A Prelude to a Revelation

 

Five years ago, I experienced a life-changing event—one of those rare, supermassive events few survive. Such an event, by its sheer magnitude and gravity, shreds your current understanding of life. Emerging from this singularity, you may find the physics of reality altered. The event will pull you to bits in an infinite number of ways, strip you to your most fundamental pieces, and—if you're lucky—reignite the spark of consciousness which, by the nature of the event, had been snuffed out. After waking from the experience, your view on everything is completely changed.

When I talk about a new view on everything, I don’t mean the way you feel after watching a Carl Sagan documentary. I mean a complete paradigm shift, a Sci-Fi-esque acid trip, a "I just fell into a black hole and was deconstructed and reassembled in an alternate universe then fought my way home" type of view change.

I lived the first part of my life as a race against time. It seemed self-evident that my character flaws were conspiring in my undoing. And I would argue this is the truth, with my backstory as supporting evidence. The habits of thought born from childhood insecurities followed me into adulthood. The self-imposed race against my self-indulgent, thrill-seeking nature led me to live as fully as possible, to see as much of the world as possible. Once awake, I never stopped moving; sitting was painful. I sculpted my entire existence into an unending adventure, often, more often than I would like to admit, a total misadventure. I was in a hurry to see the sights, smell the smells, taste the tastes. My overarching goal was to immerse myself in the phenomenon of living, to bask in the simmering hot springs of life before it transformed into a rolling boil and cooked my gingery ass. I imagined someone with my character traits was not meant to live into old age. My obsession with delving headfirst into danger for the sheer, animalistic pleasure of it was of cardinal importance to my belief system. This thought process was so fundamental in my believing, what happened is nothing short of hilarious.

I realize now that this thinking is part of the folly of youth. Nobody ‘plans’ on getting old. When you’re young, it’s very easy to romanticize the scenario I described earlier. If you are like me, you might’ve thought something like, ‘It would be so wonderful to shine as bright as possible, like a supermassive star, and then, after burning through all my fuel, explode my awesomeness out into the universe like a supernova! Yay! I’ll be stardust!’ In reality, you’re just a young dumbass. We can’t control the entirety of our final undoing. Despite our best efforts to guide our lives, there is always an element beyond our control. Accepting the wildcard presented by the unseen forces of the universe is a difficult undertaking. People like to imagine themselves as knights in glinting silver armor, adventuring through hordes of foes on their way to slay the dragon of ‘fate’. We think, ‘Once we slay this fictitious dragon, we will get all that shit we really need! We’ll be happy! It’ll have mad drops, yo!’ Even controlling ourselves and our thoughts can be difficult. It’s best not to hinge our entire contentment on the slaying of metaphorical dragons. The forces of the universe are way bigger than us. For me to think I could predict the eventuality of my fate was laughable. In retrospect, I can see how obvious the flaws in my philosophies were; nonetheless, they led to innumerable experiences of varying flavors, none of which I regret, even the really bad ones. I’m very grateful to be where I am without regrets.

An Overview of The Fishing Industry

To understand the following story, it’s best to have some background on the workings of the commercial fishing industry as well as the layout of fishing boats. Fishing vessels dedicated to certain fisheries have unique anatomies which aid in the pursuit of their targeted fish species. Apart from eastern rigs, draggers typically feature a wheelhouse located toward the bow. Directly below the wheelhouse is the galley and living area, which opens onto the back deck. Immediately behind the living area is an open shelter designed to protect fishermen from the elements while they sort and basket fish at a conveyor. Adjacent to the living area, against the midship abutment, are two large steel winches. These winches, wound with thick cable, are responsible for setting and hauling the doors and net.

Toward the stern of the boat, there is a fishpen designed to hold fish released from the net at the end of a 'tow'—the period spent towing the net along the ocean floor. This fishpen feeds into a conveyor sump that transports fish to the crew for sorting and basketing. Above the fishpen are large hydraulic drums known as net reels, with one or two for setting and hauling the net and potentially additional reels for storing extra nets, depending on the size of the boat.

Adjacent to the net reels are two square steel 'doors' that hang outside the gunnels on both the starboard and port sides of the boat. These doors are engineered to move through the water and open the net. They are attached to a cable that runs through a block above where they hang and then connects to the winches. This cable is strung at head level from the stern door block to the midship winches.

Below the net reel responsible for setting the net, there is one or two ramps located at the stern of the boat. The process of setting the net for a 'tow' begins with a fisherman operating the net reel to lower it to the ramp and push it overboard. Once the net is fully spooled out, the ends are attached to the doors, which are then dumped into the water by the winches. The winches spool out sufficient cable to lower the entire mechanism to the ocean floor. Once the doors reach the bottom, they begin to spread, and the net opens, allowing fish to start accumulating inside.

There is a decent sized fleet of squid boats in the Northeast; they supply the country with Loligo squid. This creature is dressed up under the name ‘Calamari’ and served in almost every restaurant nationwide. The demand for ‘Calamari’ drives the market price for squid high enough to justify the pursuit of squid from summertime in-shore fishing all the way to the icy, wintertime expeditions bound for the continental shelf.

The behavior of squid is determined by (in order of magnitude); the time of year, water temperature, the weather, the sun, and the moon phase. During late spring and early summer, squid move inshore to mate. In my experience, they first appear off the coast of Nantucket followed by their emergence off Long Island. They venture to the bottom to mate and lay gelatinous egg sacks. While they are on the bottom, it’s possible to catch them in quantities which can fuel the gears of industry.

After muttering the words ‘gears of industry’, I’d like to do my best in dispelling a belief which acts as a blemish on the soul of the fishing industry. There is a massive disparity between popular belief and the truth of what I’ve witnessed when it comes to the health of fish stocks. Everyone who (my former self included) has seen a David Attenborough documentary is under the belief that there are no fish in our polluted ocean. While this is true for many places around the planet, the fish stocks off the coast of the US are very closely regulated. The government sends ‘Observers’ out on fishing trips to record what is caught and then adjusts policies accordingly. Fish stocks were decimated during the 90’s and as a result, strict policies rebounded. Fishing permits limit the number of boats which can legally engage in commercial fishing activities. The regulations also limit the volume of fish to be harvested, the way in which they are caught, and the legal size of each species. I’ve always believed in what I’ve seen and experienced over what I’ve heard. And what I’ve seen is that fish stocks are doing very well here in the US. I’d wager to say that most people who believe otherwise have very little experience offshore, especially as offshore fishermen. Inland shellfish stocks are another subject entirely.

As squid show up in larger numbers off the coast, the squid fleet begins to mobilize its summer fishing endeavors. The fleet is split into two categories: boats with state permits and alternatively boats with federal permits. State boats are smaller and can fish closer to shore while federal permits are usually held by larger boats that follow squid as they move. Most of the boats out of my home port of Shinnecock, NY are state boats. They leave port a few hours after midnight to steam to their fishing grounds. Generally, fishermen try to set their nets before sunrise to catch the morning ‘tow’. A ‘tow’ refers to a 2-4 hour timeframe when their gear is on the bottom and capable of catching fish. As Earth’s celestial bodies determine quite a bit of squid behavior, the entirety of a fisherman’s haul can be caught during the sun-up tow or the sun-down tow. During the summer months, after the sun sets, the squid come off the bottom, and the state boats return to port to offload their catch. During winter months, squid behave differently. They can stay on the bottom from a few hours before sunrise all the way to the next morning. Around 4 am the fishing slows as the squid come off the bottom.

The larger boats have a fish hold which enables them to either pen their catch or put them in paraffin boxes. They wait a few days for their catch to accumulate before offloading. This permits the vessels to fish far from their home port and choose the port which they prefer to off-load at. Most boats, with the exception of boats out of Montauk, prefer to offload (also called packing out) in Pt. Judith, Rhode Island. The squid processing plant is located there. By steaming to Rhode Island, boats can bypass the freight fees associated with sending fish to the processor over land. They provide personnel and dockside equipment for a quick pack-out. Not only that, but Pt. Judith also has cheaper fuel, ice, and oil. All of this is compounded with the ability to easily purchase nets and mechanical parts. The port also has ease of availability for professionals like divers, mechanics, and welders. These things make Pt. Judith a true fishing town while ports in New York struggle to satiate the needs of fishing vessels. As a result, there is an ever-ballooning cost for overhead. The cost to do business along with ever-tightening fishing restrictions have put many fishermen underwater. The fishing industry of Long Island is caught in a cycle of decline without much promise for the future.

I spent most of my fishing career on the large federal boats aiming to catch squid. During the summer we would fish from 4 AM to an hour after sunset then drop anchor and light the barbeque for dinner. At night, I would go on deck and peer overboard to spot schools of squid illuminated by moonlight. While we would fish for 3-5 days, the length of the trip was compounded by the time spent steaming to and from the fishing grounds as well as the pack-out, resupply, and gear maintenance. Trips would often turn into 8-day events. And back-to-back trips would result in being tethered to the boat for the better part of a month. At the end of the ‘work month’, I would be rewarded with a big check and plenty of free time to do whatever i would like. The freedom of having some money was a novelty that never wore off.

I was deeply enamored with fishing. It fit perfectly with my personality as I craved adventure and only felt ease on the ocean. The freedom of the open ocean was rivaled solely by the freedom to pursue my passions on land. There was a silent part of my soul which yearned for the grueling days of work on deck. The quiet masochist within was smitten toiling in the coldness of winter or oppressive summer heat. Regardless of what mental state you walked onto the boat with, the extremes made it impossible to feel something other than alive. And as I often felt a deep chasm of nothingness in my soul, I was delighted to fill it with the emotions of life.

While my story highlights the extremes at sea, id like to note that quite a bit of time is spent hanging out watching movies while the boat steams to a destination. Also, summer-time fishing is really calm and relaxing. It can be unbearably hot but for the most part the fish are quickly sorted and penned and one can return to the comfort of the AC. It’s easy to gain a few pounds from summer fishing as boredom eating is one of the biggest sources of entertainment.

Winter Fishing, a World Apart

It was March 2019. After six years as a commercial fisherman, I had finally secured a position on an ace highliner, the Perception, a renowned 90-foot squid boat out of Montauk, New York. At the time, it was one of tb vhe best vessels in the northeast, commanded by two legendary captains and manned by a rotating crew that kept our operations running non-stop, except when heavy weather forced us to pause.

The winter winds had whipped the iridescent, blue sea above the continental shelf into an angry frenzy. The darkness of the moonless night was interrupted by powerful deck lights as the boat lurched forward. The vessel bobbed and dipped as it jolted through the windswept chop. This somewhat relaxed vacillation between high and low was episodically shattered by an intense bucking and slamming. It jerked the contents of the boat. Navigating the swells, the vessel's bulbous bow heaved skyward, revealing a thin red paint line. The rebound submerged the bow underwater, causing the ocean to flood onto the forward deck. This resulted in a wave which slammed itself against the rampart guarding the wheelhouse. Heavy spray assaulted the forward-facing wheelhouse windows. Dishes left on the drying rack rattled and clinked, a bottle of cooking spray rolled back and forth casting a periodic clinking sound. The rough seas had opened a galley cabinet, and its contents were sent to the floor. The slamming had transformed the living area into a war zone. Despite the noise and chaos, the crew slept soundly for they had endured a grueling 18-hour day battling the unrelenting sea.

I was in a deep dreamless sleep in the portside bunkroom. After dinner, I had fallen into a much-needed food coma. While I slept, the intense heat from the previous day's exercise presented itself as perspiration on my skin. Even though I was sweaty head to toe, I slept soundly. As time passed, the sun crept up towards the horizon. The next day of fishing would soon be upon captain and crew.

The aroma of coffee began to permeate the living area. Despite the vessel being shadowed in the darkness of night, the coming day's preparations began. One of the crew, who had been in the wheelhouse on watch, climbed down and woke the captain. It was a rule written in stone that the net must be set out before daybreak, breaking this law would be a cardinal sin against fishing.

The captain hit a toggle switch, and the haul-back engine roared to life. It shook the boat and sent a deafening scream into the bunk rooms. It was a noise that could wake the dead, the ultimate alarm clock to wake sleep-deprived fishermen. The haul-back engine was a separate motor dedicated to powering the net-reel and haul-back winches. It was mainly found on larger boats as they needed more power to set and haul a net in the deep water found around the continental shelf.

The crew sleepily roused themselves from their bunks and began to work their way to the galley for a quick snack. This preceded the trance-like procession of the crew into the engine room. Before and after each tow, the crew would venture to the heat of the engine compartment to equip or shed their rain gear, gloves, and any wet clothing. The clothing would be hung up to dry while gloves and socks would be attached to long lining snap swivels draped from the ceiling.

After climbing down the engine room steps, I stumbled forward, struggling to keep my footing as the boat jolted and rocked. Even though I was still shedding the shackles of sleep, I took special care not to place my hand on any hot equipment. I located my stuff and pulled on a hoody which had become stiff from the caked-on salt. I put one leg into the equally stiff sweatpants, then found something to lean on before placing the next leg in. I pushed my feet into the thick muck boots, then pulled the gloves right side in and stuck my hands into them. Finally, I equipped myself with my orange raincoat and trunks. This was the fisherman's armor which protected them from the elements.

I ascended the steps and stepped on deck. A gust of misty salt air battered my face as I squinted under the bright incandescent deck lights. The steel abutment protecting the conveyor on the portside was slammed by a wave which shot water through the scuppers. A small wave resulted and slid across the deck, pooled against the gunwale then drained through the adjacent scuppers. Wind whipped through the rigging producing an eerie whooshing sound, a sound only heard when conditions were truly nasty.

Fishing in heavy weather is uncommon because the violent movement of the ship can put undue stress on both the equipment and the crew. Tow wires may snap, net attachments could break, and hydraulics might fail. Resolving these issues is challenging even on a calm summer day. Consequently, a winter storm significantly complicates these situations, increasing the risk of losing gear or causing injuries to the crew. Despite these risks, during this trip, the volume of fish we were catching justified the continuation of our operations.

The crew and I descended on the net reel. I carefully stepped over the fish pen boards and lodged myself between the stern gunnel and the thick steel A-frame supporting the net reel. Though the hood of my raincoat obscured one eye, I managed to spot the hydraulic controls of the net reel, tucked under a stainless-steel housing that partially shielded them from the corrosive sea spray. Suddenly a violent gust of wind pelted me with sea water and a wave crashed into the stern sending a deluge of water into the fishpen. I wrapped one arm firmly around the A-frame and carefully tugged the control with the other. While the net began to unfurl from the reel, another crew member stepped into the fishpen and guided it down the ramp, timing their entrance into the pen to avoid being swept off their feet by the water surging up the ramp. The net embarked on its journey seaward. I began to taste salt as water dripped onto my face from the brim of my hood. As the drum continued to turn the net further unfurled and the door hookups presented themselves.  We secured the net to the doors and commenced the pilgrimage back to the engine room. Once we were clear of the area the captain released the break on the winches and the doors splashed into the water.

The sun up tow had commenced. After shedding our layers some of us crawled back into our bunks to catch some shut eye while the net gathered fish. As I was lulled to sleep by the drone of the diesel engine I could hear one of the crew begin his morning routine of screaming at Fox News.

The Crew

On any fishing vessel, the crew is comprised of a cast of characters with 'colorful' personalities, and the Perception was no different. But before I delve into that, I want to clarify that - while I fancy myself somewhat reformed - I undeniably have a long history of absurd shenanigans. And as such, I'm not in any position to judge or feel superior. I have no political party affiliation; I find most subjects that enrage and polarize the average American to be simply ridiculous. I justify my ambivalence on such issues by viewing America as a vapid, cultureless land whose only light is that cast by the neon signs of fast-food franchises.

With this said, the crew was a collection of blue-collar, gun-loving staunch Republicans with bad attitudes and seriously checkered pasts. Although all were from Montauk except for me, most lived in different states and flew in for their 'work month'. The difficult work, time away from home, the high volume of fish caught, and the fact that people get seasick made the job very lucrative. Being a character myself I had the appropriate prerequisites to qualify for the glorious job of 'deckhand'. When it comes to being a fisherman, the quality which eclipses all others is the ability to maintain good morale while enduring hours of work in the elements meanwhile being tossed around by the sea. If someone can do this, they can be as eccentric as their heart desires.

 

During this iteration of my life, my bad habits had begun to fade into the rearview mirror, which, at first, made me a bit of an odd duck. During the first few trips, I was treated like a pariah. I would go the entire trip in silence. When I began to speak, someone would jump in with a 'nobody cares, go back to Shinnecock, asshole' or a 'fuck you, Shinnecock'. I had no name, just a curse word plus Shinnecock. And it was for everything. If it was my turn to cook, 'get in the kitchen and cook some food, bitch'; then someone else might add 'Shinnecock learned to cook from his crack whore mom'. If I was icing boxes in the fish hold, 'more ice, asshole'; if I was helping with gear work, 'Shinnecock's fucking useless'. And so, it went for some time.

The crew had slightly varied interests with many common threads: hunting, drinking, Newport 100's, guns, and fishing. James - the Fox News guy - enjoyed cocaine, Asian "women of the night", and gambling. His tan leathery skin reminded me of cracked mud in a dry puddle. He was an energetic person with a good sense of humor and a serious anger problem. Bob, the undead-looking deck "boss", owned a ranch in the south. Judging by how much he spoke about it; his main interest was shooting boars from a window as they ate food he'd set out. That and going on hunting safaris. In his past, he enjoyed the occasional crack session but aged out of it, or so he said. This particular "gentleman" looked as if a vampire had begun to transform into a bat but had gotten stuck midway. He was a short, prickly man who had the unfortunate insecurity of believing he was going to be replaced by one of the younger crew. Initially, he seemed devoid of humanity; I even joked that he probably had a prostitute chained up in a storage container somewhere on his property. But as time went on, little beams of normalcy began to shine through his hardened exterior. Scott was my age, and we had a common interest of surfing. He was a soft-spoken, aloof fellow who had not only been stabbed but run over and imprisoned. The only seemingly normal one out of our motley crew was Brandon. Brandon was my age; he was quiet and somewhat introverted. He owned a house up in Connecticut and was married. He even had a dog. Although he seemed like he could maintain a semblance of sanity on land, I imagined he had a doomsday bunker and death traps around his property. Nobody’s normal in the fishing industry.

The Bay – move this later

Before I worked on the Perception, I was filling in on boats around Shinnecock, partaking in the occasional squid trip on The Mary Elizabeth or The Viking Pride, and working on my shellfish boat in the bay. I had a small business harvesting clams and scallops in the waters around the east end. On its own, it was a total dead end, but if done in conjunction with fishing, I found it helpful. I had rebuilt and repowered an old Mako to be my 'Clam Chariot'. It was one hell of an undertaking. I learned to do fiberglass work and spent a summer covered in sweat and fiberglass shards putting the boat together. The only thing worse than killing brain cells sucking in fiberglass fumes was the work of clamming itself. I'm a sucker for a dysfunctional relationship, and my relationship with my shellfish boats and clamming certainly fit the bill. Before the maiden voyage of the 'Clam Chariot', I had a tiny Privateer that seemed to have a will of its own. The traitorous little boat wanted to kill me more than anything. It would try to sink during work, at the dock, in the inlet; the engine loved to die at the worst times. It would work fine for a time, almost as to lure me into sense of safety then die on like-a December day during a gale while hungover, or right before the breakers at the mouth of the inlet. So, not actively pursuing death, I upgraded.

Working on the bay is painfully dull, it’s brutally hard, and doesn’t pay well. When the conditions are best the bay deals out a punishment.  The strong wind and choppy waves are exhausting, its significantly harder than fishing. Not to mention, I sucked at it—it’s a serious skill. I usually found myself sunburned, windburned, bored, and still broke. To get a better idea of what clamming is like, here’s how a typical day unfolds:

I aimed to time my six hours on the bay to coincide with the incoming tide since clams move up and down the mud based on the wind, tide, and temperature. A little planning goes a long way. I would pack lunch and ensure I had water and sunscreen, then check to see if the boat had bags and harvester tags. Next, I would head over to the shop (aka my mom’s backyard) and attach the trailer to the truck. Following this, I would cruise down to the boat ramp by Ponquogue Bridge and dump the 'Chariot' in. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be a horde of tourists, or, even worse, families of drunken rednecks sunbathing in nests of empty Busch light cans all while sporting white T-shirts, and sincerely out-of-fashion sunglasses. After parking, I'd jump in the boat and head to the center of Shinnecock Bay.

Clams are caught by a rake connected to basket, both of which are attached to a pole with a handle. This setup is tossed overboard, and as the boat drifts in the wind, a clammer pulls on the pole to drag the rake through the mud. As the teeth of the rake move through the mud, clams hit the teeth and are pushed into the basket where they collect. Clams are harvested solely by manpower, with no mechanical assistance permitted to prevent overharvesting.

I would check the water depth then adjust the length of the clam pole and toss it overboard. The windier the day, the better the clamming as the rake covers more ground. It's a dreadfully boring endeavor. The entire day boils down to two activities: pulling on the rake with all of your might and sorting the clams by size. And of course, with breaks to either scream into the wind in frustration or spiral into an existential crisis, all while being horribly abused by the elements. Believe me when I say the bay is nasty, you'll take a beating in Shinnecock much worse than on any trawler, especially in December.

As I sat out there screaming like an insane person, I'd light up with delight when I found the rake filled with seaweed or dead mussel shells, occasionally live mussels. Mussels would be great, but in Shinnecock they have little crabs in them, and you can't sell them. Clamming sounds simple, but it isn’t. It's super hard to do effectively. I did everything to get better. I rebuilt a boat, equipped it with a new engine, upgraded equipment, and rigged up a pot hauler to pull the heavy rake head up. I even made a Tom Sawyer-inspired sail to drift faster on days with little wind. The list goes on, but despite my efforts, I sucked at it.

After a few hours of this masochism, I would have a few bags filled and start in the direction of the ramp. By this point, I probably looked like a tomato from sun and windburn. I certainly had one mental fit, maybe two; I probably kicked a basket and slammed a bucket. If it was a really tiring day, I would enjoy some situation at the ramp—like tying the boat up wrong and having it drift away, or hitting the trailer at the wrong angle and breaking some rollers.

From the ramp, I would just stop at Corjay’s Seafood Market to drop the clams off. I always loved stopping there on my way home; I knew everyone and after a day of silence, it would be nice to speak with friends.

Clamming was something that I hated. I hated it wholeheartedly but was completely obsessed with it. I would often catch myself out on the bay drifting after a lucrative fishing trip, thinking to myself why am I out here? I just spent seven days at sea. I don't know, maybe I'm a glutton for punishment, or maybe I enjoyed being out in the sun. Whatever it was, it had me hooked.