The ACADIA BAY 2 trawls the Gulf of Maine
Above the Cashes Bank
A hundred miles east of Portsmouth.
This time of year
Close to winter
The weather is tricky.
Calm seas
Then
Deadly storms.
Today okay.
Sunny
A slight swell from the deep

Quentin slogs through the knee deep catch.
Ninty-three minutes into his shift.
Four hours on four hours off.
The aft awash
Red fish chewing bait
Aft ankle deep.
The hold half-full.

Quentin never dry, always wet.
His fingers and toes
Icy old.
Christmas a week away.
Land way over the western ocean.

Quentin not counting days
Nor the minutes.
His eyes on the height of fish in the hold.
Half full
The net reaps more riches from the Cashes Bank.

On the Horizon
Another trawler
The Paper Sun.
Heavy with a tub of hake.

The sea never looks a lot like Christmas
This far offshore.

Quinton noses the air.
Diesel fumes
The stink of fish
The sea.
Always the sea.
But not he.

Quinton hasn’t bathe in days
He doesn’t smell dirty
Only of diesel and fish.
Soon
Back ashore

Soon
New Bedford
A few beers in Knuckleheads
A burger and fries too.
A night in a cheap hotel
Then the drive to Maine.
Three hours
To Arundel
His mother
Sister
His dog Penny,
A bath
More beer
A home cooked meal and then Christmas
But not today
Not Tomorrow
Just hard labor
Just four hours on
Four horus off
Cold and wet
Aft awash with redfish
Gulls gliding over the wake.
The sea always the sea.
The Atlantic always the Atlantic
Till the ACADIA BAY II
Berths in New Bedford
And
Quinton’s boots on the pier
Waiting for that first bazz on
Merry Yulemas on and none.

Foto by Quinton Sprague / fisherman / poet / son of Maine