The sky is at first ablaze with deep oranges and reds; the colors get brighter and brighter until suddenly they become paler, thestrips of white overtaking the colors, until the sky is uniform. The engine is loud. They round the corner by Monroe Island—Billy points this out—and off in the distance are the islands of Vinalhaven and North Haven. Except for that there’s nothing to see but the blue-black ocean. Matty chokes down his coffee and puts the cup in the garbage bag Hazel points to. He eats a muffin and contemplates the peace and beauty of life at sea. After some time Billy cuts the engine, and everything quiets. Hazel points to buoys bobbing in the water. She explains that every lobsterman has his own buoy colors. Billy’s are blue with a black stripe and a red stripe.
“Same color my dad had, and his dad before him,” says Billy. “Now let me show you the what’s what of how this all works. This hook thing here? This is called a gaff. I’m going to catch the buoy with the gaff, then hook the rope onto the hauler, this pulley thing here. Then I press this button here on the hauler to wind up the rope, which raises the trap. See that?” Matty nods. “The trap comes up—”
“That’s called ‘breaking the surface,’” interjects Hazel.
“And we balance in right here on the gunwale to look through it,” says Billy.
“That’s our job,” says Hazel. “We’re the sternmen. So we open the trap, we toss back the ones that aren’t keepers, and put the others here—” She points to a black bin in the middle of the boat. “Then we’re going to rebait the traps and toss them back over. That’s the best part. Ilovethat part.”
Hazel snaps her gum at him and smiles. She has put sunscreen on her face and a small streak remains on one of her perfect cheeks. Matty wants nothing more than to wipe it off. He is definitely in love.
All at once the boat springs into action. Billy grabs a buoy using the big hook, pulls it up, loops the rope into the hauler. And there, coming out of the water, rising, rising, is a lobster trap.
“Got it!” calls Hazel. She grabs it easily, guides it onto the gunwale. She opens it, and reaches inside. “We got some keepers,Granddad!” she says. She throws back a few that are too small. The keepers go into the holding tank. The trap goes to the other side of the boat, near the bait bucket, to be rebaited and sent back down.
“Nice work, Haze,” says Billy. “You getting to be a real pro, aren’t you? Soon enough you’ll be captaining your own boat.”
“I wish,” says Hazel. “You can get the next one,” she tells Matty. She moves out of the way. Billy gets the hauler going once again. Matty feels about as nervous as he does before the start of a race. His heart is hammering. His palms are sweating. He trains his eyes on the water. It’s so dark, anything could be in there. Anything.
Then, as the next trap breaks the surface, something terrible happens. There’s a hunk of seaweed hanging off the end of the trap. Matty knows it’s seaweed—hismindtells him it’s seaweed—but in the depths of hisheart,or wherever it is that his deepest fears live, he sees a person’s hair. He imagines a body, coming to the surface right after the hair. He can’t look any longer. He turns away. The trap almost hits him in the head.
A hand reaches out and grabs it. Billy’s.
“Whoa,” he says. “Look alive, boy. What happened to grabbing it?”
“Sorry,” Matty whispers. “I’m really sorry. I missed it. Wasn’t paying attention.”
He glances at Hazel. She’s watching him, but when he meets her eyes she turns away, looking down at the bait bucket.
“Don’t think too much, boy,” says Billy. “You just gotta do.” Matty’s body is on thePauline,but his mind is swimming in a sea of his own mortification. “S’all right,” says Billy. “It happens. But don’t let it happen again. There’s one more trap in this string, you stay right there and try once more.”
This time, when the hauler winds the rope, and when the trap breaks the surface, Matty is ready. He grabs the trap, rests it on the edge of the rail. Hazel opens it and together they go through the findings. Four keepers. One pregnant female. A sea cucumber.
“That’s good,” says Billy. It’s only two words, but each one feels to Matty like a gold-wrapped gift. “Now you two rebait these traps, and down they go.”
“I don’t know why I love this,” says Hazel. “It’s so gross. But it’s also sort of appealing, you know?” She reaches her hand in the bait bucket like it’s popcorn and they’re at the movies. “See here? You just take some like this, and you put it in the bag.” She look at him expectantly.
“Okay,” he says. He hesitates, but only for a second. He willnotbe undone again in front of Billy. He reaches into the bucket, picks up a slimy handful, and packs them into the bait bag.
“Now we toss them overboard,” says Hazel. “Just watch your feet, and the rope.” Matty checks to make sure his feet are clear. Hazel lifts the trap, rests it on the rail, and pushes it off. “Go get ’em,” she says to the trap. “Bring us back some more lobster.” Matty watches the trap disappear into the water.
The sun rises higher. Matty gets lost in the rhythm of what they’re doing: catch the trap, check the trap, rebait, send it back down. He is dead tired, so he tries to recall the feeling at the end in the last quarter of a race, when you’re so depleted you think your body can’t carry on but somehow it does anyway.
At last: “Think we’ll head back now. What do you say, Haze? Think your grandma’s made a batch of that chowder for lunch?” Billy sayschowdah.
“Hope so,” says Hazel.
Billy consults the instruments in the wheelhouse and turns the boat around. They’ve been heading back for fifteen minutes or so when Billy says, “Take the wheel.”
Hazel nudges Matty. “He’s talking to you.”
Matty jumps. “What? Oh, but I don’t know how—”
“Just take the wheel. Keep it going straight. Not much more to it than that.”
Billy steps back from the wheel, and Matty takes his place. Deepbreath. Okay. He is doing this. He takes one hand off, putting it nonchalantly near where a pocket would be, if the fishing gear had pockets, which apparently it does not. The open ocean, the wheel underneath his fingertips, the blue sky stretching out in all directions above him . . .
Billy barks, “Both hands on the wheel!”
