Vernon fished the Casco Bay from Peakes Island.
The other day-fishers know his boat.
A 1985 Seaway 22-footer ran the Drunken Ledge, the Cod Ledges, Big Ridge, and the Tanta’s ‘punkin bottom’ for pollock and cod in the winter.
All in sight of the Ram’s Head Light station.
Vernon was 56.
Fishing was all he knew.
He didn’t speak much, except to the fish and his boat THE LITTLEST BEAR.

Forty years of fishing
Still had all his teeth and hair.
The cougars at Billy Ray’s Tavern once thought he was worth one night.
No more.
He smelled too much like fish.

On a sunny January day Vernon trailed two long lines over the blister bottom of the Klondike.
Catching a good haul of cod to sell at the Portland pier.

This was his life.

The wet of the sea, the smell of fish, and…..

A three-foot wave broke his bliss. The sun was low o’er the shore.
No other boats were in sight
The wind shifted to the north.
Dark clouds gathered on the flat horizon.
Casco Bay wouldn’t be flat for long.
Heavy seas were coming.
There was still plenty of fish on the lines only two options;
Haul in the catch or cut bait head to the shelter of the nearest island

He inhaled the air and the cold Atlantic wind skated across his skin.

Something bad was brewing Down East.
Bad but not wicked.

“Fuck it.”

Vernon cut the lines.
He was no fool.
It was time to outrun the weather.

Throughout that evening the storm got serious.
No one had seen Vernon at Billy Ray’.
Not asea nor ashore
They feared the worst
They said nothing.
Saying something was bad luck.

They drained their PBRs and watched the Bruins.
At midnight the tavern door opened wide.

It was Vernon.

Drenched to the bone.

“Rough ride home. Two Jamie’s, a ‘Gansett.'”

He eyed the bar.
Four other fishermen sat on the stools.
They were dry.

“Get these landlubbers a drink too.”
Vernon said nothing else. There was nothing to say.

He just lifted a finger to order another round.
As many as he could before closing
Vernon always knew his limit.