Lobster Dreams

It’s quiet and I feel the gentle sway beneath my feet slowly rocking me from left to right. The ocean water is rippled with bright, full sun and I see nothing but shades of blue meeting in a thin line. Boats and seagulls dot my view and remind me that I am a lobsterman.

Perhaps a very hot cup of coffee would start my day. I picture a thick, dark brown liquid in a weathered mug that has welcomed me into each day for years. Creaky, cold floors slide under my feet as I make my way down the hall. My home, obviously somewhere in Maine, displays family photos and adventures that I stare at longingly. I would smile as the sunrise warms my thawing cheeks while the coffee slowly warms my mouth then my throat, chest, and stomach. A buttered piece of toast and the obligatory handful of fruit would satiate me until lunch. I would grab my bag and pull on my boots before I go, I am a lobsterman.

In another life I may have taken the dusty corporate path in which stable income both soothed and unsettled me. A life that is guided by the ebbs and flows of fishing would seem foreign from my dry, polished cubicle; yet, as I climb into my boat, greeting others around me as the sun grows higher, I know I’ve found my calling. The peeling, white lacquer on my boat blends with every other boat here but its the red strip across the belly and black-rimmed window panes that stand out.

I untether from the dock, releasing myself from it’s stability, and off I go. I wash over the gentle waves and chug across open water to check the traps that I have so carefully scattered, trusting my precision and also quietly hoping luck may be on my side today. I approach the first trap just off the shore of Somewhere Point, which is marked by my signature neon buoys. I reel in the trap carefully to take a look but find nothing. Drop it back into the depths and move on. I would remain hopeful and take another encouraging sip of my coffee. My boat putters through the glassy ocean and I bathe in the joy that the salty mist provides. I arch my cap down to cover my eyes and wave to a passing boat. A clammer, I think.

The second, third, and fourth traps had little to show for but the fifth was full of about six lobsters and with that luck I marked this spot in my log. I notice similar glory from the other fisherman close by, this must be a great spot. I turn off the boat and drop my anchor for lunch.

I would eat a tuna sandwich with kettle chips and a cola or seltzer. I would feel peaceful and begin to consider dinner while taking another bite, a sip, a wipe of my chin, another bite, and a wave to a familiar face slowly approaching me. Another lobsterman, a friend. We would discuss our day thus far, our catch, trade advice and stories and good lucks for the remainder of the day, and agree to meet for a pint once finished for the afternoon. Back on the water, I —

I’m shocked back into reality as my office line rings. I peel my eyes from the window just next to my desk and exhale as I turn from the sunny, blue sky and back to my monitor. Perhaps I am not a lobsterman. But when I dream, I lift from my life, shed my city clothes, and climb into my boat. In those moments, I am a lobsterman, even if only for a moment.