One Per Pot

Captain Atlas arrives at Clark’s Landing, where his fishing vessel, F/V Cecilia, resides. The slip overlooks the inlet leading out to the ocean. Walking up to his beloved Cecilia, he always takes a brief moment to look out at the slowly rising sun on the horizon before him. Another day ahead, carrying equal measures of opportunity and ruin. It’s this range of emotions that grounds the Captain. It puts the task at hand into perspective. In this line of work, there is beauty, there are hardships, and there is, in the most extreme circumstances, death.

Within the safety of his own head, Captain Atlas says, “Thank you for another day, another opportunity to provide for my family and this community. Thank you for my sturdy ship; may she remain steadfast through all she faces. Thank you for my mate, whose labor and loyalty share the burden of this work. Grant me the clarity to navigate wisely and the urgency to meet each moment as it comes. Watch over us as we work your waters.”

He grasps his 18-karat gold seahorse necklace, a family heirloom and house sigil for many generations. He grasps it so tightly that Poseidon himself couldn’t take it from him. The Captain places it on his heart and closes his eyes. He tries to envision, manifest even, his voyage. He’s plotted a course and feels the connection with nature. These thoughts bring his gaze back to the horizon, where the sun hangs just above the water, announcing the dawn.

The serenity is broken when his mate returns with ice and breakfast.

The day is officially underway.

Out through the inlet steams Cecilia, a forty-two-foot Northern-style lobster boat with a maroon hull. The rumbling diesel engine against the quiet dawn is a familiar sound. Seagulls soar above, looking for schools of baitfish in the inlet; fishermen with a similar mentality are lining up along the ever-popular Inlet Wall, searching for anything willing to bite. Captain Atlas sets his eyes ahead, starting on his course to his pots. His mate moves with purpose across the deck, making ready for the harvest ahead.

Cecilia arrives at the fishing grounds. The end pot is spotted and approached on the starboard side, the hauling side. Captain Atlas mans the side steering station. He uses a gaff to snag the buoy line and feed the warp into the hauler. He keeps his senses high for knots, snags, or chafing in the rope. Each comes with its own obstacles; the Captain has seen them all. He rarely errs as he feeds the line into the hauler, and his sternman takes over from there, swinging the pot over the rail and opening the kitchen to cull the catch. Once fully emptied and sorted, he rebaits the pot and sends it back down to the rocky sea floor. Number one of two hundred and fifty they’ll be pulling up today.

One by one, Captain Atlas and his mate pull the pots. Shorts, Keepers, Overs, Chickens, Selects, Jumbos. Many kinds of lobsters work their way into the pots. The eggers are the most important. They are identifiable, even when not bearing eggs, by the V-notch on their tails. If a lobster is bearing eggs but lacks a notch, you’ll be the one to put it there. Female lobsters can also be identified by their wide tail shell, a great build for reproduction purposes. All lobster fishermen understand the importance of throwing them back in the name of sustainability. Chickens are the most common, one to one and a quarter pounds, a good eating size. The jumbos are always a sight to see. Three-plus pounders with a massive crusher claw under the veil of a dark, worn shell. Likely living on the sea floor for fifteen to twenty or more years. Selects fall between chickens and jumbos, weighing from one and a half to two pounds.

In the pilot house, Captain Atlas has a notebook filled with all sorts of things rattling around in his head. Regulations. Practices. Thoughts. On the most recent page of that notebook are the words: “ONE PER POT.” A simple reminder to take what the ocean gives, not what you hope it owes.

As they move along, the totes fill at a steady pace. Each lobster goes straight into the livewell to ensure it reaches the dock as fresh as possible. For the Captain, this is non-negotiable. Every lobster is handled with care and respect from the moment it comes over the rail. The reputation of his business was built on that standard, and he takes pride in upholding it.

Working through lunch, they pull all two hundred and fifty pots.

The mate gives the final count to the Captain.

“258!”

With a calm expression, Captain Atlas gives his mate a nod from the pilot house and puts the boat in gear, heading in the direction of home.

Back through the inlet goes Cecilia; the sun in front of them just as it was when they left. Clark’s Landing is now in sight, along with the Fisherman’s Co-op, where they’ll be offloading the lobster to get weighed and paid.

The Captain takes a glimpse at the setting sun, then turns his attention to the stern and beyond.

The day is done, the course has been run, and the work has been faithfully carried out. The Captain’s heart is filled with gratitude as deep as the sea and as enduring as the salt upon it.

He asks his mate to take the wheel as he strides to the stern, his gaze fixed on the horizon he is leaving behind.

There, he slips into a meditative state.

“Phoebus Apollo, you start and end my day. To see its end is a blessing in itself, and here I am, sailing before you once again. For your light upon the horizon, your warmth upon the sea, and the simple gift of another day, I offer my gratitude.”

“Poseidon, Master of the Tides, I give thanks for tranquil waters and a worthy harvest. Your grace is as evident as your power, and I am humbled by both.”

Captain Atlas stares out at the horizon one last time before quietly saying aloud,

“Until tomorrow.”