Redfish Awash Underfoot

The ACADIA BAY 2 trawls the Gulf of Maine Above the Cashes Bank A hundred miles east of Portsmouth. This time of year Close to winter The weather is tricky. Calm seas Then Deadly storms. Today okay. Sunny A slight swell from the deep Quentin slogs through the knee deep catch. Ninty-three minutees into his shift. Four hours on four hours off. The aft awash Red fish chewing bait Aft ankle deep. The hold half-full. Quentin never dry, always wet. His fingers and toes Icy old. Christmas a week away. Land way over the western ocean. Quentin not counting days Nor the minutes. His eyes on the height of fish in the hold. Half full The net reaps more riches from the Cashes Bank. On the Horizon Another trawler The Paper Sun. Heavy with a tub of hake. The sea never looks a lot like Christmas This far offshore. Quinton noses the air. Diesei fumes The stink of fish The sea. Always the sea. But not he. Quinton hasn't bathe in days He doesn't smell dirty Only of diesel and fish. Soon Back ashore Soon New Bedford A few beers in Knuckleheads A burger and fries too. A night in a cheap hotel Then the drive to Maine. Three hours To Arundel His mother Sister His dog Penny, A bath More beer A home cooked meal and then Christmas But not today Not Tomorrow Just hard labor Just four hours on Four horus off Cold and wet Aft awash with redfish Gulls gliding over the wake. The sea always the sea. The Atlantic always the Atlantic Till the ACADIA BAY II Berths in New Bedford And Quinton's boots on the pier Waiting for that first bazz on Merry Yulemas on and none. Foto by Quinton Sprague