Sneak Peak: One of Charlie's Love & Lobsters posts that appear throughout the book:
A Maine lobsterman will never pull an empty pot. It literally cannot happen. In fact, we harvest all sorts of life from the deep. The unpleasant surprise of a monkfish is common enough, a creature that’s nicknamed the Sea Devil for its vicious bite and matching attitude. I’ve hauled up horseshoe crabs, those living fossils that have existed for four-hundred-and-forty-five million years, scurrying along the ocean’s floor long before dinosaurs existed on land. And I’ve always felt a little lucky to pull up a Sea Raven, a fish named for its enormous pectoral fins that were once wings before the critter settled into its resolute existence as a bottom dweller. Once, I caught a boot. A prank, for sure. But a boot nonetheless.
Still, a trap pulled from the deep won’t be empty. It’s impossible.
Even if some contain no sea life at all, every trap carries water to the surface. The ocean itself is dragged up from the bottom, only to reach the side of the boat where it spills back into the waves, churning brine into the great tide. Lobstermen have a term for this type of haul: changing the water.
I’ve changed my fair share of water. All lobstermen have.
But we never pull empty traps.
See, as a species, Maine lobstermen are an optimistic bunch. Changing the waterisn’t a euphemism for defeat. It’s an opportunity. And I think this says something about our integrity, our grit, our determination. Nothing worth pursuing is easy.
Nothing.
So, what do unexpected hauls have to do with love?
Clearly, I’m no expert.
But I have had days when I accomplished more than changing the water. Like the first time I fished, when I hauled one cobalt blue lobster over the edge of my father’s boat, my young mind seeing the creature as a jewel, the reigning benevolent queen of All The Lobsters with her fancy royal blue blood and matching regal shell. She wasn’t a queen among her rusty brown species. She was just…different.
An exception.
Exceptional.
There’s a complicated scientific reason why her unique mix of chemicals and proteins made her different, but that never mattered. She was blue and she was mine. I named her Birdie Blue because she was the same color as the bluebirds that visit our peninsula all year, out of season. By the time I tossed her back to the sea with a snack, she was forged in my memory. And my heart. To me, she was remarkable because she was rare. The chances of catching a blue lobster are one in two million. Fishing is a gamble, for sure, and no one would bet on odds like those.
Still, she was my first.
My blue.
A nearly impossible occurrence turned possible.
Years later, when I was a teenager, a bright orange lobster watched me as she was tugged up from the sea, as if I were the one surfacing in her world. She wore such a vivid, carroty hue, I’d been convinced I’d hauled a cooked lobster to the sunlight. But when she arrived on deck, she was alive, clawing and curious, her antennae investigating me as I studied the wonder of her. Her bright shell glistened in the bright sun and I named her Clementine before gifting her a herring inserted into her crusher claw and sending her on her journey to continue life as a lobster. The chances of us meeting were 1 in 30 million.
Other Maine lobster fishermen have caught split-colored lobsters, crustaceans who sport a shell that can be blue on one side, and orange or brown on the other—the divided color occurring in a straight line, completely symmetrical, as if the sides of two creatures were fused together to make one. Typically, the blue side is female, the other male—the blend marking it as a true natural wonder. A gem. My best friend, your fearless editor, calls these Gemini lobsters, and the chances of catching a two-sided Gemini is 1 in 50 million.
And somewhere out there is the cotton candy lobster, a find so singularly scarce that she exists in rarefied air—or seawater as it were—with a shell that shines like the pearlescent interior of an oyster, shifting and sparkling though a range of colors like pink, baby blue, aqua and pearl. If you see her, you’ll know she’s 1 in 100 million.
All this is to illustrate how fishing is filled with chance and awe. Some days I spend a lot of time changing water. Other days, I marvel over the unexpected treasures of the deep.
It makes me think the chances of meeting a person who gets you, sees you, accepts you, and inspires you aren’t so different from my chances of pulling marvels from the sea. For those of you fishing for love—in a friend or spouse or partner—wait for the 1 in 2 million. Or better yet, hold out for the 1 in 100 million—a wonder that’s pearlescent and glowing, every side of them a discovery of art and beauty and exceptionality. Because the wait will be worth it, the search a beautiful journey.
The sea is filled with average, everyday lobsters who stay close to home and remain easy to catch. But I keep fishing for the cotton candy lobster, or a chance to see my Birdie Blue again. Or for anything unexpected. Because a once-in-a-lifetime catch is intoxicating, maybe even as potent and memorable as finding a once-in-a-lifetime love.
Author DEETS
Shannon M. Parker is an author and educator. She holds degrees in English Literature, Linguistics, and Educational Leadership from Saint Michael's College, UMass Boston, and University of Southern Maine respectively. She currently attends Harvard University and lives in New England with her family.
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