Every summer Leigh LeCruex heads back home to Nova Scotia and the sea to make memories with her daddy.
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I wake to the smell of toast and something else that I can’t quite determine yet. As my pup stretches beside me and licks my face, I gaze at my Fitbit only to see it’s 4:15 AM. I groan and sit up in the bed. The second mystery smell I recognize as boiled eggs and strong tea. At this point my stomach gurgles wanting tea and reminding me why I should not stay up late and drink wine before heading out fishing the next morning. This is a lesson I still not have learned obviously despite my 46 years on the planet.
I watch my daddy busy in his own morning rituals, my eyes begin to fill a bit. This man has been not had it easy. He has been getting up at 4:00 a.m. most of his life and the sea has flowed through his blood and sweat since he was a child.
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My father is downstairs in the kitchen mumbling to himself— something about the timing of the eggs and pants that won’t stay up. I reach for the clothes I laid out the night before and begin to dress in layers. As I bend to place the third pair of socks on, I appreciate whoever the talented person was who knitted them by hand. My toes will likely be numb by mid-morning but at least less so with the wool socks in my rubber boots. Descending the stairs, I watch the man I have loved and looked up to as my hero all of my life.
This past year has been a rough one. Loved ones lost, friends lost, and many family and friends ill have taken its toll on all of us. The thing about grief though is that as you go through it, you also become softer and more appreciative of everyone and everything around you. Despite my grogginess, as I watch my daddy busy in his own morning rituals, my eyes begin to fill a bit. This man has been not had it easy. He has been getting up at 4:00 a.m. most of his life and the sea has flowed through his blood and sweat since he was a child. He has always had to work for everything. Both he and my mom have. A quick pain in my lower gut reminds me that I don’t tell either of them enough how amazing they are. My own personality is a balance of both of them—my temper, my tenacity, my love of home and my often, too soft-heartedness. But, it is too early to be so sentimental and as all this processes in a matter of seconds, it is pushed back as my dad turns to smile at me.
“Sure you want to head out this morning? Looks like it will be a good day, but you know you never know what it will be like outside.”
“Yup.”
“Grab something to eat then. I’m heading down to cut up some bait. By the time you eat, I’ll be ready.”
He heads out the door and the smell of the eggs both makes me hungry and makes my tummy protest at the same time.
Every summer I go through this. The first few days on the water is tough on the belly—and the head. Living in Florida throughout the year along with the change in temperatures, takes some getting used to. It takes about ten days to become acclimated again. And of course, talking and drinking wine with my mom into the wee hours of the morning the night prior is not a good combo with cold air and rolling waves. I decide on one egg and some toast to hopefully quiet my stomach on all counts. I pour some hot tea and take a sip. Nope. Just the taste makes my intestines protest. Water it is. I grab a sleeve of saltine crackers and put it next to my oil jacket. I might need them later.
As I watch him, I think how strong this 76-year-old man is. Again, in seconds, I glimpse the fish house and wharf and think how he has been doing this since he was 12 years old.
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This is my second time out since I have been home. It was a tad “loppy” the first time. “Loppy” is my father’s word—it means choppy, with white cap waves to the rest of us. Further translation would include six-foot-high rolls and rogue waves that can catch you off guard and steal the balance of even the steadiest pair of sea legs. Those same rolls are the ones that force your breakfast to come back on you with a vengeance and make you bend over the port side of the boat to release it. Not often, but on occasion, I have heard Daddy say, “Time to head in out of this mess.” Those are days that are not so much fun and games for land lubbers like myself. Those are days when watching the waves is better from the shore, in a parked car with a hot coffee and a friend to talk with. This is the reason the wheel house of the boat comes equipped with bars, affectionally referred to as ‘oh my shit bars’ to grab so you don’t end up topsy-turvy over the side in the ocean. I have held on to them on more than one time myself.
Being a girl doesn’t give you any grace either, but sometimes it gives you bragging rights. After a week of fishing, one’s stomach and legs become more adept and strong. This is important because sometimes the calmest of mornings can quickly turn when the sun rises and the winds come up or if the tides are running and changing. One morning last year we set out on placid waters. I took pictures that morning watching the sun begin to rise on the horizon as we steamed out to deep water. Within two hours, the tides changed and winds came up that were not in the forecast. As we were out in deep water, the waves quickly grew to heights of 12 feet. That meant one moment you could see all sky followed by drops where you could only see water. With every drop, your intestines drop too.
That day, in particular, we had gone past a rocky shoal and when the tides changed, so did the currents and waves forcing us into deeper water to round the island in order to return. That meant a few minutes of ‘badness.’ This is where the bragging rights came in. Although I still think part of my stomach is on the other side of the island, I managed to keep my morning toast and tea intact. Many others didn’t, so Daddy was quite proud of his land-lubber girlie that day and still talks about it. The off side to that is now when the squeamishness starts in the beginning of the season I have to live up to it. Coming alongside other fishermen, I swear I will swallow any reflux rather than get sick in front of any of them. Pride? Yes. My daddy is proud of me and that’s how it will remain and I will be miserable to maintain it. Even this past few days, the first day out I did not keep my tea down. Daddy would never betray me though even though I admitted my lack of gut strength.
This morning, before we have even pulled away from the wharf my innards are at war with my pride and brain. Little does this strong man know that I am saying every prayer, calling on every angel, and using every type of mental therapy I know to prepare myself to keep my breakfast down and keep him safe another day.
We don’t talk much when we are fishing. Not anything like lake fishing when you stay quiet as to not scare the fish but just the opposite. The roar of the engine and the sound of the waves crashing against the boat combined with the sound of the hauler makes hearing each other almost impossible.
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As I watch him, I think how strong this 76-year-old man is. Again, in seconds, I glimpse the fish house and wharf and think how he has been doing this since he was 12 years old. He had his first lobster license in 1952 with only 25 traps. He told me once the license cost him $0.25. The fish house, although now listing due to age and too many noreasters, has been there since 1948 when it was built by my grandfather. It is likely the oldest and the only original fish house in town and has been photographed and in so many beauty calendars I cannot count. The wharf was replaced after a storm surge a few years ago, but the twisted building remains. The building, like my dad, has remained due to unshakable fortitude. Both of them love the sea and accept its challenges with respect.
We pull away and head into the sunrise ahead. The wind bites at my face as I watch my father steer into the mouth of the harbor. Most of the other boats have already been out ahead of us as they have double the number of traps to haul as licensed commercial fisherman instead of part-time like my daddy. I snap a few photos on my phone at the beauty of the islands and the deep blue aqua color of the water. Clear and fascinating it may be, yet it is deceiving. Right now the temperature in the air is only 48F and the water is about 34F—numbing on the fingers when hauling wet ropes and heavy traps. Salt water freezes at 28F, so if a fisherman ends up overboard, it can be deadly. Hypothermia is a real life hazard here.
We round the entrance buoys to the harbor and get ready for the first trap in the line. Daddy gaffs the line and hooks it to a hydraulic hauler. I remember as a child as he hand hauled each trap on the side of a much smaller boat. Knowing each trap weighs about 100 pounds each or more as they are wood with weights. Daddy still uses his hand- made traps, unlike the commercial fishermen who use manufactured steel ones. Heated boughs in boiling water to soften and bend them, then placed in frames with slats, rocks and concrete for weights and hand woven netting—it is an art in itself to make them. Even most of his buoys are hand carved and painted. Each fisherman has his own colors and Daddy’s are black and white. They have been the same colors as my grandfather, and my great-grandfather before him. Each father has passed down the tradition for decades.
As the trap comes to the surface, dad grabs it to pull it on the side of the boat. We have been blessed with two lobsters in this one however, both of them must be tossed back. One measures too small and the other is “seeded” or covered in eggs. Daddy gently drops the seeded female back over the side and I think how gentle and respectful he is with the same creatures that provide his way of life. The trap is baited with fresh fish, then dropped back over the side to move on to the next one. So far my part of the job is hanging on and watching. Soon enough the next trap brings us three good size lobsters and I begin my work banding them and placing them in water to keep them alive until we return home. So on goes our day.
My daddy is singing. He is always singing or humming. He is shaking his hands as his fingertips are going numb.
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We don’t talk much when we are fishing. Not anything like lake fishing when you stay quiet as to not scare the fish but just the opposite. The roar of the engine and the sound of the waves crashing against the boat combined with the sound of the hauler makes hearing each other almost impossible. As I watch dad drop the newly baited trap and enter the wheel house, I realize the line is caught in the hauler pad. I yell, but he doesn’t hear me. I stumble, trying to keep my balance to loosen it, and just get it out before the line goes taut. Dad glances back at me with a look of concern and I mouth that the line was caught. He nods and reminds me to watch my feet.
More than a few lobster fishermen have been pulled over the side by curled lines catching them up around their feet. Some have drowned. Some have hit their heads on the way out, others have had heart attacks or were unable to get back in the boat and died of hypothermia. Unfortunately, this has happened to some of those we know and love. It is a hell of a way to make a living and holds a lot of dangers. Yet, those I know don’t complain. The people that do this every day deserve respect even more than the level of respect they themselves hold for the sea. She doesn’t care who she takes but they care what She gives them in return.
By now the sun is up and so are the light winds. No more are the waters placid, but they are still not rough by any means. This is my favorite kind of day on the water. We are already half way through what needs to be hauled but we will be late returning today as there is a storm forecasted in the next two days. This means currents, tides, and a rolling sea. This also means the traps closest to the shore rocks need to be moved out further so they do not get destroyed.
My daddy is singing. He is always singing or humming. He is shaking his hands as his fingertips are going numb. I layered my gloves this morning so my hands are good, but my toes are in pain. Banding the lobsters, my hands get cold too, but I am not constantly handling the wet lines and traps. Dad’s tune is interrupted by the radio. I can’t make sense out of most of what is said at the best of times, but now with the waves growing and smacking the boat sides, I only hear noise. A sudden tightness comes across my abdomen and a sick taste arises in my mouth.
This is how it happens. None of this turning green or pale for me—just all of a sudden it can hit. I look over at dad and he is paying no mind to me. I try to focus on something else and organize my bands so they are easier to pick up. That is my mistake. Looking down the tightness comes again and it is all I can do to hold off from vomiting like I have the bird flu. I look back at daddy again, and I realize he is not oblivious to me. He looks at me with furrowed brows and asks, “You feeling OK hon? Want to go back in? I don’t want you to get sick.”
As we head back across the harbor to our own wharf, my own eyes begin to well up. There will be a time when I will no longer have this in my life; when someone else may own this little piece of rugged paradise.
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I shake my head no because I can’t open my mouth in fear of projectile puking on him. I stare and wonder, ‘how the hell does he do this all the time?’ He asks again if I am sure and I nod with as much energy as I can muster and even manage a partial smile. I am rewarded with his smile and a comment, “Well, just say the word. Don’t be a martyr.”
The writer in me comes to the rescue and actually calms me with laughter.
“Martyr,” I think to myself. That comment could be sarcasm or irony. After all, one can only become a martyr if they die. Perhaps I looked worse than I thought.
Managing to somehow will myself not to throw up, I only burp, thankfully. A few moments pass and we move on to calmer waters in the harbor. I am not out of the woods yet, or in this case the waves, I realize. However, I think it’s manageable.
The next two lines of traps are pulled. Four left to go in a short line ahead. My stomach is no longer fighting a civil war with me and I am able to focus on what I need to do. Daddy is once again smiling and humming. I now smile too. I know I have made it through another morning and Dad can be proud I did not upchuck.
As we finish and steam into the harbor to prepare to sell our morning catch, I once again feel my dad stare at me. I can’t be sure but I think his eyes are watering. I look at him shrugging my shoulders in question and he just laughs and turns away shaking his head. I look around as the scenery of the rocks change and houses and wharves come into view. I think to myself, how funny and ironic life is. When I was a teenager I couldn’t wait to leave this small town. Now as an adult, I count the days when I can return and stay here. The grass is always greener or something like that I guess.
We pull up to the wharf and the busyness catches up to us. We fill the crates with the lobsters, fuel up and I clean the boat of the kelp, seaweed, and snails that have built up over the morning haul. Bets on the amount we have and jokes about this and that create laughter all around us as we push off toward home.
As we head back across the harbor to our own wharf, my own eyes begin to well up. There will be a time when I will no longer have this in my life; when someone else may own this little piece of rugged paradise. I grab the lines to tie up our little big boat and get ready to jump on the wharf. I do so and look down at the silver haired man looking up at me with a grin like a child free to buy anything in a candy shoppe. He looks at me as if I am the greatest girl ever. I smile because I know I can do no wrong with this man. I smile because he can do no wrong period. He is and always be my hero. My Daddy.
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Photo: GettyImages
Love this! Hope my daughters will think of their dad out fishing like you do 🙂
Love this so much! Speaks to my heart.