“I have the greatest job in the entire world,” he said to me, grinning. He gestured out to the water. “I get to fish every day.”
I leaned with my hands on the ridge of the boat, surveying the vast ocean that stretched around us and nodded. It truly was an office like none other, and I couldn’t help feel astounded that I got to witness it. That, and slightly seasick.
Lesson learned: don’t be hungover the morning you set out on a day-long voyage in the Atlantic ocean.
Watching Scotty and April do their craft, I perched on a wooden stool, trying to remain upright in the bouncing waves. (I have no sea legs to begin with, and the nausea certainly didn’t help.) I peppered them with questions about what they were doing, how long they’d been doing it, and so on and so forth — the magic of the moment not lost on me, even when fog enveloped us and I lost footing in which way was land.
I met Scotty two days earlier, when I was sampling beers at a local Portland brewery. He sidled up beside me to review the offerings on a black board and asked if what I was drinking was any good. Immediately struck by his infectious smile, I confirmed that it was, and in fact, probably one of the best I’ve tried in the past few months. (Side note: this is true, and if you like Kolsches — try to source this one.)
I returned to my beer and thought little of the interaction, as he ambled to the counter to order his next drink. But less than 2 minutes later, he was back by my side, breaking my train of thought with a “want to play cornhole with me and my friend?” It was so unexpected, it took me a moment to realize he was speaking to me.
“What?” I stuttered, trying to put together the request in my mind.
“Come on,” he repeated. “Do you want to play?”
I agreed, following him and his friend out onto the patio. I learned quickly that the friend, Jason, was his cousin’s boyfriend — and luckily, he is as lousy of a cornhole player as I am.
Scotty is the kind of person who defies description, but if I had to put him into words, the first that comes to mind is experience. He embodies a joie d’vivre that puts you immediately at ease, making him a person you feel compelled to simply be around.
Which is how, when he asked if I wanted to join them at a Halloween party later that evening, I gave him my number and said I’d be there.
It felt like such an obvious choice, that it almost wasn’t a choice at all. Of course I would be there. How could I miss out on spending time with a person like this?
Being on the road has introduced me to some of the most welcoming and interesting people over the past four months. People who generously offer insights and parts of their lives up to me, so I can come to better understand the lessons in community and identity that string us all together as a country. Freeing myself from self-doubt has lead to connections I carry with me far beyond the miles I drive.
At the Halloween party, I decided to take some of his joie d’vivre and invite myself onto his boat for a day. He grinned and immediately said yes, absolutely, no question.
Just 30-some hours later, I was in a small fishing boat on the Atlantic when just six months ago, I would’ve been heading into an office. He’s been a lobsterman for nearly 20 years, I learned, and wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Being from here, the ocean’s in your blood,” Scotty said. “You can’t get rid of it.”
We quickly fell into a cycle of move locations-pull up traps-ask questions-repeat, set to the melody of a roaring motor. After 13 years of training to earn his license — common, in Maine, based on traps in the water and an effort to protect the whales —he fishes nearly year round, chasing the lobster from the bay in the summer out further into the ocean come fall.
April has been with him for less than a year, moving to Portland with the goal to learn how to do something with her hands. Together, they pulled more than 330 pounds of fresh lobster out of the water, not counting the ones we boiled and ate right there — totaling around $1,700 at current wholesale price.
It takes about 100 pounds of lobster to “break even” in terms of supplies, and Scotty seems satisfied with the day’s efforts. Coming back to shore, we sell their catch to a broker, who will source it to customers. He’d prefer to sell individually to restaurants or customers, but with his operation being a small one, it’s often not possible.
Regardless, his spirit soars. Dropping me back at my car, he hopped out to wrap me in a bear hug.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he said.
“I won’t be,” I promised, as he held me at arm’s length. And with a wave of the hand, he was gone, back into the sea of Portland traffic. I try to wrap my head around the events of the day, synapses firing at breakneck speed.
He might have a great job, I thought, climbing into my CRV. But I think I may just have the best job in the entire world.
