September 17, 2013

• Herring Run

  Looking out to sea one night I see him
  His skiff a stone's throw from our island
  Bent-over-old
  Stops
  Shines his light down into the shallows
  Quick flash and then shuts off
  Not to scare them

  Tide's coming
  Full moon's up too and very bright
  Paints a shimmering slash across the sea
  Glass-flat and windless
  Moon-beam spots him - oars dip and stir
  Trails of luminous plankton twinkle

  He speaks softly into his walkie-talkie
  Can't hear but must be they're running good
  Nice size I guess
  Not too many mackerel in with them
  Disembodied voices crackle back
  By-and-by other old men come quietly in skiffs
  Towing double-enders piled high with net and float
  They work quietly throughout the night
  Set the half-mile long mesh-trap
  Anchored to ancient engine blocks buried in mud
  Beyond the old water-fence
  Leave a small opening for little fish
  To follow the shore to Bramhall's ledge
  Can't go further
  Trapped

  Thin silver swarm swims endlessly inside the net
  Presses against it bulging
  Glimmering fish-ribbon fluorescing
  A few inches from the surface
  Bigger fish preying on them must swim deeper
  Can't chase and swallow
  Might flounder in the shallows

  Propelled by rushing tide
  The agitation deflects off Bramhall's ledge
  Not wanting to - reverses course
  Turns south trying to escape
  Struggles against the tide
  Feeds into the seine's huge circled purse
  Set half-way center in the long net run

  Dawn sees the seine complete
  Burnt-orange floats
  Weighted weave vertical in the sea

  They sit in their skiffs and smoke
  Old men exhausted not saying much

  The wife makes coffee
  I go out with the steaming crock
  Styrocups and doughnuts
  Ask permission to fish the seine for mackerel
  "Finest kind" and "thank you for the java" they reply

  Sun's up
  He calls Port Clyde for the dragger Mary Ann
  Busy with other seines
  Be there tomorrow afternoon

  Later that morning after they're gone
  I sit with the kids in our skiff inside the purse
  Hand-lining for the mackerel
  No time at all we catch enough to jar two dozen quarts
  Should last the winter
  Like shooting fish in a barrel I say
  What does that mean daddy the kids ask?

  Lots of seals for company in with us
  Up they come for air smiling
  Mouths stuffed with herring and tinker
  Overhead the shags croak at us
  Want to drive us off so they can feast too

  He comes back later with his skiff
  Sits in the center of the purse
  Shotgun in his lap
  Keep the shags from eating the catch
  Not like seals he says - eat their fill and leave
  Black buggers will stuff themselves till they can't fly

  We hear the blasts till it gets dark
  Most all next day too until the Mary-Ann shows up
  Beach and rocks littered with dead birds

  The old men are back
  Feed the fish-hose into the purse
  She settles deeper as the catch fills her up
  Takes up the purse slowly with her crane
  Sea pumping out the other side

  They reset the purse after the dragger leaves
  The run continues for the next six days
  The Mary-Ann returns each day
  Until the wind shifts and the run ends

  Do the math
  The Mary-Ann hauls thirty thousand bushels
  Price drops to eighty cents
  Because they're also running up and down the coast
  How many cans of sardines on supermarket shelves
  Does that come to?

  • 1:40 pm
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