The Dock Chronicles

 

Glen Davis Foss

2012

 

 

If you are reading these stories, there is a pretty good chance that we’re related. And if we are, then there’s a damn good chance that you are a hard working, good looking, above average human being.  No brag, just fact… that’s who we are.  As they say tongue in cheek on the waterfront, “We’re kinda slow, but we don’t steal.”  I figure we must be related because probably nobody, other than blood, would have an inclination to read my ramble. 

These stories were written over the course of two summers working on Custom House Wharf on the waterfront in Portland, Maine and were originally posted on my blog. The blog address, if it still exists, is www.gdfoss.blogspot.com .  The story of who we are and how we got to this point is written and published in the book Broken Open by the author Elizabeth Lesser in a story entitled “Before and After”.

Writing is something I picked up in my 50’s as a way of collecting my thoughts following some life events that pretty much scattered my thoughts.  I’ve enjoyed writing these stories and have experimented with some different writing techniques and styles. It’s no great American novel. But it is my gift to you.

My father, Frank Waldo Foss, gathered the genealogy of the family and I have attempted to keep it current and pass it forward. It is a remarkable collection of details about who we are and where we came from, but it lacks much of the spice of life. I would have so enjoyed a collection of flavorful stories from my ancestors. That’s my intention.

And so my family, present and future, I hope you enjoy these stories from the Maine waterfront. These places, these people are your roots. Be proud. Do good work. Love each other.

Roots

 

Only that day dawns to which we are awake.
- Henry David Thoreau-

 

It was a world I had only imagined and the bounds of my imagination were found puny in the savagely scared, awesomely beautiful face of reality.  It was a world that I was determined to enter and finally experience firsthand.

From earliest memory, the picture of the “waterfront” had been painted in my mind.  Stories told at the knees of our grandfathers and great grandfather as we sat on the floor by their rocking chairs as children.  Tales of life on the rugged, rockbound coast of Maine and of working on the water; of the lives of our ancestors, 13 generations in all, of stories told to them by those who had come before, fading back into memories mist like silent ships sailing into a foggy sea.

Our mother’s family were fishermen, had always earned their sparse existence, in one way or another, on the waterfront, most of which involved backbreaking, mind numbing labor.  Proud people, family people who loved living with the smell of salt in the air.  The waterfront work was certainly not limited to men-folk, most certainly not. 

There were stories from mother of digging clams and quahogs, blood worms and mussels following the ancient cycles of the moon and the tide, slogging in the sweet smelling mudflats, hod and rake clenched in hand, walking deliberately, pulling high rubber boots heel first from the muck, breaking the suction of the slime tugging always downward, embracing all, reclaiming all into the primordial ooze.

There were stories from uncles of pulling traps from the ocean floor filled with snapping, scrambling lobsters and crabs, prehistoric scavenging creatures intent on recycling dead and dying flesh of any kind, back into the muck; riding the swells in wooden boats, baiting the traps, setting the strings, sorting the catch and pegging the claws, avoiding the reefs and the rocks, enduring the bitter cold and the cutting winds.

There were favorite stories from our grandfather of climbing the spars of the 6 masted sailing vessels to rig the sheets and secure the lanyards, leaving the shoals for deep water, no land in sight for months.  Seining for herring, long lining for swordfish and tuna, hauling nets filled with herring, pogies and haddock, chasing the monstrous right whales up and down Georges Banks.  And of outbound cargoes straining with giant blocks of granite and massive logs of pine, homeward bound holds loaded with coal and wooden barrels of molasses.

Our great-grandfather descended into the black, icy depths, copper hard hat affixed to heavy canvas and rubber suit, tethered by ropes and air hoses to set the pilings or salvage the shipwreck or lay the cables.  Wild tales of giant eels so thick in number that he would turn out his headlamp so as to not see their snakelike bodies completely surround him; of dangerous jobs, of injury, of death avoided by skill and strength and luck; a special breed of men.

There were stories from many, both men and women, of building Liberty Ships during the war; welders, galvanizers, riveters and riggers; of greasing the ways to slide the monstrous, gray metal hulls into the waves.  And of women and children running to the cutting houses at the sound of the company whistle to meet the fishing boats, to cut, cook and can the herring, working for pennies or food for the table.

Our father’s family were relative newcomers to the coast, having scraped their livings for eight generations past out of the rocky Maine soil as farmers or as woodsmen cutting the massive spruce and fir from the forests, twitching the logs to river with horses and floating the rafts to mills downstream.  And they worked the brutal mills cutting lumber and cooking the wood pulp with noxious chemicals in order to make the paper.  But our father and his father both eventually found their livelihood on the waterfront where gigantic oil tankers tied up to offload their cargo of Venezuelan, African and Arabian crude oil.

As a boy, I had dug clams and worms and pulled lobster pots, fished off the wharf for mackerel and bluefish, enjoyed the bounty of the sea.  And I had spent several summers while in school working as a painter on the massive oil tanks and under the piers repairing rusty pilings.

But never anything quite like what I was about to embark upon; never as deeply immersed in the waterfront of my heritage.  And it opened my eyes to a world that, despite my heritage and the stories of my life, I could not have imagined.

 

"All life is a chance. So take it! The person who goes furthest is the one who is willing to do and dare."   -Dale Carnagie-

The Journey

“It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Bilbo Baggins ~ J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

 

When the kids were out of college and employed, when the jobs wound down, when the tumor was cut out and tested benign, when the plates and screws were removed and our son’s leg was saved, when we had buried my parents and Connie's dad, when the house closed and we sold our “stuff”, the window opened.  And we took the leap.

For the first time in our adult lives, we were debt free, un-tethered from most material things and without a long term plan. Wild, exhilarating, terrifying freedom.

What do “Boomers” do with our lives when we finally have the reigns in our hands?  Do we move to a 55 plus community in Florida and learn to play golf.  Do we throw ourselves into community involvement and volunteering?  Do we become totally involved in the lives of children and grandchildren?  Yes.  We do all of those things.

But, for others, dreams have become amplified, super charged, tinged with craziness, outrageous.  Freedom mainlined directly into the vein, hard core addiction and the road to recovery, to “normalcy”, sometimes takes years.  It has been so for us.

We have been driving around America in our Chrysler mini-van, watching life flow, in the words of Steinbeck, “hearing the speech… smelling the grass” for the past five years.  And what an adventure it has been.  There has been much to discover as we learned the rules of the road, lessons that we willingly offer to others who share the dream.  And there are many.  The words we most often hear when talking with folks along the road are, “I wish I could do that...” and “That's my dream...”

Understand this is not an adventure for the faint of heart.  There is a price to pay for unfettered freedom.  There is loneliness and guilt. There is fearful second guessing and physical discomfort.  There is regret. In truth, these co-dependent vestiges follow us throughout our lives. We have discovered the work to be done to be free of these anchors is the journey and that there is no better time and place to take them on than while on our wondrous adventure.  For us, it is all about the joyful journey.

 

      We were in Utah, camping in the National Parks, when my cousin called and offered me an opportunity to spend the summer working on the waterfront in his lobster and bait businesses.  I leaped at the offer.  It was a “bucket list” item, high on the list.  We quickly packed the van and headed “back East”.

     Speed and flexibility, the ability to quickly grasp what life has to offer, the advantages of traveling light...

  

"All you have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given to you."

~Gandalf ~ J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings~

 

 

The Waterfront

“Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success.”

~Albert Schweitzer~

Work starts early on the docks, 4:00 AM. Yesterday it rained and blew... hard.  We couldn't even see Pipeline Pier 2 across Casco Bay.  But the lobster boats still went out.  This morning the sunrise lit up the sky Down East and the boats lined up trying to capitalize on a rare day of good weather.

The fishermen looked at me, the new guy, with caution and curiosity.  I was taking notes on my pocket pad trying to make sense of the operation and one of them yelled at me, "What the hell are you writing?” I replied, "Boat names and tag numbers." "Why" he bellowed. "Just trying to learn" I said. "You don't make any sense", he huffed and turned away in disgust.

The next day he barked nastily, "Who are you?" I said "I'm with the IRS." and then chuckled at the look of horror on his face.  That took the wind out of his sails.

The 12 man crew in the bait shop were also wary of me.  They knew I was the bosses’ cousin and they thought I was there for an easy time.  But there didn't seem to be any easy jobs on the dock. I kept my mouth shut and watched the flow of work.  Filling boat orders is priority one.  Everyone drops whatever job they are on when the call goes out "BOAT!"  And between boats there is fish and salt to unload off the trucks, barrels to fill and move to the coolers, empties to hose and stack, totes to drag, slips to sort and cash to collect.  It is a fast paced, seemingly un-orchestrated circus of activity with rusted, brakeless fork trucks whizzing across the floor at full throttle, people bellowing, forking fish into totes, working the winch up and down, up and down.

Yesterday we loaded 220 barrels of bait onto trucks and boats... herring, pogies, red fish, skate, mackerel.  The mix and quality of bait is part of the art of lobster fishing I am told.  The lobster-men are a unique bunch; very secretive, wary, leathery skin and hard hands.  It is tough and dangerous work.

I made a run to the marine supply shop, picked up a dozen gloves and my "skins" and boots. First set is on the company. Rip or lose them and you buy replacements.  When I got back I suited up, punched in and pitched in shoveling herring off the floor around the conveyor.  After a few days, the crew began to see that I knew how to work and warmed up a bit.

Initially they didn't want to know much about me except if I drank beer and smoked pot.   I told them that I drank and enjoyed an occasional brownie.  I told them I worked in a paper mill and had been driving around the US for the last few years.  That seemed to satisfy them.  I kept my head down, my mouth shut and stayed busy.

I'm impressed with the way they work, staying one step ahead, anticipating, jumping into the heaviest, dirtiest jobs without hesitation or waiting for the next guy to take it on.  They are all Mainers, native sons who earn their living by the bend of their backs and skills learned on the docks, not in some ivy covered hall. Hard living and hard working.  Proud.  And I'm proud to be among them.

The Boss called me into the fly infested office after the first day on the job, concerned that I might be unhappy with the work, giving me his blessing to back away if I wanted.  I told him I was happy to be there and thanked him for the job.

He said, "Well, some people don't like the dirty work, covered in blood and guts, the smell of dead fish."  I laughed and said "Truthfully, my last job was working in Maine politics. It was a sewer of corruption, bloated egos and lazy bureaucrats.  Shoveling dead fish with a bunch of substance abusing ex-convicts is clean, honest work by comparison.”

“I'm staying."

 

  

 

The Zen of Shoveling Fish

“The winner is one who knows when to drop out in order to get in touch.”

~Marshall McLuhan~

 

A flash of expanded consciousness. My son, Ryan, who had spent a summer working on the dock, was right. Something Zen-like takes place while forking pogies from barrels... a rhythm... a flow.

The sunrises have been spectacular and the crew finds a few moments between the flurry of activity to watch the colors develop in the morning sky down the bay. A couple harbor seals bob off the pier waiting for someone to toss a fish their way. The sea gulls don't wait, swooping down to steal breakfast right out of the barrels. Osprey, sea ducks, a few Lesser Bittern.

 Later in the morning, the tourists begin to line up over on the State Pier for the ferries out to the islands. The Machigonne, the Aucocisco II, the Island Romance, ferrying cars and mail, supplies and tourists out to the islands; Peaks and Long, Little Chebeague and Great Diamond.

The green offload stanchion arms at Portland Pipeline Pier One, where my father, uncle and grandfather worked, break the horizon and the massive oil tankers slowly rise out of the water as they offload their foreign cargo.

Bug Light blinks at the end of the breakwater in South Portland near my mother's memorial bench at Spring Point. Pier Two is just across Casco Bay where I spent a summer painting pilings off a float under the pier. Our grandfather used to shuck clams and row across the bay to sell them on Commercial Street in his day. And our great grandfather was a hard hat diver, constructing the underwater footings for the bridges, laying electrical lines, setting pilings. Once, just after the Spanish American War, he dove to salvage cannon balls from a sunken barge.

So much history. It seeps into everything, quietly, just a whisper.

The crew has accepted me... more or less. They call me the "old guy" and I am the oldest man though I look younger than half of them. Life on the water doesn't age a person gently.

Four of the lobstermen who steam up to the dock each morning for bait are classmates. Stan, Tim, Mick and Goat; we all went to the same high school in the 60's. Good guys although Goat and several of his buddies punched me out in fifth grade in the corner of the bath room at Thornton Heights Elementary School when we moved back to Maine from Vermont in 1962. Not that I hold grudges, but I am tempted to drop a tote of herring on his head. Vengeance is best served cold the saying goes... but 50 years later would be ridiculous. Still...

I listen a lot. Conversations range from which jail serves the best food to which bars serve the cheapest beer to which video games have the best graphics to which marijuana has the best buzz. And, of course, lots of twisted sex talk.

One of the crew got arrested the other night. It was 3:30 A.M. and he was walking to work. The cop said, "You're going to work?... Yeah, right!" They handcuffed him and took him to the station. It didn't help that he is Guatemalan, doesn't speak good English especially when handcuffed in the back of a cruiser and didn't have his papers on him. It also didn't help that he was drunk, although it wouldn't have impacted his work. If you can show up and stand up, you can work on the waterfront.

Another of the crew lives upstairs over the bait shop. He does speak English, but it isn't intelligible half the time. I bought him a couple beers at Bubba's, a local dive, the other day after work. We didn't talk much, but the beer was cold and the ice was broken.

Only 2 of the crew have a driver’s license. All have criminal records. One guy spent 5 years at the state penitentiary for DUI, habitual offender... 5 years. When he got out he gave it up; driving that is, not drinking.

You hear lots of stuff you never would have. Like this morning, somebody said, "Hey Ralph, you've got seagull shit on your neck."

And then there are long moments of quiet when the crew sits on the dock smoking hand rolled cigarettes, covered in slime and blood, smelling like fish, watching the sky in silence waiting for the next boat, the next truck, the next beer...

 

 

The New Guy

 

"Change and growth take place when a person risks himself and dares to become involved with experimenting with his own life"

~Herbert Otto~

 

He showed up at the bait shop at 4:00 AM looking cautious, on guard, as if he expected to be sucker punched at any moment. And a sucker punch is probably the only way anyone would ever get the draw him. New Guy was an Irish brawler, six foot, solid with scared square fists and jaw. He spoke between tight lips, perhaps self conscious of his mouth of broken, missing teeth, an occupational hazard of a previous job as a waterfront bar bouncer.

A month had passed since my turn as the new guy. As the bosses’ cousin, I had been held at arms length by the crew for the first week. They watched and waited to see what the hell I was. At 60,  I was the oldest man among them; Skully, the fork truck driver, with his tattoos, his off duty, black leather vest and dew rag was the only other 50-something on the crew, the rest in their 20’s and 30’s, maybe early 40’s. It was hard to tell. The working waterfront in Maine is a harsh environment and men don’t age well in it.

I shamelessly bought coffee and after work beers to crack the ice with these guys. That, and quietly worked my ass off. There was no job too wet and slimy that I wouldn't jump into. And these guys do an incredible amount of hard, dirty work. Shoveling dead fish, spraying out totes of guts and blood, rolling 500 pound barrels of bait, slime and viscera pouring over your skins and boots, immersed in lobster bait, smelling like something only a codfish could love.

The real test had been whether I would keep my mouth shut when they lit up their pot pipes out back on the loading dock at 6:30 AM or found booze in a coffee cup. In full skins and boots, I doubted I would float long off the end of the dock. Keeping my mouth shut was more than just wanting to be “one of the guys”.

By the second week, they worked me into their system. My primary value to them was to do the paperwork filling out bait slips tracking the barrels and totes of pogies, herring, redfish and mackerel winched down onto the decks of the boats, collecting the money. And in between shoveling fish off the floor, reefing on barrels and forking bait into totes.

By the third week, I watched in fascination as the waist of my pants became loose and the flab in my neck and face dissolved. My hands, soft from two years of driving around the country, calloused and toughened from daily exposure to the salt brine and manual labor. The pain in my muscles dulled, constant but livable, as I cut back on the Tylenol. Every now and then, I would tell a story from the road or from my years in the paper mill, another difficult work place. They listened, laughed, added another piece to the puzzle of the “old guy” in their midst.

At 4:00 AM the smell of alcohol is strong on their breath, even among the all pervasive stink of fish. Bleary eyed and hacking, the crew ramped up slowly as the boats and trucks lined up for loading and unloading. These early hours were the most dangerous where the potential for getting hurt was most present. Conveyors clanging, people cussing, weaving their way across the shop floor dodging fork trucks carrying over-filled pallets of blue and white  plastic barrels, a  dangerous ballet of orange slickers in the morning dawn.

The Foreman is a yeller. It’s how he is heard above the clamor. And it’s how he runs the job. All those lectures at the MIT business school about participative management and an empowered workforce go right out the window here. From long years, the boss has learned how to keep this crew on their toes and as safe as possible. And in spite of the verbal barrage, they take ownership of their work, anticipating, back-filling, keeping things running at a frantic pace.

There is a hierarchy, a pecking order among them as there are with all groups of men. A few of the crew are only expected to accept abuse from the boss and they do it with a low grumble. Other guys take flack from all directions and the New Guy is among them. Brian, a Portland Irishman, spent 5 years in the state penitentiary for conviction as a “habitual offender”. The prison tattoo on his forearm is an outline of the state of Maine…behind bars. “Cost me $15.” He announced.  Early in the morning the men rarely let him operate the winch, concerned about dropping the massive barrels on the heads of the lobstermen 25 feet below the loading dock on the wharf . But they do voice their frustration when he drops barrels and spills fish and guts across the dock. In the 80’s, before the state closed the fishery, Brian was an urchin diver risking his life in the ice cold waters in the jagged rocky shallows collecting the spiny Echinozoa for their roe so valued in Asian cultures. He bears scars from the ordeal..

Alex, a thin, 6 foot 3”, 21 year old college kid is trying to sort out his life. He knows a lot about weed, how to grow it, where to get it, about the “beasties” and the “headies”, “northern lights” and “shwag”. For this, especially, and for his work ethic, he has earned a place and the respect of the crew. College in Montana didn’t work out primarily due to his preoccupation with snowboarding and weed. He talks about returning to school, but hasn’t decided

5 ft 2” Jairo is the shortest man on the crew. The 34 year old, green card carrying Guatemalan lives in a room on Congress Street, sending money back to his 11 year old son who lives with his widowed mother. He speaks broken English and works with rapid movements, quick to smile, consuming a twelve pack after work each day. Last year he propositioned an undercover female police officer for sexual services and was deported for six months. Last week the police stopped him at 3:30 AM as he was walking to work. He didn’t have his papers in order and they didn’t believe anyone would be going to work at that hour, so they handcuffed him and took him to the station. At that point his command of the English language failed him entirely and it took him a few days to sort things out. When he finally got back to work, he waited until we were alone on the dock. “You got money? I have $20? I pay you back Saturday.” And he did… again in private. Every now and then during the day he points out things and teaches me the Spanish words. Craig took him out to breakfast once and afterwards Jairo stood and said “God bless you sir for work.” Craig says it’s the only time anyone on the waterfront has blessed him. Usually he is cussed for the low boat prices the fishermen collect for their catch, for the price of bait, for the weather. He takes all manner of blame.

Ralph is 28, a massive 260 pound guy who does the work of 3 men. Always quick with a quip or snide remark, he wears an iPod he bought at the pawn shop and sings loudly. He lives in a motel in Lewiston with his girlfriend of 8 years and two $600 Persian cats. Last year he ran into a string of bad luck,, lost his job and his house, lost his license and got arrested for possession. There is a warrant out on him and he talks about saving up $1600 to pay it off so he doesn’t have to live like a fugitive. He and Mike smoke dope throughout the day as well as before and after work as they drive up and down the interstate. Today he was hurting. His woman left him and his pain was an open book upon his face. Mike says she went back to turning tricks.

Dave has hollow black eyes, is toothless, pony tailed. When the economy was good he worked as a carpenter and the boss relies on his skills to fix doors smashed by brakeless fork trucks and to rewire drills and pumps. He spent 4 years as a gunner in a tank with the US Army. Tall and thin, he has great physical strength and a sharp intellect despite a life of hard drinking. He meant for me to hear his mocking comment about something I said and laughed when I repeated his words back to him with a wink later in the day. Last week, I went shopping at the Salvation Army Thrift Store for more work clothes. My wife has taken to throwing away some of my clothes which smell so bad. I found a nice Go Army ball cap and picked it up for a couple bucks. The next day I tossed it at him, said “I’d wear it… but I’d be a poser if I did.” Today he headed out the door after work wearing his good shirt and the hat. He glanced at me and tipped the brim.

Mike is a walking contradiction. He has an outstanding work ethic, a quick mind and is an excellent fork truck operator. He has a wife, 3 children and he owns a home in Lewiston. He is addicted to video games and marijuana. On Saturdays, he stays up all night playing games online and getting high. From Sunday through Friday, he just gets high. A while back, he fell asleep at the wheel and hit a guard rail on his way home. He’s a talkative 35 year old and he loves the waterfront. It fits him. He aspires to be the lead man. Had life offered him a just little slack, he would have been that and so much more.

At 54, Skully is the senior man on the crew and has worked the waterfront for 30 years. 5 foot 6”, toothless with long gray hair worn in a pony tail under his backwards baseball cap, he could pass for 70. He has lived in a room above the bait shop for the past 5 years and runs a fork truck and the winch with pride. Moody and foul mouthed, he cusses his way through the day, yelling at everyone indiscriminately. Skully lost a thumb and his index finger to a wood splitter 20 years ago. On the back of that hand is a jailhouse tattoo “13 ½”. One morning after his coffee, when he is always in a better mood, I asked what it meant. He raised his middle finger, on his good hand, and croaked “12 for the jury, 1 for the judge, and a half assed chance of parole.” Every week he runs out of money and pawns his prized possession, a gold necklace with an anchor pendant, for $50, paying $60 to get it back a few days later after payday. He was excited today for his check, crowed “Ma-hahaha! I’m gonna get druuunnnnk!” He attempts to curb his foul mouth when the Bosses wife come into the shop and apologizes when he swears within earshot. She says that he is the only man on the crew who has ever done so. 

The days are long and often hard. It is cool in the shop where hoses flow constantly, flushing the totes and conveyors, washing the blood and guts down the holes in the floors. On the docks, the weather prevails. Some days the sun is blazing and uncomfortable and we fry in our skins. Other days we suit up in full gear against the wind and driving rain. Favorite days are gray and overcast when the crew will gather on a break to watch the sky, the boats and ferries maneuvering around the piers, sitting on barrels smoking hand rolled cigarettes, often in silence.

There is a resignation among then. Life has not turned out as they had hoped. But they do not complain. They know there are much worse places they could be. They have been to those places.

New Guy looked like he would fit in with the crew, but he is slow to jump in when work needs to be done. He’s not lazy, just cautious, watching the crew and the work flow. He had worked as a tree climber, swinging high in the air with a chain saw, had learned caution from experience. He’s nobody’s fool.

Still, the crew ethic has no tolerance for back-hangers. Yesterday Dave barked at him, “If you’re not going to do anything, go back inside”… and he did. It stuck in his craw and he repeated the insult facetiously several times during the morning. His mind is sharp as is his tongue. Had his family of origin been different, he could have easily been the CEO of some company. One day he said, “I wish I could just do it all again. I would have paid more attention.” 

He looked rough this morning at 4:00, hung-over or still drunk, and they gave him the dirtiest job, standing under the huge bins of slimy fish as they dumped into the hopper, covering him with gore as he hosed out the totes. He walked out onto the dock after an hour, cigarette in his mouth, eyes glazed and hard, his face set in a dark scowl. “What’s up, Mick.” I said. “Just living the dream”, he answered. I chuckled at his dark sarcasm. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the ebbing tide as the sun rose in spectacular pinks and reds down the bay.

As he turned to walk back inside he stared straight ahead into space with distant eyes and spoke low, more of a growl.

“The dream is dead…” 

  

“Nature is saturated with deity.”

- Ralph Waldo Emerson -

 

Don't Molest the Fish

"Take your walk-about before you end up walker-bound."
-Steve Shea-

“Fish or cut bait”. The phrase has a whole new meaning for me.

Mike didn't show up for work yesterday or today. He lasted one week. The crews’ reaction is interesting... as if he didn't exist. There are lots of interesting quirks. For instance, no one makes eye contact or says much for the first hour or so, just keep their heads down and get the job done.

There are two electric drills near the loading dock for drilling holes in the plastic barrels in order to hook them to the winch cable and lower them onto the boats. Of course, you're standing in water and even the rubber boots and gloves don't prevent the occasional electrocution. Usually it is mild, sometimes moderate, but yesterday the drill had been dropped into a barrel of fish guts so when you pulled the trigger you got 110 volts direct, strong enough so that even the toughest couldn't endure it.

We laughed behind our gloves when the Boss marched over and picked up the drill "Bunch of sissies" he growled as he pushed the trigger. The jolt threw him backwards, caused his arms and hands to convulse and his eyes to bulge. He turned around and stormed away. "Dry that thing out" he yelled over his shoulder.

The most often asked question from the fishermen is not about the bait or the prices. It's "What's today's date?" They work hard and the days blend together. Today I answered, "It's Tuesday the 28th." "July?" he asked. I nodded. He shrugged and muttered “Couldn’t tell it by the weather..."

Today one of the guys got a letter from the IRS. He can't read, but he understood the number. $3,500 back taxes and penalty for 1999, 2000 and 2001. And he hasn't filed for the past 7 years either.

There is no city water, no city sewer, but there is a hopper. Where it goes, we don't ask. Beside the hopper is a 55 gallon barrel with a submersible pump in it which we fill with salt water from a hose. The discharge hose flows into the tank of the toilet. You have to turn on the light switch in order to turn on the pump and you get shocked if you don't wear gloves. Water sprays all over the floor, the walls are rotting, the ceiling falling down. It smells worse than a barrel of skate... well, maybe not that bad. On the wall is a typed notice in a dirty, plastic sleeve. It says, "Employees must wash hands before returning to their station." What a joke!

During brief periods of down time the guys goof off. They bowl with pogies, play soccer with herring, huck them at the back of each other’s heads and at sea gulls.

The Boss walked by and growled, "What did I tell you guys! Don't molest the damn fish!"

 

 

 

Dock Talk

"Time you enjoy wasting was not wasted."

~John Lennon ~

After 2 weeks of searching, the offshore trawlers located the herring schools and we have been busy offloading and salting down 150,000 pounds of fish. Makes for long and busy days.

The early morning hours are spent tending boats and getting set up for the operation; fueling the fork trucks, setting out pallets, organizing tools and gear, assigning work details. Once the pumping of the fish begins off the boats and the big 2000 pound exactas are being filled, the sea gulls join the party in great numbers.

They are so thick and aggressive that it looks, all the world, like the Alfred Hitchcock movie "The Birds". Sea Gulls swoop and fight, squawking loudly, swallowing the spilled herring whole, attacking each other trying to force one another to disgorge their prize. They fly frantically around the bait shop, big Black Backed Gulls swooping clockwise and Herring Gulls counter clockwise, dodging and weaving, an aerial dog fight, so to speak. For kicks, the crew throws fish, sometimes with cans attached with string to watch them swinging from the beaks of the flying birds.

Ralph caught a sea gull trapped between some bait barrels. He held it firmly, proudly as he showed it the crew. Suddenly, in a flash, the bird lashed back and clamped his lower lip firmly in its beak. He screamed loudly, painfully as he vainly attempted to pull it off his face, finally just letting it go and it flew away. The crew exploded into hysterical, hacking, eye watering laughter.

The conversation on the dock this morning during coffee break was about jail. Dave and Mike warned that if you are ever in jail and someone offers to give you the candy "Skittles" don't accept. There are prisoners that lick the skittles and use the colored coating for make-up, lip-stick... sex props.

Later that afternoon, one of the guys sat on the dock looking at the bay and said to nobody in particular, "I hate whales."

OK, I'll take the bait, so to speak. "Why would you hate whales", I asked.

"I don't like their attitude" he said. "They think they are better than everyone else."

 I laughed and probed further. "So I know they call you Simpson, but what's your real name?"

"Mike" he said "but I prefer my prison nickname."

"What's that", I asked.

He said "Skittles..."

“We are all bozos on the bus, so we might as well sit back and enjoy the ride.”

~Wavy Gravy~

 

The sun rose and the gray day brightened. Gray sky, gray ocean, gray weather. The boats cruised into the wharf to pick up their bait and the conversations ranged from the price of lobster, to the impending lobsterman's strike, to the fisherman’s shooting on Matinicus Island. Things are tense on the waterfront.

The boat price of lobsters (paid at the dock by the retailers) is $2.75 per pound. Demand is down with the economy and all. The lobstermen claim they can't operate profitably at below $3 a pound. So they are talking about tying up for a week, reducing supply, driving up demand. Might work. Might not. About half of them plan to keep on fishing, so probably not.

Out on Matinicus Island things are getting heated. Yesterday a 75 year old fisherman shot a younger man in the neck at the town dock in front of a Marine Resources Warden. The talk on the dock went something like this.

"Yes sir, that's valuable bottom out there. The old salt has probably be fishing that ground for 50 years. And some young buck just moved in on his fishing ground. The old guy likely said, "You set over my traps one more time, sonny-boy, and I'll shoot you in the face." The young guy probably replied, "Go piss up a rope old man. You don't own that bottom." So the old guy shot him in the neck."

The young guy is in the hospital. The old guy is out on bail. Crime of passion? Justifiable attempted homicide?

     Only on the waterfront...

  

“Muddy waters, let stand, become clear.”

~Lao Tzu~

Local Color

 

"Work is the curse of the drinking class"
Oscar Wilde

 

When we got through today at 2:00, Skully was walking down the wharf. It was a hot day and he accepted my offer of a ride in my old red truck to Bubba's Sulky Lounge down on Park Ave. Nice place. Lots of local color and characters.

I ended up drinking a beer with Randy. 42 years old. He had been on the waterfront since he was 16 and told of being out on Georges Bank in 1991 during the hurricane. You remember... The Perfect Storm? They received the may-day from the fishing vessel that was lost, the Andrea Gail. He is the stern man for German Joe on the Mary Lou III, perhaps the most seaworthy deep water lobster boat in Portland harbor.... or was, until last week. He stepped through a rotten plank and broke his ankle. Self employed, he has no workers comp, no medical insurance, no disability... on the high wire without a net. Just like most of the guys down here.

I walked back to my locked truck and spied my keys hanging from the ignition. The emotion is a sudden thud of realization, a sinking feeling of being “number than a haddock”. So, I don't see the old guy with a cane sitting in the shadows outside the bar watching me circle the truck, stupidly trying the locked doors, vainly attempting to cuss the windows down.

"Locked out." he stated the obvious. "Yup", I agreed.

"Want me to open that?" he whispered, the smell of beer strong on his breath and evident in his bleary eyes. "Yup", I agreed again.

He pulled a slim-jim from under his shirt, tucked down the leg of his pants. "Cost you a beer." he set the terms of the transaction. I shook my head and watched him work.

 He talked to the truck as he slipped the thin metal bar between the window and the door frame. " Old little truck... now where's the guard plate on the lock on this one... what year?" "94... Mitsubishi..." I answered for the truck. "Oh yeah, they have that connector rod... right about heeya." Maine through and through. He tugged gently and the lock button popped up.

"Now that's worth a Budweiser" I praised. "Frickin-A" he winked, "Cheapa than Triple A".

 Back in the bar he bragged about being a car thief even though he got caught and spent time in jail. He complained about the new high tech locking mechanisms "Getting so a guy can't make a decent living." I shook my head dumbly and consoled him," Yeah, times are hard... the economy and all."

 He was suggesting that I should set up another round as I slipped out the back. "Gotta go let the dogs out..." I called back to him. "I'll be here later" he offered.  My new best friend, the car thief...   

             

Smells

 

Human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
- T. S. Eliot -

 

Sunrise was breathtaking this morning. And there are, of course, other things that take away your breath...

When the tide is at just the right level, the stack exhaust from some of the boats blasts directly into the face of the person operating the winch. Chokes the breath from your lungs...

When redfish turns sour from sitting on the dock in the morning sun. Curls the nostrils...

The smell of fresh herring and pogies is actually sweet, pleasant to the nose

But the smell of a barrel of skate is by far the most impressive. It will paralyze your senses; cause an involuntary closure of the muscles in your throat. Literally, totally, breathtaking...

And then, there's the bathroom... 

Waterfront Justice

 

"Simplify, simplify, simplify..."

~ Henry David Thoreau ~

 

The Boss told me a story today about waterfront justice. He had noticed some lobsters missing from his tank room. Stealing is a serious charge down here, but is happens... not infrequently. And, like everything else, they have their own way of dealing with it. It is, after all, the waterfront and they have their own code of conduct and retribution.

He came around the corner from the dock and spied a scraggly haired wino wearing a long coat standing beside the tank looking furtively back and forth as he snagged lobsters from the tank and stuffed them under his coat. The Boss quietly moved in behind him and when the wino bent over to grab another lobster, grabbed him by the back of his collar and drove his head into the tank where he held him, flopping like a fish.

When he finally pulled him out, soaking wet with water dripping off the end of his nose, the Boss grabbed the Wino by the front of his coat and pulled him close to his face. He said the Wino made excellent eye contact, never wavering as the Boss told him in no uncertain terms to "never, ever come in this lobster shop again". The wino nodded his head, never broke eye contact and said, "Fair enough". End of story. Except that the Boss let him keep the lobsters. He'd paid for them with his punishment..

We worked up a load of fresh herring today. They were small and a goodly number worked their way through the flights of the conveyor and washed down the drain holes into the ocean. The seagulls flocked and 3 harbor seals circled just off the dock. We began to throw them shovels-full of tasty, fresh, bite sized fish and they put on a tremendous show diving and weaving, snagging herring at every turn.

Great day, despite the heat. As one lobsterman said, "We're gonna miss this in February... "

  

"The more I study nature, the more I am amazed at the Creator."

~Louis Pasteur ~   

The Kid

“The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
~Oscar Wilde~ 

"Props", or respect, are not given lightly on the docks. Props are earned through hard work, demonstrated skills and, to some extent, through the reputation of past deeds. Of course, reputation is a subjective thing, but that doesn't diminish the appreciation of a good story, true or not.

The "Kid" is 23 years old, 6 ft 4", 240 pounds. He's not an outstanding worker, has no discernible skills, but he tells some of the most fantastic stories I have ever heard. Both sides of his head are shaved, the remaining hair, long and black. He is Native American, Sioux and Blackfoot. The crew calls him "How".  He ignores the verbal abuse silently, stoically. He smiles as he tells his stories and when he smiles his eyes smile, too. These are his tales.

He was born on a freight train in a boxcar somewhere in the New Mexico desert. His birth certificate states that he was born in a field. His mother and father were druggies, his mother shot and killed his father and then shot herself. as did his brother. He says losing his family did not affect him much. What affected him most was the death of his dog, "the best friend I ever had..." He still grieves.

At the age of 16, he joined the Marine Corp and was sent to Iraq where he was severely wounded, losing the vision in his right eye, two knee replacements to his left knee and was shot through the chest and spine. The doctors told him he would never walk again, so he got out of bed and walked from California to Maine. He was trying to reach North Carolina, but ended up here. The crew thought that made sense because he must have been dragging that bum left leg listing him to the North.

He owns 800 acres in Montana with 1000 wild mustangs and was offered $9 million dollars for it, which he refused. His medical disability of $2,000/month goes to his daughter who lives in Russia. He can no longer see her because the last time he was there he beat up 8 police officers in a bar, was placed in a Russian prison and charged with "crimes against humanity".

Once, while he was living in the desert, he was without food for several weeks. He went to an animal shelter to get food for his dog and lived off the 50 pound bag they provided him. To this day he says he loves the taste of dog biscuits. The other morning, it was 40 degrees and he was wearing a tank top, shivering. I gave him my rain coat. Later he told me, "Thanks. It's really warm, like sleeping in a trash bag."

He is fascinated by the various animal marine life that he digs out of the fish hoppers and keeps a mental list of the different jellyfish, butterfish, skate, haddock, monkfish, eels, dogfish, crabs which he collects in a bucket and brings to me beaming, like a kid in a toy shop. He is always hungry and I share my sandwiches with him, buy him coffee.

He smokes hand-rolled cigarettes clumsily. We were discussing the Bible one day between boats and he said "I smoked the Old Testament once..."... that is he used the thin Bible parchment paper for rolling stock. One of the crew once commented, "I always thought I might like to be a college history professor... or an English professor". The Kid said "I always wanted to be a dinosaur"...

The topic of discussion one morning during coffee was scars. Skully showed his 56 stitches in his scalp and ranted about the idiot who had hit him with a beer bottle for asking for a cigarette. Another guy showed his 23 stitches from being clubbed with a pool cue, another pointed at the 6 stitches scar in his eye lid... from a fist. They looked at me wanting to hear the story from the prominent scar I have running down my neck It was a medical scar from parotid surgery in 2006. I turned my head, pointed at the scar and said "Yeah. I got this in a knife fight in Alaska". That impressed the boys. Major props... My status on the docks soared.

Why tell the truth when a perfectly good lie will do? 

 

“I cannot tell how the truth may be,
I tell the tale as told to me.”

- A Welsh Story Teller-      

 

Extremes

 

The herring boat arrived with first light, with the sea gulls and with the seals, and another day unfolded on the waterfront. The weather has been mild, but some mornings, before the sun blasts over the horizon, the mornings are cold and damp. On these days, the men dress in warm clothes and hooded sweatshirts. We stumble around in the early morning darkness looking like ancient monks trudging to Lauds.

Harbor Seals are supposed to be reclusive, but maybe these guys didn't get the memo. The 200-300 pound marine mammals spin and twirl, breach the water, sit up and beg like dogs for the fresh herring that are spilled or tossed into the water from the loading dock. When the tide is right, we lay on the dock and the seals eat fish from our outstretched hands.

The waterfront is a place of extremes. It is a place of the profound and the mundane, of breathtaking beauty and dark dysfunction. From the sights, sounds and smells of this place to the unique characters of the fishermen and the waterfront workers, their lifestyles and attitudes... extreme.

The gigantic, 15 story glistening white cruise ships arrive every day or two, shepherded to the State Pier by the small, powerful tugboats. This morning we watched the massive Queen Victoria float silently into her berth. We watch the tourists standing on the outside balconies of their staterooms, watching us. The crew marvels at the deck top water-slides, the 30 foot, poolside TV screen, the glitz of the casinos and the showrooms clearly visible through the ship windows with our binoculars. The stark contrast between these luxury vessels and their privileged passengers and the lives and living/work conditions of the men on this dock, the unprivileged, is extreme.

The tourists pour off the ships and wander around Commercial Street, wallets in hand, seeking additional stimulation. The intrepid few who walk down the potholed cobblestones of Custom House Wharf to its end invariably stop in bewilderment to peer into the door of the bait shop at the men dressed in orange skins, black boots and blue rubber gloves, shoveling fish, driving fork trucks, loading boats and flatbeds. Some hold their noses, others gag at the smell. Most are curious and would like to engage, but the men are usually not about it. The other day a tall professional man walked by dressed in an expensive suit, placing his Gucci'ed feet carefully to avoid the puddles of gore. Mikey was carrying a stinking, fly and maggot covered trash bin filled with blood soaked cardboard to the dumpster and spoke to the man who was clearly alarmed by his approach. "Wanna swap suits?" Mikey grinned. "Wh-wh-what?" said the anxious man. End of conversation.

The idea hatched one day as we sat on the dock watching the cruise ship, the tourists and the seals. These tourists would pay good money to throw herring to the seals and watch them do their thing, we figured. I roughed out a quick business plan based upon the number of cruise ships and average number of passengers, a conservative 5% participation rate and a $10 profit margin per head. The numbers were impressive so I took the next step and called the Maine Department of Marine Resources and Portland City Hall to speak with the business licensing division. The Marine Warden at DMR was encouraging. The self important woman on the end of the phone at Portland City Hall was dismissive and unhelpful.

When she eventually returned my call, she informed me that after speaking with her legal department, the decision had been reached that this business concept would not be licensed by the city. I asked her to explain the issues and concerns and, with a huff, she began. "There are several. What will you do about the trash generated?" Trash barrels, I suggested. "And what about parking?" The customers walk from the cruise ship, I explained. "Well, there is the matter of sea gulls attacking the tourists for the fish," she continued. Ah... good point I conceded... and maybe even pooping on them, heaven forbid... Yes, a tent would be needed. "And then there is the matter of their hands getting all icky from touching those nasty fish. What will you do about that?" Hmmm... here's an idea. How about plastic gloves… or a hand washing station?

 

She was on her high horse now. Who was this insignificant dolt on the end of the phone talking about generating revenues and jobs on the waterfront? Didn't he know that she was important and that her time was valuable? She saved her best argument for last and she delivered it with slippery contempt dripping from her words.

"No, this is never going to work. Besides, we don't know if we even want harbor seals in our harbor! "...

I thanked her for her time and said I would get back to her after developing the business plan further. I did not suggest that she and the politicians pass local regulations to prohibit seagulls from pooping and seals from swimming in the harbor. I did not suggest that she pull her bureaucratic head out of her butt. I wanted to. Instead, I further researched the concept and learned about the Federal Laws prohibiting human contact of any kind with marine mammals. The seals that eat from the hands of the fishermen, that swim to the dock and beg for fish like trained dogs, obviously didn't get that memo either. The United States Marine Mammals Protection Act of 1972 specifically requires seals and humans to remain a minimum distance of 164 feet from each other under penalty of severe fines and possible imprisonment.

The next day I informed the crew that feeding seals was a federal offense. They are all ex-cons and their reaction was predictable. They laughed cynically, suggested the politicians perform anatomically impossible sexual acts upon themselves, filled their buckets with fish and created a feeding frenzy.

There ought to be a law pertaining to any public servant or politician serving the people of this waterfront city. They should be required to work for a month on the docks, to sweat with the taxpayers who work in the kitchens, on the boats and in the bait shops who provide their salaries, in order to better understand the day to day issues of their homeless, illiterate, hopeless constituents. And to recognize that seals and seagulls appear to have rights too and that no bureaucrat is going to outlaw them in Casco Bay.

 Another extreme; Bureaucrats... extreme arrogance.

MBHCATW

 

Don't just do something... sit there!

~Sylvia Boorstein~

 

At the MIT Sloan School of Business, the Industrial Relations faculty pays a lot of attention to identifying and studying managerial styles. The categories range from autocratic to laissez-faire with varying degrees and nuances.

Attila the Hun was autocratic. My boss at the paper mill was above him in the hierarchy. Strong, aggressive, brutal, my way or the highway type of management style. Although it would be only fair to mention that after 5 years of expensive "new age" touchy-feely management training, he had moved back down the ladder to a position as a "communicating autocrat". He never made it to the next rung of "benevolent autocrat"... God bless his shinny head.

At the bottom of the management style ladder is "laissez-faire", French for "Let them do what they want...". I never saw this management style work successfully in industry, but it is the predominant style in government. Very unproductive. The employees typically end up with a hugely inflated self esteem, usually entirely unwarranted.

In the middle is the "situational manager", someone with all the tricks in his management tool bag and the savvy to use them appropriately, at the right time, with the right employee. This management style of win-win negotiations and participative management of a motivated workforce sometimes leads to managerial schizophrenia where the unfortunate manager loses total grasp of reality.

We spent months discussing managerial styles at MIT. Dr Edgar Shein, Professor Emeritus of Industrial Relations, introduced us to all the leading edge thinking and theories in the field. One of the "new techniques" of the day was termed "MBWA", Management by Walking Around. The basic principle was for the boss to walk around the workplace demonstrating to the crews that he (or she) was just a regular guy who cared not only for the job, but for the human resource, "our most important asset". Pretty lame.

So I was academically intrigued when I witnessed an entirely new and very effective managerial style on the docks last week. The crew had wandered out onto the dock loading area and was standing around as Dave and I were working loading boats and filling totes with fish for the lobstermen. We had just made a coffee run to the Port Hole and everyone was wiping the slime off their hands so they could hold their cups and sip the hot, thick drinks, for most the first non-alcoholic beverage of the day.

 Dave called for someone to help him winch up the totes from the boat below and fork them full of greasy herring. Everyone saw what needed to be done and usually the men jump to when a task is at hand, but this morning they just wanted to sit down and drink their coffee... so no one jumped. Dave grabbed his full cup of coffee off the winch and threw it with full force at the wall. Coffee rained down on the stunned men's heads and they all snapped to action as Dave stormed off the dock. The totes were filled and returned to the boat in record time and everyone went back inside and back to work.

I have coined the new managerial technique "MBHCATW", Management By Hucking Coffee At The Wall and plan to present a paper at the next Sloan Fellows Convention. Very effective and a lot cheaper than an industrial relations organizational development guru.

A few weeks later I had an opportunity to put theory into practice. I sold $500 worth of herring to my cousin Chipper Z. from Kennebunkport. The herring supply is drying up and we are holding back supply to non-regular customers. But Chip, even though a first time customer, is family so I went to bat for him and the boss agreed to the sale... this time.

Afterward, snide comments were made, all in fun, but then the boss ribbed me in front of the grinning crew asking if I had any more cousins that needed taking care of. I picked up my coffee and drove it the wall. Everyone laughed and we all went back to work. No more ribbing.

What was that saying about old dogs and new tricks?

“Never explain. Your friends do not need it and your enemies will not believe it anyway.” 

~Elbert Hubbard ~

Skully and the IRS

"I decided to start anew; to strip away what I had been taught."
Georgia O'Keeffe

 

They call him Skully, but his real name is Lawrence. I learned this while standing beside him at the counter of the Internal Revenue "Service" (what an oxymoron...) on Monday as he faced the music for not filing taxes since 1998.

Skully is a native born son of the state of Maine, a Portland boy who fell through the cracks at an early age. 58 years old, he announces his birth date with the same words... every time.

"7 /7/54...3 days after the 4th of July. Mahahaha!!"

To say that Skully is a “little” odd would be like saying that the waters of Casco Bay are a “little” chilly. Or that mud season in the cedar swamps of the Maine Great North Woods is a “little” buggy. Even among the characters that make their living and live their lives on the waterfront, he is unique. For instance, he has his own language which few understand. He calls the ever-present maggots "cousins" and the nasty, gray, fat wharf rats "little buddies". He often acts out what he is attempting to communicate with sounds and actions. "

For the past 30 years, he has worked this harsh environment, fishing, clamming, scalloping, working in the cutting houses filleting haddock, scraping the roe from the shells of sea urchins. Brutally hard and monotonous work. But for a man who is profoundly illiterate and can neither read nor write, who is proud that he can tell the time on his prized wrist watch, who has lived his life trying unsuccessfully to stay out of jail and out of societies sight and mind, there are few other alternatives.

He could, of course, just give up as many in the growing welfare state have done, accepting the food stamps and the housing subsidies, the transportation stipends and the fuel oil assistance. But he is very wary of the establishment and, if nothing else, intensely stubborn. It is how he has survived.

"Skully tales" filter through the waterfront. One disturbing story regards his childhood. As the story goes, his father beat him severely as a child and one day threw him out of the house. The house had no running water, no toilet, no shower, but it did have a front porch. And the boy lived under the porch for several weeks... like an animal. He was asked what he ate during the ordeal and he explained that he was able to reach his fingers up through the cracks in the floor of the porch and fish down pieces of dog food.

Another story took place years later... years of heavy drinking, drugging, 3 illegitimate children later. He had been dumpster picking, collecting cans and bottles is his second income,  sometimes his only income, and felt the need for a bath, but being homeless, he was without the means. He improvised by buying a bottle of bubble bath from Joe's Smoke Shop on Congress Street and heading down State Street to Deering Oaks, a large public park which has a large shallow pond with a fountain in the middle. He told me that before he waded into the pond, he hid his money, all $300, in a plastic bag wrapped in tin foil high in the crotch of a maple tree.  He then poured the entire content of the bubble bath into the intake of the fountain pump and made a huge mountain of soap suds, took off his clothes and swam screaming and naked around the middle of the pond disappearing into the billowing suds.

The police responded and demanded he return to shore to which Skully replied "Come and get me!". And two police officers did paddle a canoe out to the fountain. And Skully did tip it over,  again retreating into the suds, laughing hysterically. He tipped over the second canoe as well, but by this time the pond was surrounded by policemen and they eventually got their man. The judge might have given him a lighter sentence if he hadn't flipped him off. The judge said "You can't do that in this court room!" Skully growled "Just did, didn't I!" His final evaluation of the ordeal was "Gotta clean bed, 3 squares (meals) and even a shower in County. How bout that!... Good deal!" When he got out of jail six months later, he went back to the park, climbed his tree and felt like the richest man in town, buying drinks for everyone at Bubba's Sulky Lounge until the money ran out.

In July, they found him. The letter from the IRS came to the bait shack and informed him that he owed $3,500 in unpaid taxes and penalties for tax years 1999, 2000 and 2001 and placed a lien on his paycheck, this on top of the $20,000 attachment for back child support. For weeks he ignored the letter until the bait company pushed him take action... or his weekly paycheck would practically disappear.

He approached me as the sun was just rising, breaking the horizon over Peaks Island. It was a favorite time of day and we would stand on the dock watching the sky brighten, the clouds flash orange and purple over the deep blue ocean. "Doin anything after work?" he mumbled. "What do you need, Skully?" I asked. "Need a ride to the IRS across town..." he growled. I nodded.

He climbed into the passenger seat of my old truck that afternoon dressed in motorcycle boots, his best holey jeans, a white, wife-beater tee shirt, a backwards baseball cap and wearing a black elastic back brace. He wears the back brace because his back is shot from 30 years of hard labor and he wears it outside is clothes because he thinks it looks cool. He keeps 2 packs of Camels tucked in the waistband at all times. Around his neck he wears several chains, one with a nautical anchor, the other with a skull and cross bones. We both stunk like a bait barrel.

He was nervous, distant as we drove across the drawbridge to the IRS office. As we pulled into the parking lot he said, "They're probly gonna put me in jail. You keep this safe for me." He pulled a baggie of marijuana and a pipe from his waistband and shoved it in my glove compartment.

We took the highly polished stainless steel elevator to the second floor and he walked into the waiting area right passed the sign that said to push the green button and take a number. I followed the instructions and handed him his number. He wouldn't sit, shifted from foot to foot, looking disinterested, distant. Skully had his game face on. People began to move away from us, perhaps because of the fish smell, perhaps because people instinctively move away from homeless, dirty, suspicious looking individuals.

The computer generated voice finally announced, "Number 116 to window 3." "That's you Skull," I coached. The young woman behind the counter attempted to appear professional and businesslike though she was visible startled when Skully walked briskly to the window and scaled his ID at her like you would flip cards into a hat. He put one hand on the counter, turned sideways and stared into the distance. He learned long ago that the best defense is a good offense. The IRS agents nose began to crinkle up and several of the customers in line next to us covered their noses with their hands. I apologized, "Sorry for the smell. Just came from work." The woman in the next line stated the obvious. "Smells like fish." I smiled at her. "Yep, that's what we do". She smiled back. But the IRS agent didn't smile.

"What's the nature of your visit today, sir?" she queried warily. Skully whipped the document envelope from his back pocket, threw it across the counter and resumed his nonchalant pose, leaning on the counter, gazing at some imaginary bug on the wall across the room. She looked at me cautiously. "Am I authorized to discuss this information with this gentleman?" she asked motioning to me. Skully nodded without making eye contact.

She reviewed the documents, accessed her computer and spent 10 minutes studying screen after screen, occasionally rubbing the offensive stench from her nose. Finally, she spoke. "OK, here is the situation. As the document states, you owe $3,500 in back taxes and penalties for tax years 1999 through 201. You must now file taxes for years 2006, 2007 and 2008 before any further action can be taken. From our information, years 2002 through 2005 need not be filed. Though you were due refunds in those years, because you did not file, your refunds are forfeit. The statute of limitations is 3 years for refunds." "What is the statue of limitations for taxes due?" I asked. "There is none," she responded curtly. I smiled. No surprise. "And then what?" I asked. "Refunds, if any, will be applied to the outstanding balance. Penalties will continue to accumulate until payment is made in full," she responded.

I said "OK, let's talk about the 06, 07, 08 filings. Can he claim the children to whom he is currently paying child support?" "Did the children reside with you during those tax years." she asked. Skully said, "What?" "Did your kids live with you, Skull?" I asked. "Haven't see them in 18 years." he said. No deductions there.

She continued down her checklist of questions. "Did you pay interest on your home mortgage?" she asked. He stared at her blankly. "He's homeless," I said.

"Did you earn any interest or dividends from bank accounts or investments?", she continued. "He's never had a bank account," I answered. "What about credit cards?" she asked. "Never had one of those either," Skully said with pride.

"Did you pay excise tax on your vehicle?" she asked. "He has a bicycle," I answered. "Yup, a nice one," Skully added. "Did you have other income?" she asked. "He collects bottles and cans," I said. "Does that count?" She was beginning to get flustered. "No, I don't think so. I'll have to check."

She continued down her list. "Did you employ any household domestic employees?" immediately sensing the stupidity of the question. "He's homeless", I said sharply. "He lives in a storage room over a bait shop on the waterfront." Skully said, "I've got no place else to go."

Her final question was, "Did you suffer any physical or financial disasters during these tax years that impacted upon your estate?" I spread my hands, looked her in the eyes. "What could be more fucking disastrous than this?" I implored. She shook her head. She had the picture.

An IRS supervisor walked over to review the situation. His name badge said Harold Davis. Davis is a family name so I asked "Are you a South Portland Davis?" He looked at me with contempt. "No," he huffed and walked away. Skully looked at me. "Just wondered if he was a cousin," I said. He grinned devilishly and said "They're ALL cousins!" (read maggots) and laughed a loud and maniacal laugh startling the waiting customers.

The IRS agent provided us with reams of papers, copies of W2s, financial statement forms, tax booklets. Skully was impressed with the size of the pile, 2 inches in height. He looked at me and said, "Lotta words..." I winked and reassured him, "Don't worry Skull. We'll work these up slick as a load of poggies." He grinned a toothless grin.

He strode out of the IRS with long, cocky strides, visibly relieved not to be headed for jail and breathing deeply. "He looked at his prized Timex watch, "It's Beer:30," he crowed "Take me to Bubba's. I'll buy you a cold one!" I grinned. Budweiser cures many woes. We got to the truck and he immediately reached into the glove box, flicked his lighter and took a long hit on his pot pipe... standing in the middle of the IRS parking lot! "Skully, for Christ sake, not now! Let's get out of here!" I implored.

By Friday the tax forms were filed, the financial statement was submitted and the installment agreement was finalized... $6 a week in perpetuity. He will no doubt default on that when the fishing season ends and he becomes unemployed again, but for now he is in compliance. Mailing in monthly tax payments just isn't going to happen.

When I dropped him off at Bubba's on Friday, I declined the beer. He reached across the seat and shook my hand, not with a typical handshake. It was the handshake that bikers and dockworkers use when they wish to show respect for another. He placed his 3 fingered hand over our firmly grasped hands, smoke curling off the cigarette between his lips and spoke softly, gruffly. "Thank you, brutha."

No Skully, thank you, my brother... for opening my eyes.

...and for this story.

Lessons in Humility

 

It is impossible for a man to begin to learn what he thinks he knows."

~Epictetus (A.D. 55 - 135)~

 

Lobsters; tasty little crustaceans. They drive Maine's waterfront economy. From the lobster, herring and pogie fishermen to the bait shops and the tank room, to the truckers driving up and down the coast delivering barrels of fish and picking up crates of lobsters, everyone is in high gear making money while to fishing is good.

Custom House Wharf is a throwback to earlier times, an eclectic mix of fish shops, waterfront restaurants, canvas sail and tote shops and the lobster business. My family has worked this wharf for generations. Great, great grandfather sailed from this wharf. Great Grampa Clarence based his hard hat diving business here. Gramps Davis sold Clams to Boones Restaurant at the head of the wharf. My father and grandfather ran the oil terminal across the harbor.

And now my cousin runs his bait and lobster business...on Custom House Wharf. Cousins, nephews, children, spouses, son-in-laws, they all show up to fulfill some function from shoveling fish, to working in the office, to unloading boats and trucks.

My designated role this summer is to drive the big trucks and fill in where needed, but in order to do the job legallyI had to get a commercial drivers license (CDL). I thought "no big deal". Lesson in humility number 1.

The process is onerous, a thick manual to digest followed by a written test and a permit. Next, driving for weeks with a licensed driver and learning to operate a 52,000 pound GVW, a 10 gear, split range, non-synchronous transmission, air brakes and suspension, dual axle, 30 foot box, BEAST of a truck. Then three more tests; an off road maneuverability test (back-up, offset drive through, parallel park and truck dock), a pre-trip inspection test and a road test. I visited the DOT testing site and watched 4 people flunk the test. Real confidence builder... I was hesitant to send in my request for the exams until my cousin pushed me to it.

All the trucks on the wharf were working, so I had to rent a rig for a couple days... and practice. I set up the cones and panicked as I repeatedly failed to perform the maneuvers. 12 hours later I was hitting 1 out of 3 times. I was almost out of daylight when I tried a final docking and backed right into the garage door of the business where I had been allowed to practice. Crunched it hard. Lesson in humility number 2.

Somehow I passed the tests. It was just luck or maybe the helpful woman test instructor or maybe divine intervention. Whateva'. So I'm feeling pretty cocky now. What a hot shot. Passed the first time. Bragging to people that I had to update my resume; Glen D. Foss; BS, MBA, CDL. Pride goeth before the fall...

My first solo trip was the next day to the Georgetown Fishermen's Co-op, a route I had driven several times. Up the wharf and through busy Commercial Street dodging traffic and pedestrians with scarce inches of clearance, north on busy I-295 through miles and miles of road and bridge construction, through Brunswick and Bath with snarls of traffic dripping fish juice from the 40 barrels of bait on pallets in the cargo bay, and down the peninsula over a narrow, winding, hilly road.

I was white knuckled and tense, but doing OK, not grinding too many gears, only stalled out once in the middle of a busy intersection. I was coming down a hill, fully loaded, toward the narrow bridge in the fishing village of Georgetown when an elderly woman pulled out of a driveway 75 feet in front of me and stopped broadside in my lane. My heart almost exploded in my chest as I locked up the brakes knowing full well I could never stop in time. At the last minute, she pulled out of my path. I laid on the air horn, across the bridges, a 90 degree turn followed by a steep hill. I was in the wrong gear and blew the downshift, had to stop on the hill, set my breaks and start up again in low gear, creeping my way up the hill, fish juice pouring out the back of the truck onto the waiting line of traffic stacked up behind me. Utter humiliation. Things couldn't be worse... except perhaps that I might have killed an old lady on my first trip out. Yeah, what's a little humiliation compared to that.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I backed the truck up to the wharf and shut down the engine. And then I opened the cargo door. Lesson in humility number 4. 40 barrels had slid off the pallets, fish and juice everywhere. An hour later sweating, stinking and sore, I finished unloading. Lesson in humility complete... for that day.

    Every day I have new lessons presented to me. Criticisms from the crew for wearing my boots wrong ("you tuck your pant legs in... not out"), from my cousin for speaking out of school ("Don't talk about the business. You can't trust anyone"), and yesterday from the tank room crew when I dropped four crates of lobsters off a dolly ("The fishermen are all talking about your yard sale... good one.").

So why am I having such a good time? Don't know. But it feels right. Whoever said that by age 60 we should know it all. Remember the lessons from your younger years? "Failure is sometimes the result of trying to learn new things." "Even the best baseball players only hit the ball 30% of the time" .

Ultimately we are all just "Bozo's on the bus". When ego and status rear their ugly heads, life gets less fun. A healthy dose of humility, though mighty uncomfortable sometimes, isn't a bad thing. Nobody enjoys failure. But, as Helen Keller wrote, "Life is an adventure... or nothing".

Adventures in humility..

"I must learn to love the fool in me... the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries... It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of my human aliveness, humility and dignity... but for my fool.”
                                                               ~Theodore I. Rubin, MD~

I Knew There Would Be Issues

 

“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.”

~Anais Nin~

 

It started out as a typical Friday... 6 AM run to Boothbay Harbor followed by a trip to Harpswell. It was mid afternoon when my cousin,Craig, called. "Hey, can you make a run to Canada today?" ... Hell No!  I thought, but what came out of my mouth was,  "Whatever you need, boss. I'll be back on the wharf in 15 minutes." "OK", he said, "I'll explain it when you get here. It's complicated."

If you look up the word tenacious in the dictionary, there's a picture of Craig. He never gives up, pounds his head against the wall and usually... usually cracks the wall. So when he said "complicated" I knew this was head banging time.

When I walked into the bait shack office the foreman, Pete, was talking to Tom, the other driver, about my assignment and he stopped short. "I can't talk to you about this. Craig needs to tell you", he laughed. Uh-Oh...

Craig walked in soaked from the chest down having just completed packing the 40 crates of lobsters for Canada. He sat down, took a deep breath and began, "OK, here's the deal. I've got an order from Canada for these hard shells. Good margins. Better net from this one run than from the entire rest of the week. Here's where it gets complicated. I don't have the necessary bar codes to get the truck across the border into Canada and the Canadian truck drivers don't have passports to get into the US. You're the only one who has a current US Passport, no criminal record and a Commercial Drivers License. You'll need to drive 4 hours to the border, park the truck on the US side, walk across the Canadian Customs, pick up the truck and the bar code from the Canadian driver, drive back through US Customs, hand transfer the 2 tons of lobsters , drive back through Canadian Customs, deliver the truck and walk back across US Customs. I don't know where you can do the transfer. That might be an issue..."

We ran over the “plan” a few more times. There were no answers to most of my questions. We were making this up as we went along. Finally I said, "OK. Let's do it." And at that point people began flying around, cleaning the bait juice and guts out of the truck, loading the crates, preparing the invoices. I called Connie and asked her to meet me at a truck stop en route with my passport.

As the last crates were loaded on the truck, the refrigeration unit failed. Small, but critical glitch. New plan. We would have to ice the crates down so the lobsters would survive the trip, so we drove to the Fish Exchange and pumped 3 tons of crushed ice on top of the crates.

I hit the highway and met Connie at the truck stop in Yarmouth for the Passport transfer. She had brought my entire important papers folio, so, rather than taking the time to sort through everything looking for the right passport, I took the whole thing. Perhaps if I hadn't just driven for 9 hours I would have thought better of that decision. At this point I'm just thinking delivering lobsters… alive..

I drove up I-95 to Fairfield in a down pour and picked up US 201 to Jackman. In Solon the rain stopped and the scenery got beautiful, but the road was so twisting and turning, long hills to climb and steep downgrades, that I didn't have an opportunity to really enjoy it. Still, I knew I was in God's country. It felt damn good. Every couple miles there were big yellow signs warning of moose crossings. 

I slowly approached the border crossing just as the sun slipped behind the mountains and followed the signs into the US Customs visitor's parking lot. The facility was huge, complete with bright lighting, electronic scanning technology, processing facilities, they even had a couple large windmills. I locked up the truck, looked around for a few minutes. Everyone seemed preoccupied and no one was paying any attention to me so I walked across the complex, past the line of traffic waiting to get into Canada and presented my passport to the border cross agent. He was puzzled where I was going and why I was on foot. I explained I had to pick up a truck. He allowed me into the country.

It was all going like clockwork. Shortly the Canadian drivers, neither of which spoke English, pulled up to the curb and gave me the bar code and the keys. I headed back to US Customs with their truck and they waited on the Canadian side for me to return with the load.

The US Border Agent took my paperwork and asked what was in the truck and I explained it was empty, that I was going to transfer my load from my truck. "He pointed his finger at me and said "That's YOUR truck in the parking lot?" I nodded. He closed the window and got on the radio. 30 seconds later there were four large Border Agents standing around my truck with their holsters un-clipped,  hands resting on the handles of their Glock side arms. I attempted to explain to the irate agent. He told me to shut up...loudly. "Think about this" he said in an icy voice, "A locked, unattended box truck parked at our facility and no one has any idea what's going on." Immediately Oklahoma City flashed through my mind. I apologized profusely.

They talked for 10 minutes and then laid out the drill. I would park the Canadian truck and accompany the biggest agent into the building where I would sit in a detention area while he checked my background and paperwork. As we walked to the building he asked, "Do you have any money on you or in the truck?" "$30 bucks" I said. He said "Well, I ask because we know the seafood industry is largely a cash business and it's against the law to take over $10,000 across the border. " I said, "Yeah, I wish I had that kind of cash."

He checked me out in the computer and then instructed me to accompany him to my truck. I was to stand in front of the truck as he search the cab. It took him 20 minutes and I enjoyed watching the last dim light fading in the sky and the blades of the windmills gliding silently on the mountaintop against the starry night. Finally he seemed satisfied, had me open the engine compartment and then the box.

When he climbed out of the box he walked up to me, got close in my face and said "Why are you carrying all you personal documents in the truck", watching my reactions carefully. "Oh, my wife gave me the whole packet when she brought me my passport" I answered. "When were you last in Iraq" he asked. "What? Never..." I answered stunned at the question. "Why do you have $650,000 Iraqi dinar in your possession?" The thought flashed through my mind "Oh, my God... They are going to lock me up." Slowly I explained. My cousin was in Iraq. He bought me $500 US dollars of Iraqi dinar hoping the currency would appreciate. You know currency speculation?

 He put me back in detention, metal bench bolted to the wall.

20 minutes later he returned, had me back the truck over near the other vehicle while he and 3 other agents strip searched the Canadian truck. At this point I had a guard with me. The agent said, "Do you know the Canadian drivers?" "No," I answered," but my cousin does." “You should know that as the driver of that vehicle you will be held responsible for any illicit material we find." This debacle was going from bad to worse. I saw a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel and it was sounding like a freakin freight train.

Finally, the big agent called over to me. "OK, you can transfer your load." Finally, a glimmer of hope! I fist pumped the air and climbed into the back of the truck... to find that the crushed ice had melted and refrozen forming a solid glacier over the crates. It took me an hour of back breaking heavy labor to free the crates and transfer the 2 tons of lobster, slipping and sliding on the ice, heaving the 100 pound crates, unstacking and re-stacking.

 I was drenched in sweat and shaking with fatigue when I finished and the four agents approached me. "You are free to drive back across the border. Sorry for your inconvenience." said the captain. I noticed that their guns had been re-clipped. I apologized for the 20th time and thanked them for the work they did protecting our country, got in the truck and drove to Canadian Customs.

They looked quickly at my documents and instructed me to pull into a lighted area, turn off the truck and stay in the vehicle. Again 4 armed agents surrounded my truck and with a French accent I was told to step out of the vehicle. The 2 Canadian drivers walked over and the conversation turned into French. Finally, after they had reviewed my documents and searched the truck, they released the drivers and instructed me to walk back to their complex.

 Walking back across the security complex, one agent walked in front, one on either side of me and one behind me. I felt like I was a prisoner in Guantanamo Bay. It was a surreal feeling and I had no idea what was to come. They stopped and unlocked a gate in the border fence, turned to me and said "You are free to leave the country."

A delicious wave of relief  and exhaustion swept through me as I walked the last 100 yards down the deserted gauntlet of electronic and radioactive sensing devices in the stark neon lights, back to US Customs. Dressed in duct taped pants and rubber boots, stinking of sweat and fish, I presented my passport for the 4th time and stood for 10 minutes as the new guard got up to speed on who I was and what had gone down over the last 3 hours.

Finally he passed my documents back to me, eyed me curiously and offered "Have a good evening. Don't hit a moose on your way down the mountain." I started laughing and didn't stop until I hit Jackman.

I was so jacked up on adrenalin from the events of the evening that I decided to make the 4 hour push back to Portland. My body was humming and my ears were ringing as I climbed in bed with my wife at 4:00 AM, an hour after returning the truck to the wharf.

When I got up in the morning and recounted the detail to Craig, he chuckled and said with a grin;

"I knew there would be issues. Good job.... Are you up for a run to Orr’s Island? Gotta have a load of bait up there by this afternoon.”

I knew there would be issues...

 

 

Liam

 

"What is to give light must endure burning."
~Viktor Frankel~

 

Life, real Life, is not all lightness, not all rainbows and butterflies. It's sometimes dark.

We would discover later that Liam was not his real name, but this technicality was insignificant among the wreckage of his life, later revealed.

His friendly smile, cautious eyes, and small, muscular physique earned him a job on the dock loading boats and trucks with 500 pound barrels of lobster bait; salted herring and pogies, redfish and skate. He showed up on time and worked hard doing backbreaking, dirty, honest labor among a crew of a dozen men. We worked from 4:00 AM until the job was done, typically 10-12 hours a day, six days a week. When the sun blazed, we sweltered in the heat. When the rain came and the wind blew, we shivered in our oil-skins.

There was no complaining. They were grateful for the work, appreciated the opportunity to feel pride, to feel productive in a world where welfare was all that society seemed to offer. And, for these men, there was no pride in that. There had been hard lessons in their past, most had spent time in jail, most struggled with some form of substance abuse, but most of these events were overlooked on the waterfront... most, but not all.

Liam rode with me three or four times on bait deliveries. We would head out in the early morning light to some fishing shanty up the coast, stopping on the way for diesel fuel and  coffee, and we would talk. He gazed out the window at the beauty of the sunrises, the ocean inlets and marshes, as he told his story; half Cherokee Indian, born on the California coast, learned to surf, moved to Phoenix during high school. He joined the Army and became a "tanker" for a couple years, driving massive Abram tanks, loading munitions. He loved to play guitar and write music, lamented that his prized Martin guitar had been destroyed by a jealous girlfriend. He was 34, single, had "too many" girlfriends. He had been clean and sober for 12 months, didn't smoke. His dream was to buy a Harley Davidson and travel the country, working the waterfront up and down the East and West coasts. "Waterfront work suits me." he explained. I liked him.

Liam seemed to fit in with the crew. He worked hard, didn't complain and didn't tolerate the petty criticisms of others who often would attempt to elevate their status by denigrating another. He wasn't looking for trouble... but trouble found him.

Most of the guys are wired... that is, they have cell phones, sometimes ipods, but one of the crew had a smart phone with internet access. It's an enigma of our time that someone without a home, without health insurance or a vehicle, who's worldly possessions would fit into a cardboard box, would spend his limited resources for a data plan and access to the web . But he did.

I arrived back at the bait shop from a run to Cushing and backed the monster truck into the loading dock. It was always a relief to feel the thud of the truck body snugging up to the dock and know that I had not hit anything or anyone this trip. Unfortunately that was not true for all my runs. But, as they say, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Still, a smooth run brought a sense of satisfaction.

I swung the door open to find Allen standing there with his smart phone in his hand. "Everybody knows about it already. Look at this." he spoke in a low voice. I scanned the screen. It was the website of the Maine Sexual Offender Registry. Oh shit, this can't be good, I thought. There was Liam's picture with a description of his convictions, numerous unlawful sexual contacts with a minor under the age of 14, and his prison record, 6 years in the Maine State Penitentiary.

There is no tolerance on the waterfront for sex offenders. And violation of a minor is deemed the lowest of the low. They are called "skinners". In prison, I am told, skinners go through a special kind of hell. They are tormented and attacked. When they are released, sex offenders are required to register with the local police, report their place of residence, the workplace and any change in residence. They have great difficulty finding work. Child molesters are not allowed to be within 500 feet of any school or playground. Their lives are destroyed. For their offense, perhaps this is fitting... justice. Still, it is cruel to see.

I walked into the foreman's office to find him in conversation with the owner. "Close the door", he said. "We've got a situation here and I want your thoughts on it. You were a Human Resources director at the paper mill. You know about this crap."

"I have already heard about Liam on the floor. Has anyone objected to working with him?" I asked

"Yeah, we've got complaints." said the owner

The foreman said "It's already a problem. None of the men will work with him. And I don’t feel I should force them to."

I took a deep breath. "OK, here’s the deal. By law you are required to take expedient action. Failure to do so could lead to charges of sexual harassment against you, the employer. It's Employment Law: 101. If you deem it possible, Liam could be reasonable accommodated, reassigned to an area where he is not in contact with other workers who object to working with him. Failing that, you should terminate him. Document all your conversations and action."

The owner shook his head, and set his jaw for that which he had to do.

I never saw Liam again. He drifted into that place where the damned go to live or to die, no one seeming to care which. I do not know, nor do I care to know, the details of his offense. Perhaps he is a cruel predator, a selfish sociopath capable of smiling into the faces of the unsuspecting and destroying lives. Perhaps there were mitigating circumstances, God knows what those might be. The jury found him guilty. I will never know.

I am conflicted. I liked him. And because I did, I glimpsed his damnation. I glimpsed his hell on earth. Tragedy... all around.

It ain't all lightness, rainbows and butterflies.

 

Never saw off the branch you are on, unless you are being hanged from it.

 ~Stanislaw Lec~

Making Bail

 

I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes.

~Sara Teasdale ~

 

We were in out of town when the calls came from the Cumberland County Correctional Center. I couldn't accept the collect calls because I didn't have an inmate connection account established and try as I might, the telephone and internet system would not let me set one up. But the series of brief voice mail messages that were allowed through went like this.

"It's Ricky..."

"Need $2500 bail money..."

"My truck and climbing gear as collateral...

“Please!"

I called the bait shop and let them know Ricky was in jail and when I got back in town, headed for the docks. The Boss put up the additional money to spring him and I headed for the jail to see if we could make it happen.

When you enter the receiving area, past the surveillance cameras and the double doors, the tile floor and lime green walls look like any other institutional waiting area... except for the guards in brown uniforms and the heavy metal, locked doors. The woman behind the counter had dark hair, glasses and a loud voice. I stood in line behind a Somali woman and a middle aged man who talked nonstop to anyone listening. "Just want to bail my daughter out. This is bullshit. Hey, they've got an ATM machine here. Good to know for next time..."  He was speeding on something.

The flow of people in and out of the locked door was steady. Guards, social workers, a black pastor dressed in black with a white collar, blonde women in scrubs appearing to be medical personnel, administrators in ties. Some were wanded for weapons before entering.

When it was my turn, I announced I had bail money for my friend. After checking the computer screen she asked, "Do you have $600 in cash?" Yes. "I'll call the Bail Commissioner. Go take a seat" The 24 gray seats were surprisingly comfortable and I hunkered down for the next hour to wait near the wall of coin operated pay lockers

There were pictures on the wall of the detention area. White walls, two stories of prison cells surrounding a large open room with a glassed in, observation area overlooking. Gray metal railings, tables and chairs bolted to the floors. It looked fairly comfortable, but, no doubt, was the last place on earth anyone would want to spend time.

People came and went dealing with the issues of incarceration. "I need to pick up my boyfriends wallet and keys"... "When are visiting hours?"... "What are the charges this time?". Telephones rang and radios squawked . "I've got one from C and one from B2. Bring them down."... "No, I don't want to release my wallet to my mother. I want to talk to my case worker."

A man in an orange jump-suit came out through the locked door accompanied by a brown shirted guard. He was shaking his head and walked up to the officer behind the desk. "'I don't deserve to be here…” he complained. The officer said "' How many times have I heard that. I don't deserve to be here either. They all have the same story, year after year after year. It never changes." After he left I walked up to the counter and struck up a conversation with her. How long have you worked here? "22 years. Used to work out back, but hurt my shoulder. 12 years out front now. I've seen it all. People wouldn't believe the way things are. It's not like on TV that's for sure." How do you keep from getting depressed, I asked. She thought for a moment. "The way I see it, you get what you give. Sure, there are some jerks, but most of them are decent. But it all boils down to, you get what you give".

We sat waiting.  This was a waiting place, after all. Waiting for trial, waiting for sentencing, waiting for justice. A lull in the activity, the only sound was the ventilation system and the hum and buzz of electronically activated doors being opened and closed... opened and closed. The sounds of incarceration. Out the window, the trees were brown and red and gold, the last of the autumn’s glory.

The bail commissioner appeared in the lobby. "Who is here for Ricky D.?" he called. I raised my hand and he pointed down the hall to a closed door right next to another locked door that said "Non-contact Visitations". I counted out the 6 $100 dollar bills and he pointed to a bench outside. "Wait there. He'll be out when I get the paper work done."

Half an hour later, Ricky walked out through the metal door wearing jeans and a tee shirt. He looked over and saw me and said "I should have known it would be you...". First stop was the corner store for cigarettes. He started making calls on my cell phone and I heard the story several times. "The only thing wrong I did was get out of bed. The baby was crying. She had been drinking. I hadn't even finished my cigarette when she had called the police on me. She said I threatened her, but I didn't. The girls were all there. They saw it. That's it. It's 100% phony and it's over. I just need to figure out how to get my clothes, my truck and my trailer, but the terms of my bail don't allow me to go near her. I don't know where I will live or what I will do for money, but I can't go back there."

We drove around while Ricky chained smoked and thought through his next steps. "Want a beer?" I asked knowing the answer before I asked it. "He looked at me with his piercing blue eyes and said "I need some beers, but it would violate my bail." Are you hungry I asked? "Yeah, didn't eat today. Traded my breakfast and lunch for a sleeping pill from a guy inside. But not now." Finally he said, "I guess I’ll just go back to the docks. I’ve got no place else to go" We drove down the wharf just as the crew was finishing up from a cold day of unloading herring trucks. They all milled around Ricky. "What they get you for?”. "Domestic". “Oh yeah! Did you hit her? "No, I shoulda. " “Yeah, that happened to me once. Women just can't take a punch".

The Boss and the Foreman came out of the shop and Ricky approached them to thank them for bailing him. The Foreman cut him off. “I want to see you at 4:00AM tomorrow. You've got $600 to work off." The Boss said "Go punch in. I've got a couple trucks to load." Ricky turned to me and extended his hand. "I'll call you", he said. "Maybe I'll come down to Georgia and look you up. Nothing holding me here now."

As I drove away, he was walking up the wharf looking for a hot cup of coffee and a coat against the frigid wind before he began his shift on the docks

I cannot tell how the truth may be,
I tell the tale as told to me.
- A Welsh Story Teller -

Jessie

 

"It was cold and drizzling again. 'Weather to give a man the weary dismals,' Watt grumbled. 'Where you headed from here?'... I thought for a moment,'I don't know.'... 'Cain't get lost then.' Watt pronounced with a grin."

~William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways~

 

Jessie's father had a heart attack at age 39. Jessie had one today at age 38.

I hope none of my workmates on the dock read this. Last time I wrote about them it wasn't received well. But I feel compelled to write about some of the events of this summer as my time on the docks comes to a close.

I do not stand in judgment of any of these men. I stand in humble recognition of their struggles and their many talents. The poverty, addictions and difficult conditions of their lives is entirely overshadowed by their pride and the incredible amount and quality of the difficult work that they perform. They value themselves and each other by the sweat of their labor. They are an example to me. I strive to be worthy to be among them.

Jessie got off a bus from Pittsburgh at midnight and walked down the dock looking for his future. 254 pounds of muscle, tattooed with Irish flags and symbols, he is a striking, dangerous looking bruiser. His thick, round skull is shaved and his cautious eyes are dark and expressive.

One of the guys was drinking a beer on the wharf waiting for the bait shop to open at 3:00AM so he could go to work. He usually takes the last bus in from Westbrook and sleeps in one of the trucks until the doors open in order to not be late for work. So, Jessie asked him where he could find work and was told to talk with the foreman. When the foreman came in at 3:00AM, he took one look at Jessie' massive arms and hired him on the spot... conditionally. Day to day, but that's how all these guys operate. He was looking for a bull. Jessie looked like he might fit the bill.

It wasn't long before he pulled the assignment to ride with me on a delivery where extra muscle was needed. That's part of my job driving the big 52,000 pound trucks that I enjoy, getting to ride with these guys and listen to their stories..

Jessie grew up in a tough part of Pittsburgh. He tried to join the military, but got rejected for his criminal record. So he trained to fight in the cage, full contact mixed martial art. He is proud of his 16-2 record, but complains that the many knees and elbows to his head have slowed him down mentally. He compensates by obsessing about the decisions he faces and the day to day conflicts to the point of unhealthy worry. He doesn't do drugs anymore, just drinks beer. Lots of it.

In Pittsburgh, he worked as a bouncer between fights and training and one night, outside a strip club, he claims two guys jumped him. He doesn't have  just a short fuse. He has a detonation button. He beat them so badly that the judge put him in prison for 5 1/2 years. When he got out thing went poorly in Pittsburgh; warrants, back child support, too much drama. So he took a handful of quarters, the ones minted with logos from each of the 50 states on one side, threw them down and picked one up at random. It was the Maine quarter and he bought a bus ticket to Portland.

After a week on the job, they offered him a berth on the smack, the Irish Piper. He had been sleeping beside the dumpster. The engine of the boat had seized and it was tied up along side the wharf awaiting a rebuild. Jessie was out to prove himself and made himself a nuisance for awhile pestering the foreman for his next assignment. Finally the Boss growled at him. "You can see what needs to be done. Just do it! I'll tell you when to do something different."

Jessie is heavily muscled in the chest and arms, so much so that rolling barrels is awkward for him... and the crew pounced like sharks on a bleeding tuna. The waterfront has a pecking order like any gang of men and Jessie sensed he was quickly declining in that social order. He responded by becoming sullen and lazy which just confirmed the harsh judgments of the crew. "Useless..." mumbled one of the guys, the worst judgment you could ever receive.

I was working loading a truck at the Brunswick cooler when I overheard the phone conversation.

"I'm sending Glen down with 12 pallets of redfish racks. You ok with that?"

"Yeah, things have quieted down now that the ambulances and fire trucks have left..."

"What happened?"

"Jessie had a heart attack and the trucks blocked the wharf for an hour.. wish he'd had it down on Commercial Street. It’s really put us behind.”"

I found him sitting at the bar eating french fries and drinking beer at the Starlight, one of the so-called “Three Gates of Hell”, the trio of seedy waterfront bars on Commercial Street.

"The sack around my heart filled up with fluid and blood and it hurt like hell. Don't remember what he called it, but the Doc at the Emergency Room gave me a script for some medicine."

"Angina? Congestive heart failure?" I suggested.

"Yeah, that was it." he said as he lit up a cigarette. "I'll be ok. Got to be. I've got things to accomplish with my life. Still can't find a place to live though and they want me off the boat soon."

I drove him up to the Preble Street Resource Center and he spoke with a social services counselor about his dilemma. They scheduled him for an appointment the following day. I dropped him off back on the wharf, slipped him $20 and a winter coat I had in the truck.

He shook my hand when I told him I was heading South for the winter. His eyes narrowed and watered. "Hey, I wanna give you something. I only give it to my friends...". He recited hoarsely. I recognized the Irish Blessing,

"May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,

may God hold you in the palm of His hand."

Right back at you, Jessie. Good luck Brother.

 

God is good, but never dance in a small boat.

 ~Irish Saying~

 

Brian

 

"Some things have to be believed to be seen."

~Ralph Hodgson~

 

     Today’s Portland Press Herald headlines;

“Tear gas, arrest end six-hour standoff. Brian Kelley, 48, is charged after a woman is shot in the chest.”

     Surprising… only 48.  I would have guessed closer to 60.Then again, gauging a person’s age on the waterfront is hit or miss at best.

     Brian was routinely drunk when the crew gathered at the bait shop each morning at 4:00 AM. He would stumble down the stinking, dark, cobble stoned Custom House Wharf, always on foot.  He had permanently lost his license to drive, served 5 years in the State Prison in Thomaston as a Habitual Offender. If it was raining heavily, he would sometimes accepted a ride in my little red pickup truck. He smelled strongly of  booze, cigarettes and fish, a familiar… and strangely comforting aroma.

     I liked him. Over the two years we worked together on the dock, we always greeted each other cordially each morning. It might go like this;

 “Mornin, Glen.”

 “Mornin, Brian.”

“Wet one, huh?”

“Yes-suh. Stay dry”

“Ayhuh…”

     He would retreat to his barrels, dumping and hosing the fish slime and blood from the blue and white plastic 55 gallon drums, stacking them 2 high , preparing for another day of filling them with salt and fish that the lobstermen used to bait their traps. I would head for the wharf to take the orders from the fishermen and winch the barrels down to waiting boats. The crew wouldn’t let Brian run the winch or the fork trucks. He was too dangerous.

 

     When the Port Hole coffee shop opened at 6 o’clock, I would bring him a steaming cup of the bitter, black brew. He drank it with 2 creamers and 5 sugars speeding the decay of his already rotting, black teeth. When the work flow allowed, we would sit on the dock, smoke hand rolled cigarettes and watch the sun rise out of the ocean. Sometimes we would talk.

     He told me about earning his living as a younger man diving for urchins… before his scuba gear was stolen, before his strength was wasted by injuries and abuse. He talked about life in prison and how he couldn’t trust anyone inside the walls. He spoke bitterly about how he had been falsely labeled as a “skinner”, a child abuser, in jail and how he had confronted and beaten the liar to clear his name. On his forearm was a prison tattoo that he bought for $15 from an inmate who used needles and an ink pen to draw a map of the state of Maine behind bars.

     On day he was raging about another guy on the crew who had disrespected him. “He better back off. I can get real angry I’ll hurt that son of a whore.” he growled.

     All day long, he would work under the fish conveyor, covered in fish guts and salt dust, filling barrels. His eyes were red and irritated. I brought him a pair of safety glasses which he wore until they were stolen. When the fishing season slowed down in December, Brian was laid off and signed up for unemployment compensation.

     The newspaper article reported that he had allegedly shot a woman in the chest with a pellet gun. The pellet had not broken the skin, but the Portland police had dispatched swat teams and snipers to bring him to justice. After a 6 hour standoff, the police had tear gassed his 3^rd floor slum apartment and taken him into custody.

 

 

     My friend Brian is in a world of shit today. I’m sure there is more to the story, but it’s unlikely he will beat this rap. It’s far more likely he will spend more years behind bars. It’s tragic all around.

     The only good news is he’s already got the tattoo.

 

 

Last Days

 

"If I have ever made any valuable discoveries, it has been owing more to paying attention than to any other talent."

~Isaac Newton~

 

My internal clock is still set on 'dock time', waking up at 3:30. Some mornings I can manage to fall back to sleep for awhile, but never past 6:00. I sneak out of bed and the apartment so as to not disturb those who can sleep. This morning I walked onto the street with the dogs at 6:30. Cold and gray, the bite of winter in the air.

The van warmed up slowly and Sam n' Lu shivered in the passenger seat. I found myself driving around the deserted city streets aimlessly. As I woke up, I began to notice that those streets weren't really deserted at all. The man with the shopping cart half filled with cans and bottles was dressed in a dirty snowmobile suit, his thick gray beard covering all of his face not covered by the wool hat pulled down over his eyes. He waved at me as I drove by and I wondered if he was someone I had met this summer on the waterfront, when the days were warm and the living was easier.

The elderly woman with a cane walking painfully down a deserted Congress Street, poorly dressed in a thin red windbreaker ; the black man in a hoodie standing on the curb watching; the old man who struggled stiffly to his feet from behind a brick wall dragging his thin blanket behind him.

The van seemed to guide itself to the soup kitchen on Oxford Street where dozens of people lined up waiting for the doors to open. Some were dressed heavily, with layers upon layers, and had spent the night outside sleeping in alleys and vacant lots. Others had left unheated boarding house rooms drawn to the warm soup kitchen and the hot coffee. I was too much a coward to park the van and stand in line with them, felt too conspicuous with my clean clothes and fleece coat.

Last Friday afternoon I stopped down to Bubba's Sulky Lounge hoping to run into Skully. My excuse was that he owed me $20, but in truth, I just wanted to see him again before we head South. He was standing outside smoking with a short, black eyed woman with 4 missing front teeth. She was drunk and laughing at he own jokes.

" You ever hear a chain saw? Runnn-nigga-nigga-nigga.... runnn-nigga-nigga-nigga... Hahahahahaha!"She told the "joke" over and over until I heard a voice from behind me on the street. "I no nigga" the shawled Somali woman said. She stood firm for a moment then turned and walked away.

"Chain saw woman" then turned to me. Her eyes were bleary as she looked me over. "You a cop?" she asked, " cause you got a cops face."

Skully jumped in, " He’s no cop. That's my buddy, Glen. He works down at the bait shop with me... where I'm the fork truck guy..."

 At this point words failed him and he started making noises and motions like he was driving his big, brakeless Clark Hyster around the shop. " Brrrrooooommm, Errrch, Werrwerrr, Gittygittygitty, Ma-HaHaha!" He went on and on and I laughed until long after he stopped.

We moved inside and stood beside the roaring fireplace, warm, safe. Skully tried to repay the money he owed me, but I offered to settle if he would buy a round of "Jimmy Specials", Allens Coffee Brandy with just a splash of milk.

Skully racked up the balls at the pool table and Jimmy, the bartender, told a story about how he was living with his first wife in the back of a Humpty Dumpty Potato Chip truck cutting fish with Skully and had once seen him open a lock with an bent old square nail. “Most impressive thing I evah saw!” he gushed.

I finished my drink and walked over to the pool table. "I'm heading out now Skull, going South for the winter." I put my arm around his shoulder. "You stay warm and out of jail".

 His face got serious and he wrapped his arms around me. "You comin' back next summah right? Workin' on the docks again?"

 "Maybe" I said and he gave me a toothless grin from ear to ear, hugged me hard and said "You come see old Skully." Four years my junior, I squeezed him back "I will, young fella."

As I headed for the door, it all happend at once.

“Chain saw woman" called out, "You got a good lookin face, cop. You can come back again."

Jimmy started to dance a lick across the back of the bar to the music on the juke box "See you next summer!" he called.

 Skully lifted his pool cue above his head and began to hoot. "See ya, buddy! Gittygittygitty... Ma Hahaha!!"

 I stopped for a moment and enjoyed the remarkable and curious feeling of belonging, warm and happy in a waterfront bar surrounded by poverty, alcoholics, the homeless, before heading back out into the cold and gray.

 A warm little, dysfunctional oasis in the gloom... 

 

 

The Code

 

“How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.”

~Henry David Thoreau~

 

It is unspoken, unwritten, but it has been the law of the waterfront for as long as men have struggled to eek out an existence fishing the frigid waters of the North Atlantic Ocean. To borrow a phrase, what happens on the waterfront, stays on the waterfront. No word will be spoken, no word will be written, no action will be performed which will draw the attention of the “System”

The System, a broad and amorphous collection of agencies and individuals who, by their very existence, would thwart the ambitions of the owners and workers of a plethora of waterfront businesses. These agencies and individuals include, in part; the IRS, OSHA, Marine Wardens, Fish and Wildlife, Department of Labor, local law enforcement, city administration, the EPA, tax collectors, the Department of Transportation, Unions... in short, everybody not of the waterfront.

My 30 years of work experience had been in the highly unionized and regulated paper industry. Big Business. Every facet of our operations were conducted under the watchful eyes of the System. We learned to color within the lines of an ever changing, ever more restrictive business environment. Lawyers and Lobbyists were enlisted to influence the overwhelming onslaught of new laws and regulations. Accountants and Financial Managers were utilized to navigate the tax loopholes and minimize the fleecing of the corporate coffers. Favor was sought with elected officials with campaign contributions and implied quid pro quos. Unions were controlled with sweet deals and strong armed contract enforcement.

And so, I was entirely unprepared for the unstructured, unregulated, under the table, off the books business practices of the waterfront. For me, it was the wild, wild West. No one reported infractions, no one openly complained of inequities, no one reported safety violations to OSHA. No one filed workers comp claims. There were no drug tests, no background checks, no dress codes, no first aid kits, no drinking water. Everyone carried weapons, knives and hooks primarily. The fishermen carried guns. Half the crew were paid cash. Drivers didn't have Commercial Drivers Licenses. Trucks weren’t inspected or registered. Fork trucks didn't have brakes. When the rare uniformed person walked into the shop, people disappeared or cast their eyes to the ground, feigned mute... or simple. And there certainly was no annual sexual harassment training, no health benefits or retirement plans.

In the “normal” business world, these employees would have been unemployable. Of the dozen men in my crew on the docks, only two had completed high school, all had been incarcerated for some period of time for infractions including DUI, illegal drug sales and possession, domestic abuse, aggravated assault, larceny, grand theft, unlawful sexual contact... the list goes on. All were active substance abusers. All used drugs or alcohol on the job. And every last man was incredibly proud of his job.

They showed up at 4:00 AM and worked long, dangerous hours in the dark, in the unbearable heat and cold, covered in fish guts and blood, surrounded by stench and flies and maggots. And they were grateful for the opportunity; grateful to my cousin who owned the lobster and bait businesses. My cousin worked harder and longer than anyone. The men respected him for that, for having taken the enormous risks and suffering the devastating defeats that he had over the years. And for having survived. They were keenly aware that they had work because of his stubborn tenacity. For that, they were fiercely loyal, to him and to the Code. But their loyalty ended there.

The men worked hard and well together, because that was the job. Beyond that, they showed about as much compassion and mercy as a school of sharks. It is understandable. Each of them came from horribly shattered lives of abuse. There is no nobility in poverty and dysfunction, only survival.

It was ultimately about respect, a rare commodity in their lives. Hard work and skills were respected. So was tenacity and toughness. They did not respect each other beyond that, nor did they respect others of their community, the community of the poor, the uneducated, the welfare bound. It was not the act of receiving welfare that they found  disrespectful. Every man on the waterfront collected as much unemployment compensation, food stamps, heating oil and housing assistance and healthcare subsidies as the system allowed, as did his neighbors. Only the act of work, demanded respect.

I found it curious that when one of our number didn't show up for work, no one spoke their name or mentioned their absence. His duties and his gear were divvied up. The concerns were not for the missing man, but for what advantage might be gained by his absence. Everyone in the pecking order repositioned. If the man did return with stories of being thrown in jail or having been too sick to stand, there was no sympathy, only a reluctant readjustment of the social order.

I began to bring things into the shop, things like a first aid kit,  bottles of ibuprofen, hydrogen peroxide and eye wash, antibiotic ointment, safety glasses, a five gallon jug of drinking water. I took on the task of cleaning and bandaging the wounds, splinting the broken fingers.  I brought in bags of clothes, shoes, coats. The men accepted my offerings cautiously, usually without comment. The foreman smirked at my “sensitivity”. My cousin suggested that perhaps I was too soft for the waterfront.

I write. It is not my profession, it’s my passion. And one of the reasons I immersed myself in the waterfront was to write about it. The days were filled with rich experiences and observations and my blog burned with my ambitious prose. It never really occurred to me that my writing would be looked upon as the worst kind of betrayal, a breaking of the Code.

In truth, they had suspected me from the start. I was not of their social class. College educated, a non-drug user, married to the same woman for 35 years, I had all my teeth, no  tattoos. I had retirement income, didn't need the work and was the bosses’ cousin. I had a drivers license. And I cared too much. They sensed that I had some ulterior motive. They just couldn't guess what.

My secret would not have been discovered had I not provided my blog address to one of the crew in the last week of my time on the docks. The next day the crew was sullen and quiet to me. The boldest of them spoke up and cussed me for my writing. He said I had jeopardized their jobs, disrespected him with my observations. Another disagreed loudly with him, saying I hadn't written anything that wasn't true. An argument broke out and I waded in apologizing and assuring them that I would remove all the stories from the blog by that afternoon. And I did. But the fragile trust was torn. The respect that I had earned over six months of hard physical labor was gone, replaced with distrust and resentment. I was now seen as part of “The System”.

My perceived betrayal bothered me greatly. For a long time, I stopped writing and contemplated my intentions on having ever begun to dabble in the craft. Eventually I came to understand that, for me, writing is a link to something nonphysical, some creative force which I will never understand, but can only experience. And that writing provides me an intimacy with my reader, most importantly, with my family, which I would otherwise never experience. It allows me to bridge the gap of time and death, to speak with kin yet unborn. How I would have valued such a gift from my ancestors. I discovered that I did care too much and that, in order to write, I must find the courage to care too much.

Recently I spoke with my cousin and told him I was collecting my waterfront stories for printing. His face and the tone of his voice showed his displeasure. “You know there are still guys on the dock that are unhappy about your writing about them.” This time I did not retreat. “Yeah, I know cousin. But, you know, writing is like that. If you tell your truth, you are going to offend someone. It comes with the practice.” He shook his head, not agreeing, but understanding. “Well, can you at least wait till I'm dead?” he negotiated

And so, I have collected my “Dock Chronicles”, struggled over presenting them with a flow, with a voice, with a flavor. I have added favorite quotes and pictures. And you, my readers, my family, have a glimpse of a place and time now gone.

It is my bittersweet honor to have broken the Code for you.

“ I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

                                    ~Henry David Thoreau

" I felt for the first time at rest. Sitting full in the moment, I practiced on the god-awful difficulty of just paying attention... any traveler who misses the journey misses about all he's going to get... a man becomes his attentions. His observations and curiosity, they make and remake him."

                                       ~William Least Heat Moon; Blue Highway