Writing coach Kathrin Seitz went to talk with a group of writers at Bartlett Woods, an active senior living retirement community in Rockland. This is the first of three stories that grew out of her time with them. The group publishes its own monthly in-house newsletter, Windy Words from the Woods.

Deep-Sea Hand-Line Fishing Trip, by C. “Connie” Ross Painter

Every summer our family and friends were treated to a deep-sea hand-line fishing trip by Capt. Frank Ross, my father. The previous day he would borrow 15 to 20 extra lifejackets, rig up hand lines made of a rectangular wooden frame, wound with several fathom of trawl line. He fueled and iced up; laying in a good “grub” supply of salt pork, onions, potato, crackers, milk and cream, for chowder and ice cream, often strawberries, with plenty of extra snack goodies and “sinkers,” doughnuts for munching.

Barring a hurricane wind we went, rain or shine, calm, choppy or fog; weather was no problem.

Typically in August at 5 a.m. a group would stand shivering in a pea soup-thick fog on O'Hara's wharf, water droplets clinging like crystal beads to foul weather gear; waiting to board my father's 68-foot fishing dragger, Helen Mae 11. Inching along splintery dock planks, with a cautious peek over the edge, we could see our boat gently rocking in low tide water 7 feet below.

With pounding heart, one foot was forced over the side onto the ladder while clammy fingers gripped algae-coated rungs. Each foot hesitantly searched for the next rung down. Then, with apprehension, we leapt across the deep water gap between dock and boat to finally land on the boat deck, vibrating from the heavy diesel engine below.

At sea level, dark green water swirled around row upon row of white barnacled-kneed wharf pilings, giving an appearance of soldiers on the march. Damp air smelled of tarred rope, fuel oil, clam flat stench and strong fresh brewed coffee; all combined making us feel a bit squeamish but comfortably akin with our coastal heritage.

When all were aboard and accounted for, the engine revved up for departure, spewing plumes of black smoke from the stack before blending into the grey mist. With a soft thud, our boat gently nudged cushioned fenders of outer-berthed vessels, inching slowly backward and forward until, as if on cue, they silently parted, to make way for our escape.

Gliding carefully around moored boats of the inner harbor and a fog-veiled light of Rockland Breakwater, we slowly picked up speed, passing the shadowy headland of Owls Head Lighthouse, its distinctive contralto tone two-blast signal echoing our own shrill squealing foghorn.
On a flat ocean swell, bell buoys clanged rhythmically, providing a light musical accompaniment to other sea sounds, that of distant multi-pitched fog horns, a muffled drone of lobster boat engines, that of our own thundering craft and at the stern an ever present flock of squawking sea gulls searching our churning wake for their morning meal.

Clearing the northeastern tip of Monroe Island, on the horizon a tinted pink fog shrouded distant offshore islands. Shortly, from the earlier dead calm, a westerly breeze freshened, lifting the low mist from the water's surface; foretelling a perfect day on the ocean waters. We streamed full speed into Penobscot Bay.

Young children were tethered by proper length rope to the mast to assure no "man overboard" alarm be sounded. Older folks were seated comfortably on blanket-draped hatch covers; others found their sea legs in short order and felt free to roam. Teenagers gathered on the bow, sneakers gripping the deck, rolling with the ship's frantic motion. The ship alternately sliced through a deep ocean troth, then with momentary halting buck, slammed into the next 6- to 8-foot swell, sending a water geyser high into the air. Wind shear and water plastered clothing tight to bodies as stinging eyes were wiped and salty moisture licked from lips that shouted gleefully and braced for the next drenching.

Later in bright sunshine, with the engine cut, our fishing dragger turned into a cruise ship and leisurely drifted on sparkling blue water. Fish lines were baited and thrown over the side. The first 10- or 15-pound bull haddock would supply the main ingredient for lunch, a huge fish chowder being prepared by my mother and others in the forecastle below.

On deck, a flock of eager children stood in line for their tum at hand-cranking fresh strawberry ice cream, a party elder supervising the exact portion of salt to ice needed to ensure a perfect icy confection.

On the ships bow, while others fished, teenagers lolled on blankets listening to short­ wave battery radio, just passing time until the sun dipped in the western sky and we started our return trip home, with the welcoming icy ocean prow-spray that would cool sun-burned bodies.

Connie lives at Bartlett Woods Retirement complex with her husband of 70 years, Lloyd; they have four children. Writing since grammar school days, she continues to write children's and other stories, publishing a family history in 2008 and recently completed her own autobiography.

Transformations
We tell stories.
We tell stories to make sense of our lives.
We tell stories to communicate our experience of being alive.
We tell stories in our own distinct voice. Our own unique rhythm and tonality.

Transformations is a weekly story-telling column. The stories are written by community members who are my students. Our stories are about family, love, loss and good times. We hope to make you laugh and cry. Maybe we will convince you to tell your stories.
— Kathrin Seitz, editor, and Cheryl Durbas, co-editor

"Everyone, when they get quiet, when they become desperately honest with themselves, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there." — Henry Miller

Kathrin Seitz teaches Method Writing in Rockport, New York City and Florida. She can be reached at kathrin@kathrinseitz.com. Cheryl Durbas is a freelance personal assistant in the Midcoast area. She can be reached at cheryldurbas@tidewater.net.