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The Maine Lobster Book
This book is distilled from the humor, sadness, and pride of the Maine lobster fishery, and it is concocted from herring heads, deathly cold nor'easters, and multi-colored buoys bobbing like small pots of gold in the length and breadth of a summer day on the coast of Maine. It is flavored with a thick and buttery stew steaming on a cast-iron stove, and with the compelling taste and inscrutable habits of a weird and wonderful creature from a watery world.
This is a series of snapshots of life in a lobster-fishing community and in the lobster's ocean-bottom lair, a collage of hilarity, sobriety, and expectations made good or gone sour. It is a look at lobstermen like those you might be proud to meet in Port Clyde, Stonington, or Winter Harbor. It is a brief but thoroughly enjoyable excursion, a chance to sit in on a game in which the lobster might be holding all the aces, the bureaucrat is dealing from a stacked deck, the lobsterman has something up his sleeve, and none of them is folding.
This is a series of snapshots of life in a lobster-fishing community and in the lobster's ocean-bottom lair, a collage of hilarity, sobriety, and expectations made good or gone sour. It is a look at lobstermen like those you might be proud to meet in Port Clyde, Stonington, or Winter Harbor. It is a brief but thoroughly enjoyable excursion, a chance to sit in on a game in which the lobster might be holding all the aces, the bureaucrat is dealing from a stacked deck, the lobsterman has something up his sleeve, and none of them is folding.
98 pages, Paperback
First published May 2, 1986
3 people want to read
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February 9, 2025
I knew absolutely nothing about lobsters - I think I've only even eaten one once in my life. Yet, I LOVED this book! I picked it up at a used bookstore on a whim and am so glad I did. It is a snapshot of lobstermen during a certain moment in time (late 1970s - early 1980s) and is the perfect blend of regional humor, a fascinating (who knew!) industry, a biology lesson and folksy anecdotes from those who live their life on the sea. Plus, it's illustrated with charming and informative sketches with captions. Some of my favorite excerpts are below.
"Lobstermen use two kinds of radios, the ever-faithful and chatty citizens and the Coast Guard-monistored VHF "marine service" radio. The FCC regulates both, but in the case of CB, the government has pretty much thrown in the towel.
With inexpensive radio communications, the lobsterman (and his wife) embrace the means of breaking the day's monotony. And, well, the radios just might be handy in case of emergency, shore or waterside. The FCC found out early in the big-brother monitoring business that provincial language patterns were not about to be altered no matter the damn rules. But for a while, mobile FCC vans zeroed in on racy highway CBers and closed them down via license revocation. That is, if the operator had a license. It was a little harder to nail boats on the water. Today, the CBers and the FCC are adversaries only in the sense that the FCC pays very little attention to CB activity. A constant XXX-rated station will probably get a call-warning from the FCC, but little else. The Coast Guard adamantly refuses to monitor the so-called CB emergency standby station, Channel 9, and what regulations come in the box are discarded with the wrapping paper. CB is the old phone party line, the backyard tattler, the smoke signal, the two-cans-on-a-string method of water communications along the coast of Maine. Lobstermen to not use call letters. They are "Dirty Water Harry" and "The Preacher" and "Dockside Dink" and "Snot Sleeve" and "Wherefuckarewe." Each fishing community will have a different standby channel, and wives will keep their sets tuned to that station all day long. Their lobstermen husbands are a lot more chatty than their stoic, reticent Maine reputations lead one to believe. It's no secret that thousands of CB radios are purchased in Maine by people who will never push the talk button. It's pure, unforgettable, downeast entertainment."
"Albert folds three crisp twenty-dollar bills into Harold's salty, scummy hands. 'Aw, Albert, now you didn't have t'go do that,' says the lobster catcher as he transfers the bills to his shirt pocket bank, the one with the button padlock."
"Boys, for instance, are never shown twice how to knit a bait bag. 'Is this it, Dad?' Or, "I got it right this time, Pop?' is invariably answered with a 'nope' or 'yep.' Knitting 50 wrong-way bait bags can do something for the powers of concentration when the next lesson rolls around."
[When the warden catches a lobsterman with lobsters that are too short]
"What happens when a fisherman is caught red-handed with the little fellas? Well, again, this stimulates the undercover psyche that all lobstermen are born with. Some of the more common responses after being caught with hands in the short pail are:
'Well officer, I lost my measure overboard and I was taking these ashore to gauge 'em but sure as hell would throw the illegal ones off the wharf.'
'These ain't mine.'
'Warden, you won't believe this, but. . . .'
'Short huh? Well, that's what I thought but old Bill here kept saying they was legal n'all. Bill's getting along you know, ain't got a family or nothing. No money. Ain't hardly got much life ahead of him. I take old Bill with me some days n'pay him off in lobsters so's he can at least get one square meal a week. Bill's lobsters are really short, huh Warden?'
'Goddamn, warden, am I glad t'see you. I was settin' out t'look for 'ya. OK, now here's the thing. I think something's wrong with my gauge. Can't put my finger on it, but, look here, would you mind measuring up these few close ones with your gauge just t'set my mind at ease? Just put the shorts aide n'I'll throw 'em back. Sure glad I run into you, warden.'
'Judge, sir, this warden has been after me ever since the day he ran outa gas n'I towed him home but made five passes 'cause there was so many people on the dock. He thought I was hangin' him high on purpose, judge, but I wa'nt. Wind wa'nt right t'land."
'Ya'honor, we Eatons are God-fearing folk. My granddaddy was a peace officer. An Eaton don't go 'round breaking the law on purpose. No sir, I really didn't think them were shorts. Yes sir, I was in here a couple of weeks ago.'"
"Lobstermen use two kinds of radios, the ever-faithful and chatty citizens and the Coast Guard-monistored VHF "marine service" radio. The FCC regulates both, but in the case of CB, the government has pretty much thrown in the towel.
With inexpensive radio communications, the lobsterman (and his wife) embrace the means of breaking the day's monotony. And, well, the radios just might be handy in case of emergency, shore or waterside. The FCC found out early in the big-brother monitoring business that provincial language patterns were not about to be altered no matter the damn rules. But for a while, mobile FCC vans zeroed in on racy highway CBers and closed them down via license revocation. That is, if the operator had a license. It was a little harder to nail boats on the water. Today, the CBers and the FCC are adversaries only in the sense that the FCC pays very little attention to CB activity. A constant XXX-rated station will probably get a call-warning from the FCC, but little else. The Coast Guard adamantly refuses to monitor the so-called CB emergency standby station, Channel 9, and what regulations come in the box are discarded with the wrapping paper. CB is the old phone party line, the backyard tattler, the smoke signal, the two-cans-on-a-string method of water communications along the coast of Maine. Lobstermen to not use call letters. They are "Dirty Water Harry" and "The Preacher" and "Dockside Dink" and "Snot Sleeve" and "Wherefuckarewe." Each fishing community will have a different standby channel, and wives will keep their sets tuned to that station all day long. Their lobstermen husbands are a lot more chatty than their stoic, reticent Maine reputations lead one to believe. It's no secret that thousands of CB radios are purchased in Maine by people who will never push the talk button. It's pure, unforgettable, downeast entertainment."
"Albert folds three crisp twenty-dollar bills into Harold's salty, scummy hands. 'Aw, Albert, now you didn't have t'go do that,' says the lobster catcher as he transfers the bills to his shirt pocket bank, the one with the button padlock."
"Boys, for instance, are never shown twice how to knit a bait bag. 'Is this it, Dad?' Or, "I got it right this time, Pop?' is invariably answered with a 'nope' or 'yep.' Knitting 50 wrong-way bait bags can do something for the powers of concentration when the next lesson rolls around."
[When the warden catches a lobsterman with lobsters that are too short]
"What happens when a fisherman is caught red-handed with the little fellas? Well, again, this stimulates the undercover psyche that all lobstermen are born with. Some of the more common responses after being caught with hands in the short pail are:
'Well officer, I lost my measure overboard and I was taking these ashore to gauge 'em but sure as hell would throw the illegal ones off the wharf.'
'These ain't mine.'
'Warden, you won't believe this, but. . . .'
'Short huh? Well, that's what I thought but old Bill here kept saying they was legal n'all. Bill's getting along you know, ain't got a family or nothing. No money. Ain't hardly got much life ahead of him. I take old Bill with me some days n'pay him off in lobsters so's he can at least get one square meal a week. Bill's lobsters are really short, huh Warden?'
'Goddamn, warden, am I glad t'see you. I was settin' out t'look for 'ya. OK, now here's the thing. I think something's wrong with my gauge. Can't put my finger on it, but, look here, would you mind measuring up these few close ones with your gauge just t'set my mind at ease? Just put the shorts aide n'I'll throw 'em back. Sure glad I run into you, warden.'
'Judge, sir, this warden has been after me ever since the day he ran outa gas n'I towed him home but made five passes 'cause there was so many people on the dock. He thought I was hangin' him high on purpose, judge, but I wa'nt. Wind wa'nt right t'land."
'Ya'honor, we Eatons are God-fearing folk. My granddaddy was a peace officer. An Eaton don't go 'round breaking the law on purpose. No sir, I really didn't think them were shorts. Yes sir, I was in here a couple of weeks ago.'"
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