AHMM, March 2008 Read online

  And now I was here, at Tyler Beach.

  At a small town newspaper that headed the “G” list.

  Not much of a jump. Should have started a year earlier. Or maybe being a lower-middle class white girl from a single parent household in a small town didn't have as much pull anymore. Who knew? I suppose I should have been grateful that it hadn't come to the point that intern managers demanded a cotton swab DNA test and a credit report, but I wasn't much for being grateful.

  So here I was, at the Tyler Chronicle, in the summertime, barely making enough money to rent a studio apartment on the other side of town and writing cheerful stories about the chowder festival, the Miss Tyler Beach contest, and the sand castle competition, knowing that if I had taken a waitressing job with a skirt up to there and cleavage down to there, it would have gained me a lot more money at the end of the summer.

  But it was hard-hitting clips I was after, and so far none of the clips I had really stood out. Just one story could make a huge difference in one's career, and that was the story I was looking for, something with power. If I had been able to cover the police department at Tyler Beach, I would have had a slew of juicy stuff about fights and drug busts and DWI arrests of Massachusetts politicians, but the police beat—known for some strange reason as “the cop shop"—belonged to a cheerful yet rough and tough blond reporter named Paula Quinn, who smiled sweetly at me the first day of my internship and took me aside and made a little list. Tyler and Tyler Beach headed the list, and underneath, Paula had written Police, Fire, and Town Government.

  Then Paula had smiled sweetly at me and said, “That's my beat, Jenny. It belongs to me. You can write anything else about Tyler and Tyler Beach. But if you come play in my yard, I'll break your arms. Understood?"

  I said sure, and bit off a statement about how I was so happy that she was supporting the Sisterhood, for it seemed to me that Paula wasn't one for abstract theories about feminism and support groups and moving one's cheese.

  I did the best I could, till one day I saw a letter to the editor of the Tyler Chronicle complaining about new federal fishing regulations. The letter writer said something to the effect that if more people knew what a fisherman had to put up with, well, maybe they and the politicians they elected would be a bit smarter.

  So. An idea. What the heck did I—or most people in the Chronicle's readership—know about the day-to-day life of a fisherman? Off to the editor I went—Rollie Grandmaison is a glum man, who I think is color-blind, for all he wears is black slacks, white shirts, and black neckties—and told him what I wanted to do.

  "I see a three-part series,” I said. “Nice spread in the middle of the papers, lots of pics, each story tells a different tale. Part one, the past history of commercial fishing out of Tyler; part two, the present state of fishing; and part three—"

  "I can guess what part three is about,” Rollie interrupted me. “The future of fishing, right?"

  I eagerly nodded. At last, an editor who understood me. Rollie shook his head. “Shrink it into one story, you take the pics, and get it on my desk by next Monday. Got it?"

  I nodded again. Not so eagerly. “Got it."

  * * * *

  The letter writer's name was Jack Houlihan. There was one Jack Houlihan in the phone book—shared with a Helen Houlihan—and I called and left a message.

  No answer after two days.

  On the third day, I tried again, and after the phone had rung twelve times, it was picked up and a male voice answered with a string of obscenities before hanging up the phone.

  But still wanting those nice clips, I called a day after that, later in the day, and got the same male voice. After a pause he said, “Hey, was that you calling yesterday?"

  Hesitating but deciding the truth would probably work in my favor, I said, yes, it had been.

  Then he laughed and said, “Sorry about chewing you out. I'd been out two days, got back, and was having my first real good sleep when you called. Teach me next time to do a better job of disconnecting the phone. So you really want to do a story about me and fishing. Right?"

  I said yes and started giving him an explanation of why I thought this story would work, when he interrupted me and said, “Cripes, I guess that's what happens when you get a letter published. You get attention. Sure, if you want to. Meet me at the west end of the town pier, mooring five. Dress warm, and, oh, if you're prone to seasickness, take one of those antimotion-sickness pills."

  "Great,” I said. “What time?"

  "Four a.m."

  I think I choked a bit. “Four a.m.?"

  "Sure,” he said, laughing. “Always need to get a good jump on things. I'll see you there. Name of the boat is the Helen H."

  * * * *

  So, four a.m. at Tyler Harbor. The calendar said it was late June, but the dark sky and temperature said it was late October. Jack Houlihan hadn't given me specifics about what dress warm meant, but I figured it out some. Sneakers and slacks and no skirt. Shirt and sweater. Jacket. Baseball cap. Reporter's notebook stuck in a back pocket, digital camera hanging from my shoulder, my purse shoved under a seat in my locked car, small knapsack with a couple of sandwiches and a fruit drink for later.

  But on the dock, shivering, I thought, damn. Gloves. Should have brought gloves. The wind was coming off hard from the harbor, and I pushed my bare hands into my jacket's pockets. Before me were the waters of the harbor and plenty of moored boats. The dock was empty. There was nothing moored by the large painted numeral 5. I wondered where in hell my fisherman had gone off to. Next to my little car was a big pickup truck with a bumper sticker that read FISHERMEN EAT BETTER, and a vanity plate that said HULIHAN. Even with my minimal experience as a reporter, I determined that this truck probably belonged to my source. The truck and my car were parked under a streetlight. I peered inside and saw some Dunkin’ Donuts bags crumpled up and an open ashtray with some butts. I sniffed—fresh tobacco smoke. So he'd been here a while ago. A couple of other vehicles were parked farther down the lot, including a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle, so at least some people were out there in the harbor.

  But where was he now?

  I stamped my feet. Waited some more. Out on the harbor there were some lights from the moored boats, some of them lobster boats, others that were larger, but no sailboats. Tyler Harbor was a working harbor; there didn't seem to be any room here for aspiring yachtsmen. Out beyond the harbor were the flat salt marshes and the low lights of the town of Falconer, and off in the distance as well, the bright orange lights from the Falconer nuclear power plant, merrily splitting atoms and making electricity for all concerned.

  I checked my watch. Just after four a.m.

  It looked like I had been stood up. Then I remembered: Earlier I had called Jack and had woken him up. Maybe getting me out here in the harbor was his way of getting even.

  A growling noise. I looked back out to the harbor. One of the fishing boats was making its way out of the harbor, heading to the channel on the left that eventually led out to the Atlantic Ocean. It had a small cabin or wheelhouse up forward, and a derricklike contraption on the rear that looked like it held a giant ball of twine. I kept on staring until the boat swung around, started heading in my direction, to the dock. Red and green running lights were illuminated on the boat, and then a spotlight burst out a beam of light that nailed me and the surrounding ten feet or so. The diesel engines growled as they were throttled back and the boat, which seemed to be heading out at a good clip of speed, came gently up to the dock. I stepped forward and there was a man's voice coming from the main cabin.

  "Jenny Wilson?"

  "That's right,” I said.

  "Then come on board,” the voice said. “It's time to go fishing."

  So I made that tiny leap from the dock to the boat, the tiny leap that was going to change so many things.

  * * * *

  The first thing I noticed was the smell of salt and dead fish and other nasty things. The second thing I noticed was that the damn
floor wouldn't keep still. I made my way to the cabin and went through a sliding door. Inside the small cabin were two men, one on the right, sitting on a chair, looking forward through the window, a console of sorts before him, including the ship's wheel. The other guy was sprawled out on a padded bench on the other side of the cabin, a Dunkin’ Donuts take-out coffee cup in his hand.

  The guy on the chair turned, offered a hand, which I promptly shook. “Jack Houlihan,” he said. “That lazy slug over there is Bert Comstock, my supposed first mate. Welcome aboard the Helen H."

  "Thanks,” I said, trying to keep my balance as the boat rocked some. Jack was tall and lanky, with a thin mustache and thin blond hair and glasses. Bert was about a foot shorter, with a thick black beard and slicked-back hair. They both wore blue jeans, gray sweatshirts, and knee-high rubber boots. The floor seemed to be slick cement or something similar.

  At Jack's elbow was a throttle, which he eased out. We were heading out of the channel, going under the Tyler Harbor Bridge; before us was the dark water of the Atlantic. Jack pushed the throttle out some more, and soon after we left the confines of the channel we were out in the ocean itself, and the boat started bucking, going up and down, up and down. I grabbed onto the rear of Jack's captain's chair to keep myself up, and he said, “How are you doing?"

  "Doing okay, I guess,” I said, swallowing, glad that I had taken that antimotion-sickness pill that morning with a slug of orange juice. “How ... how long before you get to where you'll do your fishing?"

  "Oh, about an hour or so. Just an hour of steady cruising, about north-northeast, up to the Gulf of Maine."

  I looked around the small cabin and something struck me. I hesitated for a moment, for I didn't want to act too scared or too childish, but as one of my professors had once said, there are no stupid questions. Just stupid reporters, afraid to ask them.

  "Um, I'm sorry, but I'm not much of a swimmer. Where are the life jackets?"

  Jack laughed and his first mate Bert grinned at me. Jack said, “Sorry, don't mean to make light of it. Life jackets are necessary, but we don't wear them. They're bulky and they get in the way. Bert, show our guest where the life jackets are."

  Bert got up from the padded bench and lifted the seat. Underneath were a handful of bright orange life jackets.

  Jack said, “There's a couple of life rings out on the deck, but don't worry. I've been fishing for nearly twenty years and haven't gotten my feet wet yet!"

  His first mate let the seat lid fall with a thump. “Always a first time, Jack. Always a first time."

  Jack laughed and I decided, in the dim light of the wheelhouse, that this was as good a time to start the interview, which is what I did as we motored out into the Atlantic. I got the basics of Jack and his life: Grew up in Tyler. Local schools. Dad was a lobsterman. Worked summers for Dad. Dad had big plans for him, so off he went to college. Got a degree in oceanography, and then his master's. Was working toward his doctorate one year when his brain froze. Couldn't think much anymore. Came back to Tyler, borrowed a boat, spent the day on the ocean. Decided a day on the water was better than any day in a classroom. Married Helen, his college sweetheart. No kids, not yet. Scrimped and saved and mortgaged a lot, now had his own boat, a forty-four-foot stern-trawler. Bert was a neighbor friend, worked lots of odd jobs, not one for settling down. Sometimes Jack's dad, now retired from lobstering, came aboard to help out. Fished cod and flounder in the spring and fall, shrimp in the winter.

  My hand was cramped from writing so fast and furious. I looked up and said, “Enough to make a living?"

  That earned me a laugh from the both of them. And then Jack went into a long lecture about state and federal fishing regulations, about how some fishing grounds were off-limits one year, opened in another, and how regulations determining what you could catch and how much you could catch sometimes didn't correlate to the actual behavior of the species. How fishing grounds you knew were plentiful were off-limits, forcing you to go farther and farther out into the Gulf, and how the cost of fuel, and insurance, and fuel, and more insurance, kept on rising and rising, and how each year, more and more fishermen would just give up and sell their boats.

  Then he took a breath and I took my chance.

  "So why do you put up with it?” I asked.

  He motioned to the front windscreen. “Where else would I get to see this, day after day?"

  I looked to where he was pointing, to the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean. It was the damndest thing. While I had been interviewing Jack, I had looked out every now and then and saw only darkness. Toward the stern of the boat, I could make out the lights of Tyler Beach, and then, as we went farther out, the lights of the New Hampshire seacoast. But it had felt like we had been hurtling out into darkness, bouncing up and down.

  At first there was a hint of deep red and orange on the horizon, then everything came into view, and the red and orange became a ruddy gold and yellow. I could make out the gentle swells of the ocean, a few seagulls weaving and bobbing overhead, and the wide, wonderful, and wild ocean about us.

  I nodded. “I see what you mean."

  * * * *

  With the engine idling in neutral, Jack and Bert went out to the rear deck. On either side of the derricklike structure that was holding the large bale of twine, which I now recognized was a fishing net stored in a large roll, were flat pieces of wood that looked to be the size of barn doors. Working with just a few grunts and “okay, now, okay?” the slabs of wood were unlocked and dropped over the sides with large splashes of water. By then I had my digital camera out and was taking a series of photos. Jack then sprinted back to the cabin, and in a matter of seconds, came the whining noise of a winch engine letting loose. Cables attached to the slabs of wood started running out, as did a green mesh net. As the net was unrolled over the stern, I was struck by a fresh smell of dead things, and I saw why: Bits and pieces of dried fish were still stuck in the net.

  I watched Bert keeping his eye on the unrolling net and was startled to find Jack standing next to me. “Ready for a quick lesson?” he asked.

  "Yes, I am."

  "Those two pieces of wood—” He pointed to either side of the boat. “—they act like wings down there, under the water, helping the net stay open. The net drops back and those pieces of wood keep everything open as we move forward. It's like a large balloon down there."

  "Okay."

  "We trawl and the fish swim into the net, and when we're ready, we slowly bring everything up. The net gradually closes, and then, boom!, everything's brought aboard."

  "Then what?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Then you'll see the real work begin."

  "I see.” I took a few more photos and then looked back to Jack. “How long do you trawl, then?"

  "Oh, not long,” he said, making his way back to the cabin. “Two hours."

  Two hours!

  And how many trawls do you do?"

  "Today? We'll do three."

  And with that, he was back in the main cabin.

  I looked behind us, to the straining cables, seeing the sun rise higher up in the sky.

  Two hours per trawl. Total of six hours. Not to mention the time to open up the net, clean and sort the fish, and—

  Christ, I thought. Any way you looked at it, it was going to be a very long day.

  I went forward to join Jack in the cabin.

  * * * *

  Two hours. Jack kept the boat at a steady speed and course, keeping an eye on the performance of the engines, while his first mate Bert either bustled around or sometimes stretched out for little catnaps. I interviewed Jack for another twenty minutes or so and then stopped bothering the man. I couldn't think of any more questions to ask him.

  Perhaps taking pity on me, he explained some of the gear in the crowded cabin. There was a radio, a radar set, and an odd piece of equipment that was called a fishfinder. It had a square screen that displayed a lot of squiggly green lines, and Jack claimed that he could tell where sc
hools of fish were located, at what depth, and the direction in which they were swimming. I nodded in all the right places and promptly forgot everything he told me. Above the fishfinder, a couple of photographs were taped to the wall. The photos showed a busty blonde with a wide, easy grin. In one photo she was wearing a bikini, and in the other, she looked to be at a pool party, in a black cocktail dress, a bottle of beer and a cigarette in her hand.

  Jack noticed me eyeing the pictures. “That's my better half, Helen."

  I nodded. “Boat named after her?"

  "Of course,” he said. “Wouldn't have it any other way."

  I looked through my notebook and went outside for some fresh air and found Bert sitting up forward, leaning against a hatch on the bulkhead, stretching his legs out.

  Maybe time for a change. I started to ask him questions and then found that he was pretty good at deflecting them. Grew up in Tyler. Local schools. Knocked around a bit. What does that mean? Oh, the usual. Here and there. Loved motorcycles. Did you see my Harley, parked there on the dock? Did you? Good. Always liked to fish. Worked a number of boats. Ended up here with Jack. Nice to be on a little boat without a big crew to get in the way. And...

  "Excuse me?” I asked.

  Bert grinned. “You heard what I said."

  I paused. “Well ... I can't believe you would ask me if I'm seeing anyone. Are you putting the moves on me?"

  He shrugged his thick shoulders. “Whatever you call it. You're good lookin', I'm reasonably lookin'. Not many attachments on my part. Fast bike, little apartment, fast women ... that's the kind of life I like. No harm in asking, is there?"

  A little shudder raced through me. It came to me just how vulnerable I was, out here on this boat with these two men. Who knew I was out here? Rollie, my editor—and I wasn't sure how on the ball he was when it came to my presence. Anything could happen to me out here with these two. How much did I know about them? Despite having interviewed them, they were still pretty much a blank slate. They could, well, do anything, and if push came to shove, it was a pretty wide and deep ocean out here.