Trapped
Editor’s note: When he was a younger man, Crash Barry spent two years working as a sternman on Matinicus, Maine’s most remote island. This is another of his true stories.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Captain Bert being dragged, fore to aft, headed overboard, to be drowned by the churning, greenish gray February sea. My brain had been focused on filling bait bags with greasy salted herring, so I hadn’t seen his right leg get tangled in pot warp (the long piece of rope that connects a lobster trap to a buoy). When I looked sternward, Bert was being stretched into the ocean.
His arms, thick as legs, saved him. He’d wrapped them around the steel bar that spanned the width of his boat’s transom. I dashed forward, throttled back and then threw the engine into neutral.
Accidental death at sea is a sensitive topic among fisherpeople. The saddest discovery for a lobstering community is an empty boat driving a slow and lazy circle. Usually means a captain, going solo, got caught in rope and dragged overboard. The gruesome task of hauling the last pair of traps set by the missing person is usually done by the father, or a son, or the best pal. They’re the ones who find the corpse.
That’s why you gotta be mindful when setting gear. The boat is awash in rope, and if you’re not thinking, you might step into the bight of a fast-moving line. It becomes a noose of sorts, working under the strain of two opposing forces: the boat’s forward momentum versus the heavily weighted traps sliding backwards and plummeting down.
The competing forces trip and pull your feet out from under you. An instant later you’re on the deck, flailing as the herky-jerky dragging begins. Then your body gets pulled over the stern. A few frantic splashes precede the plunge.
Do you catch a final glimpse of your boat on the way down? Can you look up and see its dark bottom chugging away? Are you conscious long enough to feel your boots grow heavy with water, to realize the loyal oilskins that kept you dry for years become a hindrance when submerged? Do you think of how ironic it is to be murdered by your beloved boat and the traps you built by hand?
Not Bert, because he had a sternman. I was there in a flash, my sharp knife raised over my head, blade poised to slash the line trying to kill him.
Bert’s eyes opened wide, in terror.
“DON’T YOU DARE CUT THOSE FRIGGIN’ TRAPS!” he screamed. “THAT’S A HUNDRED FRIGGIN’ DOLLARS!”
Now that we were in neutral, there was slack in the line. I heaved and hoed to relieve the tension of the sinking traps. Bert snaked his leg free and clamored aboard.
“We’re gonna set these last two pair,” he said, gasping and pointing. “Then we’re goin’ home.”
Bert staggered to the helm, put the boat in gear, and collapsed. Sprawled on the engine box, he was barely conscious, wheezing in shock.
I took the wheel and got on the radio, told his brother what happened, and headed back to the island. Then Bert was flown to mainland. The emergency room doctors said they’d never seen such a dramatic dislocation of leg from hip. They shot Bert up with some serious dope and pushed the bone back into its rightful socket. The docs said Bert wouldn’t stand for a month.
A week later, he was ready to haul. But I wasn’t. We had already agreed that I could go to Portland to be with a woman during her college break. Didn’t matter to Bert. The way he saw it, we were a week behind. He told me I couldn’t go. I told him I was gonna.
He fired me and gave me one night to move out of my tiny and cold room in his fishhouse.
It was a blessing, actually, because I soon landed a new sternman gig with the most intelligent and rational man on the island. Captain Edwin — and his sweet, smart wife, Nan — treated me with respect and kindness. The job was filled with perks: intelligent conversations, warm housing with stunning views, delicious dinners and, for our daily lunch, crabmeat sandwiches on freshly baked bread.
For the next year, whenever Bert saw me, he’d look the other way.
