inside try to get out of one another’s way.
“Hold out your hand, Aaron. He won’t hurt you.” Dad lays the tiny lobster on Aaron’s palm. “When Tess and I throw the short lobsters in, we always say, ‘Today’s your lucky day, little one.’”
I expect Aaron to make a disgusted face or squirm, but he pauses, holding the tiny lobster on the palm of his rubber glove. Leaning out over the rail, Aaron sets the lobster into a wave as gently as if he were made of glass. “Today’s your lucky day, little one.”
The lobster pauses just below the water’s surface, his tiny claws outstretched. Then, flipping his tail, he spurts off backward, disappearing into the shadows under the boat.
Dad reaches back into the empty trap for the mesh bag of leftover bait. “Next we throw out the old bait, put in some new, and reset the trap. The bait bag hangs here in the first part of the trap — called the kitchen. The lobster comes into the kitchen to eat, and then he’ll crawl up this ramp and through this opening between the two rooms. The back part of the trap is called the parlor, and that’s where he gets stuck.”
“Why doesn’t he just leave the kitchen the same way he came in?” Aaron asks.
“I imagine some do,” Dad says. “But climbing forward into the parlor is easier for him.”
I hear a boat’s engine behind us. I lift my hand to wave, until I see it’s Eben and his dad — and Eben’s driving their boat.
Dad opens the small, mesh bait bag and shakes the leftover fish bits into the sea. From rocks and ledges all around us, seagulls leap into flight. They dive-bomb through the air to pluck the bait bits off the waves, surrounding the boat in a swirl of wings and mournful cries.
Aaron jumps backward.
“They won’t hurt you.” I slide my gaze from Aaron’s borrowed hauling pants to his life jacket and skinny shoulders to the ends of his red hair. When I reach his face, Aaron’s eyebrows are so light-colored they don’t seem to exist at a distance. But I’m close enough to see them go up in surprise. He opens his mouth and closes it twice, like he’s struggling to keep from —
“Over the rail!” I yell, grabbing his arm.
We make it just in time. Which is a relief, because cleaning off our boat every night is bad enough without adding that in.
“Don’t worry,” Dad says, patting his back. “Everyone gets seasick sometimes.”
I nod, though I’ve only ever felt queasy in the fog. When you can’t see the horizon, your body plays tricks on you.
“I see the Tess Libby ’s new sternman needs some weathering,” Brett Calder says over the radio.
“Yeah,” Eben adds. “Maybe the Tess Libby should be renamed the Barf Bucket. ”
I glance to Aaron. He’s sitting on a crate with his head on his arms.
Dad picks up the mic. “Maybe you should pay more attention to your own boat and less to mine!” The back of Dad’s neck is getting red. He snaps off the VHF. I don’t remember him ever doing that before. He sometimes turns it down when he’s sick of the chatter, but he never turns it off all together.
I make myself busy filling bait bags. Cloudy fish eyes stare up at me from the bait tub. I let my hands take over, grabbing slippery fish from the pile, cramming them into the bags.
Aaron looks so miserable that I peel off my rubber gloves and hunt around in the junk box Dad keeps on the boat. I push aside a little calendar the size of acredit card, a couple pencils, and some screws and nails, until I find what I’m looking for.
“It’s spearmint. It’ll take the taste out of your mouth,” I tell him, laying a wrapped hard candy on his knee.
Aaron lifts his head just enough to look at me.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I promise.
Though I’m not sure either of us believes me.
A t the end of two weeks, Aaron’s getting his sea legs on the boat. Though he’s still grabbing the dash or the rail every time Dad guns the engine, at least he’s not throwing up anymore. After
“Hold out your hand, Aaron. He won’t hurt you.” Dad lays the tiny lobster on Aaron’s palm. “When Tess and I throw the short lobsters in, we always say, ‘Today’s your lucky day, little one.’”
I expect Aaron to make a disgusted face or squirm, but he pauses, holding the tiny lobster on the palm of his rubber glove. Leaning out over the rail, Aaron sets the lobster into a wave as gently as if he were made of glass. “Today’s your lucky day, little one.”
The lobster pauses just below the water’s surface, his tiny claws outstretched. Then, flipping his tail, he spurts off backward, disappearing into the shadows under the boat.
Dad reaches back into the empty trap for the mesh bag of leftover bait. “Next we throw out the old bait, put in some new, and reset the trap. The bait bag hangs here in the first part of the trap — called the kitchen. The lobster comes into the kitchen to eat, and then he’ll crawl up this ramp and through this opening between the two rooms. The back part of the trap is called the parlor, and that’s where he gets stuck.”
“Why doesn’t he just leave the kitchen the same way he came in?” Aaron asks.
“I imagine some do,” Dad says. “But climbing forward into the parlor is easier for him.”
I hear a boat’s engine behind us. I lift my hand to wave, until I see it’s Eben and his dad — and Eben’s driving their boat.
Dad opens the small, mesh bait bag and shakes the leftover fish bits into the sea. From rocks and ledges all around us, seagulls leap into flight. They dive-bomb through the air to pluck the bait bits off the waves, surrounding the boat in a swirl of wings and mournful cries.
Aaron jumps backward.
“They won’t hurt you.” I slide my gaze from Aaron’s borrowed hauling pants to his life jacket and skinny shoulders to the ends of his red hair. When I reach his face, Aaron’s eyebrows are so light-colored they don’t seem to exist at a distance. But I’m close enough to see them go up in surprise. He opens his mouth and closes it twice, like he’s struggling to keep from —
“Over the rail!” I yell, grabbing his arm.
We make it just in time. Which is a relief, because cleaning off our boat every night is bad enough without adding that in.
“Don’t worry,” Dad says, patting his back. “Everyone gets seasick sometimes.”
I nod, though I’ve only ever felt queasy in the fog. When you can’t see the horizon, your body plays tricks on you.
“I see the Tess Libby ’s new sternman needs some weathering,” Brett Calder says over the radio.
“Yeah,” Eben adds. “Maybe the Tess Libby should be renamed the Barf Bucket. ”
I glance to Aaron. He’s sitting on a crate with his head on his arms.
Dad picks up the mic. “Maybe you should pay more attention to your own boat and less to mine!” The back of Dad’s neck is getting red. He snaps off the VHF. I don’t remember him ever doing that before. He sometimes turns it down when he’s sick of the chatter, but he never turns it off all together.
I make myself busy filling bait bags. Cloudy fish eyes stare up at me from the bait tub. I let my hands take over, grabbing slippery fish from the pile, cramming them into the bags.
Aaron looks so miserable that I peel off my rubber gloves and hunt around in the junk box Dad keeps on the boat. I push aside a little calendar the size of acredit card, a couple pencils, and some screws and nails, until I find what I’m looking for.
“It’s spearmint. It’ll take the taste out of your mouth,” I tell him, laying a wrapped hard candy on his knee.
Aaron lifts his head just enough to look at me.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I promise.
Though I’m not sure either of us believes me.
A t the end of two weeks, Aaron’s getting his sea legs on the boat. Though he’s still grabbing the dash or the rail every time Dad guns the engine, at least he’s not throwing up anymore. After
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