Seaworthy by Linda Greenlaw

Author:Linda Greenlaw
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-05-08T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 9

The Grand Banks Bubble

Light westerly wind teased up the ocean’s surface to just beyond ripples. The rising sun shone across and through, rather than down upon, the surface that flickered in flamelike, yellow squirming shimmers. It was unusually clear and calm for this late in the Grand Banks season. I had always been thankful for good weather. But more so today, since great conditions would be appreciated as the five of us ironed out wrinkles that had set in during a decade of storage. Mornings are gung ho at this longitude, fully alert and broadly lit while daylight to the west is still sleeping soundly. I had been up for an hour when I pulled on my knee-high rubber boots. As I stepped from the fo’c’sle onto the deck, I took in a gulp of cool air and exhaled a sigh of warm anticipation. This was day one in the persistence and determination that defined Linda Greenlaw. No matter what this haul produced—good or bad—it was only one day of many to come. Nevertheless, the first haul of any trip can be a defining pacesetter. A slow start could amount to a marathon, while a great day could mean a sprint to a quick finish. I had competed in a few hundred-yard dashes in my career. But most races required a little more leg and wind.

The first haulback would be primarily a physical test. I wondered if muscles had memory that could stretch to bridge a ten-year gap. Or would my physical ability be more like an old piece of pot warp left to dry out in the sun, faded and kinked beyond usefulness? Although I’d been tending lobster traps since my departure from blue-water fishing, my inshore life on the water was tamer in many ways. When I wake up at home to a screeching gale, I pull the covers over my head and wait for a better chance to haul my traps, with a comfort level enhanced by the thought that the traps are getting an extra night to fish. That is not an option offshore. If gear is in the water, it must be hauled back aboard or be lost. It’s that simple. I am physically weaker than I was at thirty-seven. But I was confident that I could indeed work smarter and not harder, a combination that might make me more efficient than the younger, tougher me. This work would certainly lead to some sore muscles. I actually looked forward to some aches and charley horses. Like the emotional/psychological element, the physical component needed to fish for sword is more endurance than sheer strength. And I have always been more of a distance runner than a sprinter in terms of work.

Last night I’d given the crew the option of a wake-up call that would allow them time for breakfast. And all but Machado had agreed that they would indeed like to get up when I did. Machado wanted the extra thirty minutes in his rack, evidence that he was my only true veteran.

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