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Photos on a wall
Sep. 12th, 2011 12:41 pmFor most people, the word “fishing” conjures up the image of a little rowboat out in the middle of a calm woodland stream. Perfectly still, except for the occasional buzz of a dragonfly or chirm of a little bird, this serene picture includes the rich and dense canopy of trees, the wriggling of some mosquito larvae in the water, and the one or two guys napping in the boat, unconcerned if their bobbins even react to the bite of a potential dinnertime trout. Only in recent times, through films like the Perfect Storm and TV’s Deadliest Catch, have most Americans been exposed to the cold, hard facts. For most commercial fishermen, the work is anything but tranquil. In fact, each and every time a boat leaves the dock, it is a crap-shoot as to whether or not the crew will all arrive home safely.
Growing up on Cape Cod, this unpleasant fact of life was very simply part of our day to day routine. Fishing town that it is, the reminders of the fishing industry are absolutely everywhere. In the town square, an antique anchor stands as a commemoration to the industry. In various restaurants and shops, tools of the industry, now outdated by newer innovations, decorate the walls: a buoy here, a net there, and maybe an old sunbleached and salt-preserved wooden trap just for kicks.
As one walks along the beach, if one looks with a careful eye, one can find various artifacts of the industry. Broken pieces of buoys sometimes make their way back to shore, as do pieces of wood, or broken pipes or pottery, or pieces of coal. These objects may look like simple trash or beach-junk. But they are more than that. They are all that is left – the few precious returns from the sea – of a boat that went down.
That broken pipe? Maybe a sailor broke it and just threw it away into the sea. OR… maybe it went down with the boat. That buoy? Maybe it just broke free from a trap. OR… maybe it broke from a boat now resting on the bottom. That piece of coal? Most likely that was part of the cargo of a 19th-20th century barge. Now worn and tumbled smooth from being tossed around on a seabed, that simple little black rock may very well have been witness to a terrifying tragedy that has no living eye-witnesses. If these objects could talk, what story would they tell?
Quiet and silent reminders like this scour the town – often so subtle as to be right under your nose. I remember all too well our family restaurant. Quaint, small, humble, and cute, our restaurant was a tribute not only to our own multi-generational Portuguese heritage, but to the town industry itself. To the casual tourist, it had its own quaint charm. So simple. So humble. So understated. The menu, with its cover portraying a rustic woodblock print of various cuisine, contained many ethnic seafood dishes. How cute it must have looked to the casual tourist to see a seafood restaurant with all those nautical decorations. And there on the walls, all those cute pictures of all those cute little fishing boats. How humble! How quaint! How cute! Yet, what most people didn’t understand was the silent tribute being paid to the industry and to the men who surrendered their lives to the sea.
Many of those photos were of boats that had gone down. Some had been found. Some had not. As for the crew, well, “lost at sea” is a much kinder and gentler way of saying that which no one feels comfortable saying. This did not need to be shoved down the throats of the tourists visiting the town. But to the locals who lived there, well… we knew. We always knew. Many of the sailors who risked their lives during the season made our restaurant their home away from home. They came. They drank. They ate. They smoked. They drank so more. They laughed. They toasted. And they hoped to make it through the next season so they could do it all over again.
Sure, the industry has changed. New technology has led to more sturdy construction, more effective equipment, safer boats, etc, which have made the industry less risky than it was. But “less risky” is still risky. And each time the boats go out, there is no guarantee that they are coming back.
Each year, the town celebrates the blessing of the fleet. To tourists and natives alike, the Blessing is reason for a huge party. Trashcans full of ice and beer can be found everywhere. Linguica and clambakes abound. It is a great excuse to take a break from the summertime heat, cool off in the bay water, and celebrate. Yet, the actual reason for the celebration goes back to the Catholic-folkloric tradition – asking for protection over the next year for each and every boat, and each and every crew member. For underneath all of the laughter, and the food, and the drinks, and the celebration, there is a quiet thought. There is a quiet tear for those who lost their lives at sea. There is a knot in everyone’s stomachs at the thought of who might be claimed by the sea in the next season. There is the fear of a poor fishing season. There is a humble respect for those who were the best of the best… who still succumbed to the unpredictable nature of the ocean. And there is the hope above hopes – that one’s boat will not eventually disappear from sight – only to appear in a picture on a wall…
…a silent tribute, known only to the locals, of those who were lost at sea.
Growing up on Cape Cod, this unpleasant fact of life was very simply part of our day to day routine. Fishing town that it is, the reminders of the fishing industry are absolutely everywhere. In the town square, an antique anchor stands as a commemoration to the industry. In various restaurants and shops, tools of the industry, now outdated by newer innovations, decorate the walls: a buoy here, a net there, and maybe an old sunbleached and salt-preserved wooden trap just for kicks.
As one walks along the beach, if one looks with a careful eye, one can find various artifacts of the industry. Broken pieces of buoys sometimes make their way back to shore, as do pieces of wood, or broken pipes or pottery, or pieces of coal. These objects may look like simple trash or beach-junk. But they are more than that. They are all that is left – the few precious returns from the sea – of a boat that went down.
That broken pipe? Maybe a sailor broke it and just threw it away into the sea. OR… maybe it went down with the boat. That buoy? Maybe it just broke free from a trap. OR… maybe it broke from a boat now resting on the bottom. That piece of coal? Most likely that was part of the cargo of a 19th-20th century barge. Now worn and tumbled smooth from being tossed around on a seabed, that simple little black rock may very well have been witness to a terrifying tragedy that has no living eye-witnesses. If these objects could talk, what story would they tell?
Quiet and silent reminders like this scour the town – often so subtle as to be right under your nose. I remember all too well our family restaurant. Quaint, small, humble, and cute, our restaurant was a tribute not only to our own multi-generational Portuguese heritage, but to the town industry itself. To the casual tourist, it had its own quaint charm. So simple. So humble. So understated. The menu, with its cover portraying a rustic woodblock print of various cuisine, contained many ethnic seafood dishes. How cute it must have looked to the casual tourist to see a seafood restaurant with all those nautical decorations. And there on the walls, all those cute pictures of all those cute little fishing boats. How humble! How quaint! How cute! Yet, what most people didn’t understand was the silent tribute being paid to the industry and to the men who surrendered their lives to the sea.
Many of those photos were of boats that had gone down. Some had been found. Some had not. As for the crew, well, “lost at sea” is a much kinder and gentler way of saying that which no one feels comfortable saying. This did not need to be shoved down the throats of the tourists visiting the town. But to the locals who lived there, well… we knew. We always knew. Many of the sailors who risked their lives during the season made our restaurant their home away from home. They came. They drank. They ate. They smoked. They drank so more. They laughed. They toasted. And they hoped to make it through the next season so they could do it all over again.
Sure, the industry has changed. New technology has led to more sturdy construction, more effective equipment, safer boats, etc, which have made the industry less risky than it was. But “less risky” is still risky. And each time the boats go out, there is no guarantee that they are coming back.
Each year, the town celebrates the blessing of the fleet. To tourists and natives alike, the Blessing is reason for a huge party. Trashcans full of ice and beer can be found everywhere. Linguica and clambakes abound. It is a great excuse to take a break from the summertime heat, cool off in the bay water, and celebrate. Yet, the actual reason for the celebration goes back to the Catholic-folkloric tradition – asking for protection over the next year for each and every boat, and each and every crew member. For underneath all of the laughter, and the food, and the drinks, and the celebration, there is a quiet thought. There is a quiet tear for those who lost their lives at sea. There is a knot in everyone’s stomachs at the thought of who might be claimed by the sea in the next season. There is the fear of a poor fishing season. There is a humble respect for those who were the best of the best… who still succumbed to the unpredictable nature of the ocean. And there is the hope above hopes – that one’s boat will not eventually disappear from sight – only to appear in a picture on a wall…
…a silent tribute, known only to the locals, of those who were lost at sea.
