There's no turning back now, either it's a new foc'sle or Dave will be sleeping in a hammock next summer during Squid season. Another major rehab is taking place. I had a peek today at the inside of the F/V Richard & Arnold. She is now a bare hull, bunks gone, sink and stove removed, empty. The next phase is the hardest part - deciding where to put the 'head' - oh yes, there will be a full bathroom, shower, hot water and all. The galley and salon will be housed in what was once fish-pens. It is becoming a reality. www.provincetownfishwife.com

Thank you to the many people who have written to me about my book, 'Nautical Twilight'. The past few months have been filled with your kind words. I am glad you are enjoying the book. You have inspired me to share more of my writing and so this short story is for my fans. Thank you. My sea stories are a representation of a way of life upon the water that is fast disappearing. This short story is as true as it can get. I have changed some names to protect the innocent. I hope it gives you a chuckle----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Albert On the Can a short sea story by J. J. Dutra

Albert worked on a fishing boat out of Provincetown MA for many years. Most nights he slept on the vessel where he worked, a good situation for the owners and the crewman.  The fisherman had been awake for over thirty-six hours, first fishing, then enjoying the local pub and finishing with a half-mile walk to the end of the wharf where he made his way down a ten foot ladder. To get to his bunk on board the 'Reneva' he would cross the decks of the 'Jimmy Boy', the 'Shirley & Roland' and the 'Plymouth Bell'  stepping from rail to rail, climbing over empty fish boxes and pulling on ropes. This night was no different, he went below, crawled into the bunk and was asleep in seconds.

When the Provincetown fisherman opened his eyes he was listening to the boat's engine purring in the background. Like most wooden fishing vessels this boat had the familiar rolling rhythm, a creaking and a slow sway. It was time to fix a pot of coffee and light the kerosene stove that would take the damp chill from the air. Something felt different, but Albert was not fully conscious. Thinking it would be time to haul back and he'd better get topside he came through the doghouse to the deck and it struck him, bringing him soberly awake, eyes wide open. He was on the wrong boat.

Stopping at the tip of Cape Cod on its way south for sea scalloping, this Maine boat had tied on the outside of the usual string of fishing boats alongside McMillan Pier. The captain from Maine wanted a hot shower and a good meal, he'd been eating his brother-in-law, Billy's one meal, hash and eggs for a week. Their day began in the twilight, casting off and heading round the cape, hoping to run out for scallops then head to Point Judith, RI.  The captain was sitting in the wheel house looking out toward the horizon to the east when Albert stepped on deck. "What the hell?" the captain gasped. Standing before him was a skinny stranger with a big toothy grin. His hair was sticking up. He needing a shave and his clothes were almost rags. If you got close enough the smell of fish and beer was discernible."Billy, take the wheel." The captain was out the door and roaring over the engine, "Where the hell did you come from?"

The stowaway did a shuffle, moving around on the deck like he had to pee, a sort of dance, light on his feet. "Gees Cap, I'm awful sorry. It  appears I've stepped aboard the wrong boat, which can happen, you know." The stowaway looked around, "I'm a good crewman, I'll give you a good days work, you won't even have to pay me. You can take me back to town after today's fishing. How about that?"
The captain towered over Albert, sucking in the air, puffing up his chest he bellowed, "We ain't out for a day fishing, we're headed to Block Island and I don't take passengers." Albert has heard this kind of hollering before and he knew to wait out the rant. "I'm sorry about this, cap. Maybe you could just take me back. It ain't far to P-town."

The captain didn't usually yell at his crewmen, but Albert had given him quite a start. "You'll have to swim back, you good-for nothing-stowing away on my boat, idiot. We are six hours out of town and that would put me 18 hours behind and I've got the tide going with me. I'm not turning this boat around. We'll put you off in Block Island." The radio began squawking from inside the wheelhouse. The captain is pacing when Billy leans out the door "Captain," he calls, "Captain, come listen to the talk on the CB radio." The big man steps inside as his crewman continues, "The talk is about a fellow named Albert. They're worried about him, seems like he wasn't in his bunk this morning.
The big fellow leans out the door and hollers, "Hey, what's your name?" The stranger perks up.
"Albert Swan. At your service," he said. Then he returns to counting the change he'd pulled from his pants pocket. The captain take the radio mike in his meaty hand, pressing his thumb to the side, scanning the horizon and speaking, "This is the 'Angelina' out of Stonington calling the captain looking for Albert, come back." Static, scratchy noise, then,  "This is the 'Reneva' on this end."

"Well Cap, seems we have something in common and something of a dilemma. I got me a stowaway by the name of Albert Swan. Sound familiar?" His answer comes across the airwaves.
"That's him. Is he all right?" Joe lets go of the mike and chuckles into his coffee.

Having contacted someone who might be able to help the wanderer, the Maine captain begins speaking again, "He's not hurt or anything, but I can't keep him as crew. I was thinking of putting him off in Block Island or maybe Nantucket, but when I mentioned this to Albert I thought he was going to cry. Got any ideas? Over."

Joe has been fishing for twenty years and can see the problems. He'd have to chase the boat to Nantucket, use up two days supply of fuel and have no catch. He picked up the mike and said, "Angelina, what is your position? I don't see you on my radar."

"Approximately 5 mile south of Race Point and coming up to the Whistle buoy," came the reply.
Joe can picture Albert on the dock in Nantucket. Maybe the police would send him back.
Albert is sitting on the hatch that covers the fish-hold when he suddenly jumps up and holler out, "Say Cap, if you set me off in Nantucket could you lend me some money?"
The captain doesn't answer, but grabs the radio mike. "This is the 'Angelina. I'll put Albert off in Nantucket and give him twenty dollars. Over."

The reply comes back, "This is the 'Reneva' Listen cap, I've got an idea. You said you were near the Whistle buoy, we're 12 miles north of that big can." Joe has a smile under his bushy black beard, "How about putting Albert on the buoy? Its big enough to hold him. I'll head south and get him when I finish this tow. Maybe a couple of hours. What do you think? Over." Both captains are shaking their heads as if in unison of some strange force, knowing that this could be a simple answer to a complex question. In other works - its worth a shot.

"That a fine idea. I'll go ask Albert and get back to you." The radio barks out. The vagabond fisherman is looking worried. "Hey Albert I've been talking with Joe from the 'Reneva' and he has an idea that he thinks will work for all of us. " The big man braces himself against the rail and outriggers facing his stowaway, "I could put you out on the Whistle Buoy and Joe would come and get you." The captain from Maine is expecting Albert to put up a fuss, take time to think it over or refuse outright. Instead Albert jumps up, "That sounds fine, I know the place, been by it many times. I knew my ol' captain wouldn't let me down." Albert sounds like he's going to take a seat on a bench and wait for the next bus. The captain leaves scratching his head.

These heavy metal markers sit in the water four feet high, like an oil drum with a ring around it for tying to. Historically they dotted the entire eastern seaboard when mariners found their way with chart and compass, before GPS. The depth of the water at this location is one-hundred feet with a swirling tide, rushing, pushing and pulling the buoys off center, at times tilting twenty degrees. It sits two miles from land, too far for even the best swimmers due to the strong currents. When the buoy comes into site, the captain has a fleeting pang of remorse, a moment of doubt, but he maneuvers his 52 foot vessel closer to the bobbing cylindrical marker. "It looks safe," the mate said as he hooks the metal ring with the gaff then quickly slips a line through the ring as the captain hold the boat in slow-ahead. The boat is suspended, attached and the captain takes the boat out of gear.

The captain come out from the wheelhouse and hands Albert a gallon jug of water, a bag with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips. Albert looks around then into the paper bag, as if he is going to change his mind, "You wouldn't trade this water for a six pack of beer would you?"
The captain snarls and walks away.

Billy helps Albert over the boat rail. He leans out, bag between his teeth, jug in one hand, clutching the buoy's ring in the other and said, "Thanks for the lift." The 'Angelina' disengages, falls off and is moving away with the tide. Albert raises his hand, waving, watching the only boat on the horizon leave,  while in-between sea and sky Albert positions himself and waits. Eight hours later  the 'Reneva' appears alongside the buoy. Joe hangs out the wheelhouse and yells, "Hey Albert, you ready to go fishing?" Albert gives his rescuers a big smile, lifts his arm  toward the sky and give them a thumbs-up.

Thank you to the New Bedford Working Waterfront Festival - volunteers, committees, boats and fishermen for providing us with a wonderful weekend. We ate fish, crab, mussels, scallops, and clam chowder. We listened to sea chanties, poets, story tellers, and writers. We walked the waterfront, boarded fishing boats and talked with friends. One man who came to visit the Richard & Arnold told us his father  had captained our boat back in the 1940's. We met people from Alaska, Canada, New Jersey and we reunited with friends we hadn't see in years - what a treat. Even the rain couldn't dampen the spirits of all in attendance. And to top it off- our ride home was a beauty. The sun came out as we left New Bedford Harbor, the wind was light - variable, with a full moon rising. We did a whopping 12.5 knots through the Cape Cod Canal and 8.5 across Cape Cod Bay. The Richard & Arnold is now back in her berth at MacMillan Wharf in Provincetown waiting for her next trip.

From Portsmouth, NH to New Bedford,MA

We enjoyed the time spent at the New Hampshire Fish and Lobster Festival: the food was great, the people friendly and the fisherfolk are raising awareness regarding the small boat fleets and what is happening to our American Fishing Industry.  Sept 29 & 30, 2012 Dave and I are taking the F/V Richard & Arnold to the New Bedford Working Waterfront Festival. The theme this year is:
Fish Tales: Fact, Fiction and Narrative Tradition.  Stop by and say hello.

The highlight of the Fluke season came last Sunday, when a dark green boat, a Bertrum design followed the Richard & Arnold into the basin in Menemsha. Dave had fished the day and was on his way back to harbor and began wondering what he captain of the dark green boat wanted, it was following close behind all the way to the dock on Martha's Vineyard. After the Richard & Arnold was tied up and secured, the Bertrum came along side and a gentlemen reached across the rail to Dave, "Let me shake your hand," the older gentleman said, "You don't remember me, do you?" He had the biggest smile on his face and Dave warmed to him right away. "I'm Arnold."   Dave took a moment to understand that standing in front of him was one of the brothers that our boat had been named for when it came to Provincetown back in 1933.  Arnold continued, "I'm 82 years old and I'm so happy and proud to see how you've kept the boat. My father would be proud too. My brother Richard has passed away, but he'd be proud as well if he were here to see her." There were smiles of joy and tears of excitement, "I remember when my dad, Frank Parson fished the boat from Provincetown Harbor when I was just a child." Arnold Parson shook Dave's hand a dozen times while he looked over the boat and talked about how great it was for him to see the 'Richard & Arnold'. What a great way to end the Fluke season which closed the following day. Thank you to Arnold Parson for showing up at just the right time to say hello and then bon voyage, to a vessel that has both a history and a future.  

The end is near- two days left. Remember the guy who used to walk around Times Square in NYC with that sign on his back? The ending I'm talking about is the season of the Fluke, government style.  The allocated quota is caught - all you guys go home, no more work, no more fishing, no more money. Find another way to make a living. There is bitter taste in my mouth and yet I wish to thank NMFS for allowing us to fish at all. After all their job to protect the fish, never mind us, we can always buy fish from other countries. I still wish to thank them, even though we will have no income for months at a time, even though the boat will be tied up, rusting, and even though more fish are eaten by predation than anything we'd be able to catch, I am still grateful for the opportunity to be allocated a few fish. I'll be glad to have Dave home for more that two days at a time. He had to do the week long trips because there is nothing else he can do right now and we have no idea what we will be allowed to catch in the fall or winter. There's not much fishing around Provincetown and Cape Cod Bay in the summer and on the Atlantic side the cod and haddock have moved north to cooler water. The seals are eating the yellow-tail and other flounder. The lobsters are eating the guts and stuff left on the sea floor by the seals so there is a glut of lobster and falling prices. Lobster pots and gill nets blanket the bay. Do you think that when we run out of fish we'll eat the seals? I wish I had a good receipt for seal pie and I'd love to have a seal coat and boots like the coat my grandmother wore, keeping me warm this winter. We have so much to be thankful for: fish, game, fruits, nuts, all the blessings from this wonderful life and yet so many of us dwell on the dark side, drawn by fear. Remember that guy in Times Square, the end is near. It is a joke, you are supposed to feel pity for him and be repelled. The End is Not Near. So there.

Another Tuna Tail - Tale

There are stories about catching tuna, the indigenous fish that swims the world's currents, causing men to find ways and make remarkable efforts to catch them, stories that sometimes boggle the mind. During the summer of 1977 three men were  talking, standing together at the edge of the Provincetown Wharf. Kurt had just finished a scallop trip, cut and unloaded 200 bags of sweet sea food and was heading home. Henry was on his way to check his vessel tied to the wharf and Shane was out for a walk up the pier to look out at his small boat tied on a mooring. They were yammering about fish, boats, weather and other fishermen. There was hardly a ripple on the water that sweeps into the harbor every six hours. Unbeknownst to the trio a large fish was feeding upon the small squid that were chasing larvae and krill moving it closer and closer to shore. It appeared lazy as if it had eaten its fill. Shane spotted the large sharp fin traveling slowly around mooring lines and anchored boats. He felt the hair rise on his arms and he could feel his heart begin to beat faster. He knew what he was looking at, having seen this fin before.This could be his lucky day. He didn't say a word to anyone, but walked away, then ran to the  boat he knew would have a harpoon at the ready. His uncle Manny's boat the 'Silver Mink' would most definitely have what was needed.

Giant BluefinTuna can weigh over a thousand pounds and are today highly regulated, but in 1977 the name of the game was catch me if you can. Tuna are fast swimming and migratory, following paths that take them from Cape Cod to Cape Verde, away and back again. Best of all they are wonderful tasting, a rich protein delight and for a lucky fisherman they can provide monetary incentive.

Kurt began pointing in the directions of the fish and others began to take notice. Soon a small group had gathered to watch the lazy motion of the dorsal fin as it swam around boats and mooring lines just yards from the side of the pier The fish moved slowly, circling as if lost, coming closer and closer.

When a man sees an opportunity he needs to act. Shane was not out to impress. He did not think about what he would do with it once it was caught, nor about the money. For him it was instinct. He could see the large eye and the silver, blue and yellow scales flashing back at him from just below the surface.
Shane paused, waiting. People began asking what the long pole was for, did he intend to throw the harpoon from this distance, was that a shark? Shane didn't answer, could not reply, could not speak, willing the fish to come closer. And so it did. Suddenly Shane raised the pole and let it fly. The barb struck. The fish stiffened then leaped out of the water. The twelve foot pole flew away from the fish and the line attached to the triangular blade began to uncoil from the box it was stored in. A cheer went up from the growing crowd. Man and fish began a tug of war, the fish would fight for its life and Shane would fight to take it. He could not let the line play out as he would in open water, it was a crowded basin. He began pulling, struggling to move the giant fish to the beach, hoping the arrow shaped tip had gone deep enough.

People were shouting encouragement, "You've got him now. Keep going." The gap to the shore was narrowing. Thirty minutes into the battle the fish gave a final leap into the air and landed on the beach, high and dry as if it wanted to get the whole ordeal over with as quickly as possible. A roar went up from the crowd. Shane's hands were cut and blistered, his breathing hard when he asked a friend to stay with the fish while he went for help. "I don't want anyone coming along and staking a claim," he said. I don't know what he was paid for the fish, it weighed in at just over 400 pounds, but the standing ovation he received was worth a million dollars.