Squall!

Today was a long, soggy grind that was mercifully cut short by the most extreme squall I've been out in since being on my own in a boat. The wind went from clammy and mildly annoying to ferocious within about 15 seconds around 10 minutes to 1:00 in the afternoon. It looked as though the first 3 inches or so of the ocean were all being peeled off and hurled northwestward. I was glad to be snugged up to the shore in the lee of the island. It's definitely extreme when there is a 2 foot chop a couple of dozen yards off the shore. I took my time getting back around to the harbor and had a bouncy time getting to the lobster car and then onto the mooring.

Here's my first video journal- the Island Update. Lobsters, waxwings and a peculiar event between an earthworm and centipede.

If You Weren't Crazy Already

It's no wonder that fishermen are unhinged. Between never ending regulatory hurdles and relentless pressure to consolidate, drive out the small boats and harbors, commoditize and otherwise crush the life out of the profession, there are things like weather and breakdowns. Lament! oh fisherman and even more, the long suffering family and partners.

I got up on Saturday already dreading going out for a stingy early season haul on a rough day. I looked at the 5:00 am buoy report giving out 21 gusting to 22 knots- no go territory. I looked out the door a little later, and what I was seeing didn't match the data. I packed up for  the day, thinking I'd go to the harbor, get a look and then come home and do other things.

I got down there, and Charlie was  getting ready to go. Ellen was heading out. I suppose I ought to try.

I dragged myself across the harbor, got my oil gear on, checked the dipstick with the unease that comes from not quite wanting to see that yes, the oil keeps getting a little lower each day, beyond what it should be. More on that sinking feeling later when the weather actually does get nasty.

I proceeded around the island to the wild north shore- an area that looks like it could be the Alaska coast, with all the bleak rocks, spruce forest and driftwood pick up sticks the size of tree trunks.

I get to the west side and, of course, it's a flat calm and dazzling morning. Blue silver water stretching away to the Mussel Ridge Islands, Owls Head, Spruce Head and the rest of the world's most gorgeous coastline.

To further confound, but in a good way, the catch is qualitatively and quantitatively much better for no reason I can discern.

Then there's Monday. I motored back Sunday night, leaving family on North Haven to get a proper start on Monday. Monday is supposed to be a super Nat-friendly 5-10 knots from the northeast.

I get a few strings hauled and the gray-green gloom sets in with occasional traction waves-my name for the the little ripples that mean big gut clenching pain in the ass fishing conditions. Things are manageable but unpleasant.

I steam across to the Mackerel Ledge where a squall and dense fog show up at the same time. OK, I'm a mighty sailin' man, I can handle it.

Then, coinciding perfectly with the deteriorating weather, the bottom falls out of my intestines and soul. That little oil leak must not be so little. There's a rainbow around me, and not the equal rights or clearing after the storm kind, but the motor falling out of the boat and bankruptcy looking kind. My eyes pounce on the oil pressure gauge. It's normal at idle, but clearly not happy when I tach up a few hundred rpms. I'm sure this means a tow into town, several hundred dollars to get hauled out and several thousand to pull the motor, or whatever seized up dead weight of cast iron is left when I get into  the harbor.

I limp in, begging the almighty to release me from my self-imposed lunacy of trying to be a commercial fisherman. I then beg Weston to help me look things over. He alerts me to the fact my hauling davit is down and imminently going to take out his wheelhouse if I don't get control of my vessel.

While I'm waiting, I very, very reluctantly look at the dipstick. The oil level that was normal a few hours ago is catastrophically low now. I want to shave my head and join a cult until the next comet goes by. Or work at Home Depot. Anything but this belligerent mechanical bull-ride of stress, unpaid bills and boat ignorance.

A few minutes of skilled inspection identifies an oil pressure sensor line as the source of all the oil spewing out of the engine. A mere 6 inch piece of tubing that rusted through. An easy fix. If I could get my hands on it. Which I can't  because the engine box is bolted, glued and caulked into place. No matter. It's gotta go.

A day later, the part has been ordered by Art Stanley, the Yoda Wan Kenobi of all things marine and diesel, dropped off on a boat he just finished fixing up that was heading out to Matinicus, and successfully installed in about five minutes.

In the meantime, I caught up on all kinds of law nerd business, laundry and yard care.

What was I was so stressed about? Quite a bit, actually. I'm a sensitive type. I'm only a very small animal. Not one of the fiercer ones, you know.

Fork in the Road

Outpost Matinicus has become too much of a confessional on the failings of the Zero Carbon Lobster Project and all of its personal and family impacts. I spend way too much time sharing the stress of my life adventure and not enough on the adventure, the vision and the many successes.

 I am, therefore, moving the confessional over to a new blog where I can document my coming to grips with my situation and my path out of it. Here is the link: http://nathusseyunstuck.blogspot.com/

Outpost Matinicus will hopefully go back to being about island life, fishing life, ideas for a healthier, more prosperous and sustainable future world, here on this little island and around the global community.

Here on Matinicus, lobsters are slow. Despite a mild winter with freakish, 80 degree days in March, things are behind now. Maybe the earth didn't get enough rest and now because of that insomnia, can't get up on time.

The lobsters are late. Only the one of the rhododendrons I tend- one out of dozens- has started to blossom. I had 1 female and 3 male Baltimore orioles here yesterday. When I looked in the bird journal, they were here earlier last spring even though last winter and spring were colder and snowier.

Because the lobsters are slow, hauling traps feels like practice. I'm getting lots of practice making the boat go where I want and running the hauler, tending traps. I am getting way too much practice measuring lobsters microscopically short of the legal size. I need to expand and intensify my vocabulary of profanity, because I don't have adequate obscene words to externalize my frustration.

We've had something like 14 out of the last 20 days be raining, foggy or something in between. Today was a welcome respite. Got some laundry on the line. Got a few more traps in the water to the northeast of the island.


Tomorrow is a haul day and I am not up for it. I'm basically working for the bait and fuel vendor. If I get a few pennies over that, I guess I'll be glad. Friends went out to haul in the rough, post-storm seas and a frisky westerly, caught 8 lobsters out of 60 traps and called it good for the day. That's what I can look forward to. Really need to find that happy place inside.

Molly Hatchet meets Ancient New Age Healing Practice

Flirtin' with Disaster is my favorite southern rock song. Except for the super tight and punchy drums, the band careens out of control through 4 minutes of guitar and vocal switchbacks on two wheels over a precipice with the radiator spouting like Old Faithful, oil burning, 2 cruisers behind, bounty hunters ahead, bad debts, good liquor, cigarette smoke and the general badass-ness of going too hard and banking on dumb luck that's bound to run out real soon.

Tapping or emotional freedom techniques are a way of settling one's mind in stressful situations like going around the switchback on two wheels with engine smoking and so on. The practice derives from traditional healing using meridians or energy channels in the body, combined with positive messages.

Today, in my life, Molly Hatchet meets the modern version of this ancient form of healing. I awaken to the none-too-welcome hiss and whiffle of wind meeting the corner of my house. The wind makes it harder and more hazardous to work on the water.

My creditors and I really need me to go out and haul lobster traps today. Like many fishermen at this time of year, I have a robust stack of overdue bills and escalating credit card balances. This causes my cortisol to go nuclear at 3 a.m. and wake me up. Then I worry and stew until I decide to get up and go do something about it. Yesterday, that worked out great because the tide was high early in the morning so I was able to get an extra load of gear set out super early and still be back in time to go to my other job, cutting dead trees and landscaping.

Early this morning, I heard the wind and its whispering song of Despair Upon You, Lobsterman. I did not bound out of bed at 5:00 am. An hour later, I checked the wind report from Matinicus Rock: Southheast at 14 knots gusting to 16. Not out of the question but uninviting. Also uninviting are the showers and 40 degree temperature. There's no meteorological index for wind, temperature and salt spray.

Yarrgggghhh.... I really need money. I'm scared of hauling alone in snotty weather. I'm scared of not hauling and how I'll feel about myself.

Hmmm. Maybe I should do some more quick reading on this Tapping thing Lisa brought to my attention. Tap meridian points, combine with a positive message, repeat. Being kind of a jerk about new things, I searched online for critiques of the practice. Nobody said it was bullshit, just some seemed to think other approaches were better. OK, now for some practical application.

Feeling a little foolish, I followed the instructions, then opened the door and walked into the cold, damp gloom of May 1, 2012. My first stroke of genius was to remember that not only could I go out and try to haul, but through the miracle of hydraulic power steering, I could turn around and come back if I didn't like it. Seems obvious enough, but with a thick, blubbery layer of self limitation in my brain and maybe yours, we can miss the obvious. The second was that, oh yeah, I have other paying work, I have a good Plan B. Third was to deal with a small problem on the boat before it got bigger in poor weather conditions, even though it meant a little back tracking first thing. Peace of mind is worth a little back tracking.

I went into the wet sloppiness and hauled contentedly despite escalating winds and seas. Back to Flirtin' with Disaster. Rolling and slatting about, hauling traps aboard, picking them and running them back off. I made almost an entire day of it before deciding I'd had enough. As I was cleaning up, the lobster dealer called me and inquired when I might be in as I was the last boat out today. Go figure.

No, I did not use biofeedback or accupressure to rationalize an unsafe workday. I was fine. It never got past the flirtation stage.

Bop, bop, bop yeah! Flirtin' With Disaster Every Day.

Sometimes You Just Have to be Where You Are

All the time really.

The 210 Cummins diesel under the engine cover on my boat with its 6 inch water cooled exhaust growls in the ear and rumbles through the soles of my feet. Pushing the start button is a lot less like starting a car or a computer or some work equipment and a lot more like touching off some incendiary device. Fireworks were always peculiarly pleasing when I was the ignitor. I can honestly say I'm still a little freaked out in a good way when I push the starter button. The little firecracker hooligan in me jumps a little.

So as much as I started this blog to chronicle my zero carbon sail/solar/oar powered alternative energy save the world lobster project, as much as I was just about 'round the bend having to come back to Matinicus without my family 3 weeks ago, and as much as never, ever when I was younger did I see myself running a commercial fishing vessel- here I am.

This past winter brought a lot of challenges and grave, fearful doubts about what I was doing, where I should be and what my living situation would be. I dreaded leaving my family. I dreaded starting the fishing season pathetically ignorant, alone and broke.

If I could have waved a wand 3 weeks ago or last winter, I would have pixie-dusted myself into a dramatically different situation. Therein is today's lesson. I am not in unicorn and pixie dust land. I am somewhere in life I did not necessarily anticipate or control my way to. Somewhere much more satisfying.

On the south end of the island, looking past ledges and islets to the open ocean, I weeded a garden, put down bark mulch, began the rite of spring where I extract this year's fallen spruce tree from the ornamental pond at Jim's place, then noticed the wind had fallen off, got on my boat, pushed that button and started earning a few nickles then got back in the harbor just before 7:00, talked to my young children on the phone and finally stretched my sore muscles and joints.

I am where I am.

Salvation

Yesterday was the most painful day of my life, which is a testament to how sheltered I've been. I left my family on North Haven to return to Matinicus. You'd think I was headed to Afghanistan for how I felt. Once aboard my boat, though, I had a baseline sense of at least directing myself. The boat went where I pointed it. The crossing was a little rough with a dry and cold northwest wind ushering me down Hurricane Sound and across the the open water, but otherwise routine and comfortable. That brisk period of volition was as good as it got.

On stepping onto the island, I was greeted by a hundred reminders of how hard it is to function here, especially when flat broke. First, I could not unload my belongings because the tide would not be high enough for another 6 hours.

Then we're on to transportation. I set off up the road with a bike pump for the inevitable flats and a five gallon container of gas. Tom graciously allowed me to take his pickup to try to jump start the first dead vehicle, our car at the airstrip. The car did not want to come out of hybernation, and took a good half hour of charging from two trucks and another helpful soul, Rick before she'd awaken. In the meantime I went home to try and get the pickup truck running. The truck would not respond at all to jumper cables, so I decided to go through the house to open the barn and get the charger.

The house was indescribably saddening to walk through. Dirty, cold, dust sockets where this item or that plant had been taken away, kids' artwork hanging faded on the walls. I am here alone in extreme financial distress, under terrifying pressure to get my fishing business going and surrounded by echoes of happier times. It is unbearable.

I make my way through the barn and realize I took most of the extension cords to North Haven and that all my tools are on the boat and inaccessible until high tide tonight. Getting the charger to the dead vehicle becomes a major challenge, but in the end I cobble enough cords and outlet strips together to reach.

Each car eventually comes to life. Both also fail to restart after good long run times. I am panicked. Without vehicles, there is no way I can get my work done. There is no AAA or garage here. I don't know much about cars.

I keep trying to use one to jump the other. The Mazda must have lost all coolant and sends an angry plume of steam up. I stall the pickup in the road and it won't restart. I am beside myself.

I go back and bring Tom back to my place so he can have his truck back. We start tinkering and ripping parts of the battery lines out because they are hot, and the battery seems to have a fine, snappy charge, so it should be fine. The classic coffee can of bolts yields enough items to create a primitive and far superior battery connection. This victory should have been minor, but saved my life.

Amongst all the vehicular suffering, I tried to get the hot water heater going, but it just sucked air. It seemed as though the oil tank had enough, but I had to pump a few gallons from the nearly empty other tank. Then I bled the burner and it seemed fine. Now I have hot water to tackle the grime. I wash old dirty dishes and mop the kitchen floor. I will live after all.

Bless Tom for his truck and his clarity in helping rebuild the battery line. Bless Rick for getting my car so I could at least get it home. Bless Rex Crockett for getting me to the point that resuscitating a hot water burner was a routine matter instead of something where you have to find a burner tech for a service call. Bless Wanda and Clayton for supper.

A Toast to North Haven/Oriented Times One

I'm loading my life onto my little boat and leaving North Haven tomorrow. Tools, rope, clothes, chainsaw, guitars, groceries. It's another wrenching twist in the belly. I've been dreading the day, and yet am anxious to get going.

Let me raise my glass of cheap white to a place that took me in for a time. A hard time made better by good people.

I showed up a green boat operator never having been more than a mile or so from Matinicus, in late November at dusk, hesitantly nudging up the Fox Islands Thorofare, frozen brittle and looking for my friend's mooring. "Excuse me, can you tell me which mooring is Elaine's? She said it was next to a blue boat, Casie Jo or something." "That boat's out of the water, I'll show you." The first person I met was welcoming and helpful and especially so 'cause he advised me about a rock that I did not see on the chart. That experience repeated itself over and over again.

There was an offer to cut blow downs to feed the stove in my wife's ravenous and sieve-like rental home. Then there was "come over and cut some of what's behind the shop. You can use my splitter and the pickup truck to haul it home." It only got better. "Just come take my stuff. It's all split and dry. I'll never burn it all."

A cold call to a plumber's answering machine got returned with a job offer. That NEVER, EVER happens.

Smiles. Helping hands. Welcoming. Sheltered coves in a turbulent winter. High, windy places to carry off a spirit where the hawks and eagles go. Warm windows. A table set. Goodbyes only for now.

Here's to all of you. Really, thank you. I will do my best to pass along the kindness I've been blessed with here.

---

People in emergencies sometimes get classified based on their level of awareness and orientation. Do they know what day it is, where they are, or even their name? Oriented times 1 is where you only know who you are.

When every external attachment has been torn away, there is only the raw, primal self awareness. The trick is to keep that orientation. To lose and not be a loser. To grieve and not be a grievant. To have the wind knocked out of you by life's punches and keep giving, keep turning the other cheek. To love just because. To be. Oriented times 1.