Fathers and sons, lobstermen, captains, sternmen. The Bait Man was here tonight. He came in the good truck, not the patched together wreck his father drives. The bait, of course, was handsome. It was fine bait. Ought to do right and proper by the traps. The factory'd had a call for small sardines, so the herring, what was left, was all whole. Cap'n picked a half a bushel straight out of the chute for eating with his breakfast toast. Father and son -- Captain and Sternman. The Bait Man, Kenny, had one more run and it was already 9 o'clock by the time he'd got here. He'd not get home before two, two-thirty in the morning, then up again for the next day's work just after sunrise. Too many customers and not enough bait this year, even though one of the factory boats could pull in a million pounds in just over a week. Over the breaks for beer and smokes, talk turned to wardens and snappers and v-notches. Only happened that the warden'd check but once or so each year, but if you had 'em, you'd surely get a fine. A good lobsterman'll re-cut the V if he sees it's needed--keeps the population programs going.
After the break it was time to keep salting and packing. Each Coleman cooler was another bushel set up for the week's work. Hands alternately covered in bloody water and salt, dip into the salt and spread it through as Kenny pushed the handsome herring from the truck. He stands in his hip boots and pushes 'em through the gate. Back and forth, the Captain, with the captain of the Carolyn Melissa who was once Captain's sternman, back before Cap'n's son came back to work the waters, back and forth they'd banter with Kenny. Couldn't he leave another few bushels, just so's they could use up the last of the bag of salt. A few more, 'cause the coolers was here already, and that'd make it an even 45 bushel. Back and forth. Kenny heard it every place he went, and sometimes when he has 'em, he lets a few extra bushel go, but sometimes, like tonight, he's got that other run down to the island before he could get off to bed. Sometimes Kenny sleeps in the truck, just because he's got to. Sometimes his girlfriend goes in the truck when he drives, just to see him a little.
When Kenny goes home, it's to the business, it's just him and his good truck, and his father, with the patch-up truck that carries a few more bushel at a time. Cap'n goes home to his wife on up the road a ways -- his son used to go up the hill, but since he's grown and back from school, he goes home to his girlfriend who puts up with his late night bait calls and early morning lobster runs. Between 'em, Cap'n and his son have about 500 traps set out, and on a good day might pull 600 pounds. One day a few years back they had a day when they were crabbing instead and they pulled a good 2000 pounds.
Tonight, about halfway through the loading of the Colemans, Kenny called attention to the strawberry moon. Wasn't that the moon for at the start of August, not the end, he said. It wasn't orange, like before a storm, and it wasn't yellow like a Hunters' moon. It was genuine red, strawberry in color and shape. It'd be turning to beige before too long, he speculated. Watching the moon was reason enough for another beer and another cigarette.
This time talk turned to how many pounds of fish it took to get each lobster. With some thinking and some figuring it looked to be about three pounds of bait to every lobster. Give or take. Lot of food wasted to get a little food back.
Next time Kenny comes in, he's got no more stops to make, so it's fill as much as you got. After the Colemans are all full, even the big ones that aren't much use, out come the fish boxes and that uses up the last of 'em. Down to the very last fish, only this time they're not so handsome, they're just the bits and scraps come out the factory. The Cap'n and Dave, the captain of Carolyn Melissa, they're both asleep in their trucks. It was a long day out and about, Dave's cooling line got fouled and that took some fixing, there were old traps to be repaired. The Captain and his son had a long day with not so much more than the usual catch. So the Captain's son and Hugh, the sternman of Carolyn Melissa, who was all but a son to Dave already, they started to pack the coolers and pack and salt and pack and salt. Took every cooler there was, and then there were the breaks for beer and smokes. Kenny had some, and Hugh took the six pack Dave had left for the night. They'd talk and tell tales. Last time they'd been quiet, working along, this time they took up the conversation as if it were their responsibility, along with the pack and salt and pack and salt, to make sure the talk of how it was when, and what the warden did, and who was paying what for the catch, it was their responsibility to see that it was talked as it should be talked. And they'd laugh and joke about the older men, father and father figure, asleep in their trucks, dead to the world. Dave woke up a few hours later, came by just in time to see the last of the big coolers being packed, and watched for a while before he went to get the Captain. I'll be damned, they both said. I'll be damned. And they took a beer and lit a smoke and watched the boys, the men, finish the last of it, with the requisite banter about how much Kenny was leaving and did he have more stops. And then it was time for a break, for another smoke and another beer before they backed the pickups up to the dock to move the Colemans from the dock to the cooling shed so the bait would stay for the week, maybe into two if they were careful. And finally, when they'd all drunk their drink and smoked their smoke, they'd bring the trucks over and move 'em in. Heavy, full coolers, filled to overflowing with the bits and the pieces. Somewhere the tails that went with all those heads were making their way into little cans with little keys, while the heads would make their way into the pinching claws of the lobsters in their traps. Another morning, another run to check the traps.