed in a subway car like a pack of sardines, the Maine lobster man offers his sincere apologies. For as you slog through another traffic jam or busy city avenue, he quietly rows out in the morning calm to his office, which usually takes the shape of a 30-40 foot boat. When the traps have been hauled and the work day has ended, the Lobster man and his partner in crustacean crime, the sternman, hop back onto that skiff or dinghy and row back to shore, no stoplights or crossing guards telling them when or where to go. Such is the life of the sea! On an unusually warm November afternoon, when the cool fall winds let go for once and the temperatures nudged 60, I made my way down route 131 to Port Clyde. I Had a few things to pick up at the summerhouse, but my true intention was to do Otis Redding proud, and sit on the dock of the bay, with no intention other than to just watch the tide and the boats roll away. I sat there, my faithful Nikon in hand, as the sun shimmered off Muscongus Bay and illuminated Port Clyde, which at this time of year, resembles a ghost town, the way I like it. Not a summer crowd to be found, just fisherman and locals, all going about their daily rounds, as if nothing else could be more important. One lobster boat would roll in, while one fishing boat would roll out. One Boat would unload it's catch, while another would speed off to ply the cold blue waters of Muscongus Bay. Around 3, my friends John and Matt came in from another day of hauling, visibly relieved to have the next few days off. I bought them a couple of cold ones, and we three shot the breeze while the afternoon slowly faded into dusk. "Taking the wife out of town for the birthday," John said, as a wide grin spread over his weathered face. "Rather be playing golf though, Jesus she's gonna be a beauty this weekend." It was true, the weatherman had called for a sunny few days with with temps in the 50's. For this time of year, it might as well have felt like a heat wave! Matt had plans to see his girlfriend up in Augusta, but admitted that he was too tired to make the drive. Hauling traps is damn hard work, make no mistake about it. "I'm going to sit on my couch for the next few days," Matt said, sucking down the last of his suds. "Patriots better fucking git it done." We all agreed and parted ways. I stuck around town to watch the sun fade over the bay, which by this time of the day, was dead still and rapidly turning pink. I walked out to the end of an old wharf on the western side of the harbor. Hupper and Caldwell islands sat off in the distance, their green pines standing tall and proud against the silky sky. A crescent moon hung over the harbor as the sun made it's final appearance for the day. Dusk settled over town and a certain stillness spread over the water. I took my last shots of the day, battling the ever fading light. As I drove back home to Camden, 131 was dark. The temperature was back in the 40's, and the wind had picked up, gently pushing the pine trees back and forth and I raced past them. That brief but intoxicating spell of warmth was over the time being. The night was cold now, and the stars lit up the sky. In a few hours when the morning light would arrive, those hardy men of the sea, the fishermen, will climb back on to their dingies and skiffs, and make that short trip out to their office for another day of hauling, all while enjoying a rather different kind of commute .
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