Friday, March 22, 2019
The Old Man
The old man….
I don’t know
why he came to mind today, after all these years. I remember him as a frail,
soft spoken old man. He must have been in his eighties. Never said much to anyone, but to me he was
always a kind- and good-hearted old gentleman.
In my mind’s eye, I can see him now, heading out
to work his trot line. He always left later in the morning than all those other
guys. He wasn’t trying to keep up with or follow anyone, He just seemed content
following his own path.
I can see his friendly weathered, craggily
lined face. His fine white hair ruffled by the breeze. Steering that scruffy ole
tuck stern boat of his, laying his trotline in nearly the same spot every day.
The boat was surely an antique, but you could
tell she was well cared for. Sure, she could use a coat of paint maybe, but
there was still plenty of life in her.
There was a “Palmer one lunger” gas engine for
power. A real museum piece even back then! It was loud! No muffler, just an
open pipe poked out the side of the engine box.
There was no
transmission or reverse gear, when he got where he wanted to go, he just killed
the engine and let her drift.
I was always fascinated by the lines of that
boat, she had that low slung “hunting” cabin complete with those little
portholes on the sides. She was built during the time when engine began to
replace sail. She would have looked perfectly normal with a mast and a bowsprit.
There was a
transom hung rudder with a rusty steel steering quadrant open on the aft deck. The
tiller ropes (leftover, scrap pieces of trot line) by means of pullies and
fairleads ran all the way around the boat. First to a small galvanized ship’s
wheel with wooden handles and a wooden spool for the ropes to turn on, this was
mounted on the aft bulkhead of the cabin. The lines then led further aft to a homemade
wooden tiller.
This simple design completed the steering
apparatus. The boat could be easily steered while working his trot line or when
running back to port. He had an ancient box compass to steer by in case the fog
set in.
Wooden running light screens sat on top of the
cabin, wires poked up through them to reach the fixtures. I’m quite sure those
lights hadn’t worked in years! The old man, he always left the dock in daylight
and was always back in well before dark.
Sturdy
looking tongue and groove doors on the back of the cabin opened to the gloomy
interior. The cabin really wasn’t big enough to sit in, just a place to keep
your lunch dry, maybe stow your oilskins and an extra jacket. There was a couple of those old timey cork
life vests in there and a glass gallon jug for drinking water. An aged wooden
toolbox with some rusty tools completed the picture.
He had
rigged an “awning” made from canvas and some poles. This stretched out the
length of the cargo hold, providing shade both for him and for the crabs he
caught. The summer sun glaring off the calm river could be brutal at times.
He
kept his trotline in a wooden pickle barrel. A “cotton line” we always called it. Much
lighter than what the other crabbers would use. He would cast a slipknot in it
every fathom[1] or
so to hold the chopped-up eels we used for bait. The trotline was about 3
furlongs[2]
in length and weighted at each end.
“Bleach jugs” for buoys marked each end of the line.
The roller
that hung over the side of the boat was fashioned from some 2 X 4 lumber and
the rollers out of a cast aside wringer washing machine. They made the best
rollers!
The trot line was hooked on the rollers as the
boat slowly steered along. Them big ol Jimmy crabs would hang on until they got
up close where you could dip em. With a hand dipnet they were scooped up and
deposited into the boat.
We’d always
watch out for him, puttering on out to the river in the mornings. He’d catch a
few bushels of crabs, then head back in in the afternoons. He would load his
catch onto a rusty and creaky old Ford pick-up and haul up to the Packing
Company to sell.
After the
day’s work the line was carefully baited, salted and faked (coiled) down into
the barrel just so, ready for the next day’s work.
In his day
he was a tough old bird, It was said the old man was one of the last Schooner
men. He was a Captain, spending his youth at sea. He had hauled cargo up and
down the East Coast, New England and New York right on down to the islands of
the Caribbean. He even ran watermelons and produce up and down the bay on the
Bugeyes when they roamed the bay.
He sailed
for the Merchant Marine in the “Great War’ and even had a ship blown out from
under him once. The story was that he spent a week or so drifting in a raft
before he was finally picked up. He stayed at sea until the threat was gone,
until his country no longer needed him.
So, we
watched over this old man until one day we found that old boat adrift. The
engine was shut down and everything aboard was in place. The old man was
nowhere to be seen.
We all took
to our boats to search for him, yet it was still several days before we could
find his body, before the Bay would release him to us.
I realize
now, what a treasure he was to our community. He had no family, but we were all
his family.
He was laid
to rest behind the old church. The whole island turned out to say their
goodbyes to him.
We towed
that old boat up back creek and left her there to die. Her planks and frames
slowly return to the bay that spawned her. Her bones make a home to all the creatures that call the marsh
home. Yet that old man lives on.
I can see him
now, steering that old boat out the river, his white hair stirred by the breeze
and his kindly, wrinkled old face looking back to me.
Joe Phillips
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
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