Seaworthy Read online

  Being the totally compliant goody-goody that I am, my crew and I landed in Bay Bulls, Newfoundland, as ordered by Malcolm and unloaded just shy of twenty thousand pounds of gorgeous swordfish. Offloading fish in small-town Newfoundland is unlike any such process I have witnessed in Boston or New Bedford, Massachusetts, or Portland, Maine. The whole town gets in on the action in one way or another—some folks stopping by to welcome us while others manned the scale or the forklift or shoveled ice or built boxes in which to ship the fish. Because of the small population, the unloading of swordboats is good part-time employment for quite a large segment, including women and children. Better for them than for me, alas. Our timing, my nemesis of late, was perfectly awful, and in the growing tradition of all good Americans I can blame the bad economy for the rock-bottom price of three bucks per pound that we received for our catch.

  Machado had the good sense to bail, and he headed home to his real job at Boston Sword and Tuna. I was fortunate to replace Machado with a young fisherman from my hometown of Isle au Haut, Nate Clark. Getting a man to Newfoundland on short notice took time. After five days ashore that echoed most of the hardship that had preceded them at sea, we pounded our way back to the fishing grounds in the most unwelcoming of weather, which is typical of the end of October. In the best of faith, we had high hopes of capturing that big price Malcolm spoke of, and we all had dollar signs in our eyes, knowing that we’d left decent fishing just one week before. We prayed that we would put a small trip aboard before the season came to an abrupt end, which it did before we did. I guess the fish hadn’t taken the same economics course that Malcolm had.

  On the bright side was Nate Clark. Nate was a real asset in his hustle and enthusiasm to learn the business of catching swordfish, and he was like the clichéd breath of fresh air among his dogged and aged captain and shipmates. Nate sparked a little life into our team for five sets, until the fish disappeared with the fleet, and we soon followed, game over.

  I waved good-bye to the Seahawk with a contradiction of emotions that included sadness and elation. An overwhelming sense of good riddance was tapped on the shoulder by a very shy submission that whispered, “Your swordfishing days are over.” But sorrow was soon lost in the rearview mirror as I reentered my life ashore. My homecoming to Isle au Haut was unlike any I remembered from the past, in that I actually felt like I had come home. Previous returns to hard land from sea had been just that—hard. So it was easier this time, but the tension was still there. The sea tugged constantly at my shirttail when I was ashore; it felt like the tide pulling me back out. And that tide ran the hardest on the Fourth of July.

  Forever my favorite holiday, the Fourth this year was at my place. My mother—who’s a great cook and a cookbook author—had organized the menu and had done the majority of the cooking, assigning my siblings and me each a dish to prepare. We borrowed tables from the town hall to seat all twenty-two guests. I sat with my back to the front yard and faced the view of Penobscot Bay so I wouldn’t have to see the cowlicks my lawn had developed. I’d been fully immersed for eight months in my comfortable routine of writing and fishing a few lobster traps. Sarai was home from school for the summer, Simon was coming and going, my nephews were living with me while their parents commuted back and forth to work, and my last sword trip was slowly evolving from a nightmare to a good story. Then the phone rang.

  “Hi, Linny. It’s Arch. I know of a boat in need of a captain. Are you in?”

  The fear that I had just caught my last fish was one that I overcame every single time we threw lines off the dock in the twenty years I fished for sword. Can I rise to the battle once more? Is my love of the sea still great enough for me to risk my pride in my ability to catch fish or my confidence to withstand anything? The merging of two separate worlds began when I hired friends from my land life to go to sea with me. I had never done that before. It just seems like a Grand Canyon-size divide I must cross to go between my lives at sea and ashore. I’m so comfy and safe here at home. But I know that I really thrive on the life of wild adventure at sea. I’m weaving these two worlds together, and it’s neither seamless nor totally comfortable.

  Somewhere in the midst of all this contemplation of yet another return to blue-water fishing and the lifestyle it requires, Hurricane Bill charged up the East Coast. Glad to be at home, and not fifteen hundred miles from the dock, I thought I was relieved to be living the storm vicariously through the plate-glass windows of my cozy home. On the evening news, I learned that fifteen people watching the surf smash against the shore at Thunder Hole on Mount Desert Island were swept from the rocks and carried out to sea by a rogue wave. A seven-year-old girl was killed. It made me think. In twenty years of offshore fishing, I have never lost a man to the sea. Perhaps the divide between land and sea isn’t as wide as I once believed it was. And maybe I can have both.

  Tim Palmer is now on the water in a number of capacities, mostly captaining one of his two commercial vessels and delivering large sportfishing boats between the United States and Mexico. At the end of our trip, I was asked if I would ever try again, to which I replied that I would not go offshore without Timmy. And I meant it. I hope he doesn’t make me eat those words, but I suppose he will at some point, because I have no intention of passing on the right opportunity, and Timmy is too sharp to subject himself to this type of torture again.

  I see my friend, neighbor, and former crew member Dave Hiltz almost daily here on the island. He’s currently fishing the lobsters pretty hard, manufacturing custom knives, and planning his much-beloved hunting trips.

  Archie Jost is home in Stuart, Florida, where he will never retire from selling hot tubs, fishing, and dreaming up plans for turning a dollar. We are both still scratching our heads about our joint decision to take the Seahawk to the Grand Banks in the state she was in. Arch has always been a pal, but it wasn’t until I saw him in action in real adversity that I fully understood what a truly great man he is.

  As for me, I’m fishing a few lobster traps, doing some boat charters in conjunction with the Inn at Isle au Haut, starting up a herring-seining business with some fishing buddies—Omega Four, Inc.—and sharing a home and guidance with the seventeen-year-old and beautiful Sarai. In my free time I roam the island with my nephews Aubrey and Addison and my friend Simon.

  My scrape with the Canadian authorities finally came to a conclusion on May 25, seven months after I got busted. I traveled to Newfoundland to stand trial with great confidence that my “due diligence” defense afforded me by Canadian law would clear my good name. But no one facing these particular charges in Canada has ever been acquitted, and I was not to be the first. My sentence was a fine of thirty-five thousand dollars plus our catch. I have always paid for my indiscretions, but this one was a little more costly than most. My detractors accuse me of intentionally crossing the line for publicity or for a book opportunity, to which I say bullshit—not my style. It happened. I have now written about it. So call me a pragmatist. But don’t call me an opportunist.

  The combination of a shaky boat, lack of gear and electronics, the worst economy ever, poor decision making on behalf of my boss, and a rusty captain proved to be lethal on payday, which came nine months after we disembarked from our beloved ship. The settlement sheet shows a personal debit of $787, a number that puts an exclamation point at the end of my fifty-two-day epic disaster. In hindsight I realize that I was naïve in my eagerness to get back into the business of swordfishing. I do have standards—even if they’re low—and I owe it to my crew in the future to see that some minimum demands are met. Did I say future? I guess not everything has changed in my time ashore… .

  So when Archie called, I rose to the bait. It looks like I’ll be heading out to sea again. I guess I find it impossible to say no when somebody says, “Let’s go fishing!”

  Acknowledgments

  I am excited and proud and, yes, grateful for this new venture with Viking Penguin. Thanks to so many people for taking a leap of faith and signing
me on. To name a few: Clare Ferraro, Carolyn Coleburn, Louise Braverman, Nancy Sheppard, Bruce Giffords, Maggie Riggs—and, of course, my editor, Wendy Wolf.

  Thanks once again to my literary agent, Stuart Krichevsky, for his guidance and patience throughout. Thanks also to Shana Cohen and Kathryne Wick of the Stuart Krichevsky Literary Agency for their help in so many areas.

  Special thanks to Will Schwalbe, who agreed to be my “editor for life.”

  Thanks to my friends Dr. and Mrs. David Bahnson for help in proofreading.

  Thanks to Jim Budi and Malcolm MacLean for the opportunity to captain the mighty Seahawk. Thanks also to Tom Beers and the crew at Original Productions and the Discovery Channel for making this trip possible.

  I send great and many thanks to my friends and family, whose moral support, encouragement, and love mean so much.