Lobsterman
Debbie Camelin
Tom Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest 2006 (view all the winners)
Most Highly Commended
He sat there on his haunches for hours, perched on flat coastal rock
Long ago fashioned by Nature, black unforgiving surfaces known to claim
Credulous lives. Poised like a gull gussied up in red-plaid coverlet, he sat
Staring at the harbour, and remembered:
Rhythm of tides, ceaseless surge of sea against shore, clammy
Brine air. His bones a barometer, his redlined weathered
Face testimony to years of labour in chilling wind
And reflected ocean sunlight. Home in the sea but grounded to the land,
A hand-rolled cigarette dangled between tawny thumb
And forefinger, flicked away dying embers after he drew in its essence.
Sometimes on holiday I sat next to him and between long silences
And inhaled residue listened to grandfather recall years toiling
As a lobsterman. Traps hauled from icy depths, hand over hand, catch
Measured with a stick to ensure legal limits, releasing tinkers who escaped
Boiled pot, pegging claws shut on those that passed inspection to avoid
Agitated pinches. He watched in earnest as boats put out to sea, flat
Hulls laden with vinyl-coated wire traps, modern devices that withstand ocean
Forces and are easier to heave, transitioned from wooden but still fashioned
With decades-old design. Recalled years spent with one other in 13-foot dory
Manoeuvred by temperamental motor, tossed in Atlantic like vivid buoy.
Seamen who could smell a squall stirring, read sea and sky, yet were paper
Illiterate. Learned lobster was poor man's catch long before it garnered favour
With wealthy taste buds to be called delicacy. Sandwich meat children hid
From classmates' view to escape mark of poverty by feeding on fertilizer
For farmers' fields. Once when war raged on, divided spoils of torpedoed ship
Among family, casting nets to catch Red Cross tins that floated carefree
And provided sweets to those who rarely feasted on wrapped candy, chocolate,
Packaged cookies. Raised seven, six boys and a girl, only to mourn a trio's
Deaths, sons lost to their livelihood. Yes, grandfather mended lives along side
Traps, suppressed niggling thoughts of ironic taskmaster, the sea giveth
And the sea taketh away. Watched younger generation venture out to follow
In their fathers' wake, eager to replace pen with oar and paper with winch,
Comforted in knowledge that fishing is in their blood, despite a tired
And depleted industry. For days grandfather crouched in silence
Behind him a wood pile grew, logs split first out of necessity to stroke
The belly of a cast iron stove, then out of boredom to occupy idle hours.
