JAY SPEAKMAN is a descendant of an old Maine seafaring family. He spent his childhood summers on Little Cranberry Island off the Maine coast. Except for three years spent in Beirut, Lebanon, he was raised in New England. After attending college in Hawaii, he began a lobstering career in Maine, then went on to fish commercially in Alaska and British Columbia.
He has also found employment on freighters and yachts, taught seamanship at an Outward Bound school, and worked as a marine mechanic and carpenter. He gave up fishing full-time to become an architectural blacksmith in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he met his wife, Diane. Together they operate a small home-decor shop in Cannon Beach, Oregon. They have two daughters and live in Gearhart.
Speakman's writings have appeared in The Alaska Fisherman's Journal, Like Fish in the Freezer, and Moving Mountain. Over the past few years, he has been a reader at the annual Fisher Poets Gathering in Astoria.
He has also found employment on freighters and yachts, taught seamanship at an Outward Bound school, and worked as a marine mechanic and carpenter. He gave up fishing full-time to become an architectural blacksmith in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he met his wife, Diane. Together they operate a small home-decor shop in Cannon Beach, Oregon. They have two daughters and live in Gearhart.
Speakman's writings have appeared in The Alaska Fisherman's Journal, Like Fish in the Freezer, and Moving Mountain. Over the past few years, he has been a reader at the annual Fisher Poets Gathering in Astoria.
AUDIO
WRITINGS
Snared
Hauling out on the edge of the Mooseground,
Working alone on the great western shoal,
Bakers Island light on the high part of Cadillac,
About half-way through a gang of forties as I recall.
Forties are always fished in pairs.
Wire traps have four bricks for ballast to help them sink,
And they haul pretty hard when you’re bringing them up,
With a lot more resistance than you might think.
There wasn’t a lot of tide running,
All the buoys were out--It was a bright sunny day--
Light breeze out of the southwest,
The nearest boat was miles away.
I admit, I might have been moving too fast.
There were lobsters in the gear, we were making money.
I’d settled right into a well-worn groove.
The boat was running as smooth as honey.
Both traps had been launched as I gave her half-throttle.
The BLACKFIN was already picking up speed,
When I felt the line tighten around my right boot--
A distraction I certainly didn’t need.
I grabbed for the controls, but they were out of my reach.
In the blink of an eye I was facing aft,
Caught by the leg, like a rabbit in a snare,
I couldn’t believe it had happened so fast.
With each revolution of that big bronze propeller
A couple of feet of water passed beneath our keel.
Nine tons of boat were headed north.
If I couldn’t get free, my fate was sealed.
A single half-hitch was all that held me,
Cinched tight around the ankle of my rubber boot.
But with no slack in the warp and both traps under water,
It might as well have been a hangman’s noose.
Now, Dexter-Russel makes a good bait knife,
Affordable price, and it’s American made.
I always kept mine razor sharp.
It had a wooden handle and a carbon- steel blade.
I carried a sheath knife on my belt as well,
But the Dexter was always close at hand.
It was used for cutting up hanging bait,
And resided in a place of honor on the side of the bait-stand.
As fortune would have it, it was in its place that day.
My hand shot out while I was being hauled aft,
And a couple of seconds later, I was flat on my back,
With the Dexter firmly in my grasp.
When I hit the transom, I tried jamming myself in
Under the deck at the starboard quarter,
And by the time I was able to reach up to cut the warp,
Both traps had come clear out of the water.
There’s a fairly strong image that I carry still,
That remains etched in my memory from that sunny day,
Of those two wire traps chasing after my boat
Like a pair of hungry porpoises pursuing prey.
This story has a happy ending, and a moral, if you will,
Which I haven’t forgotten, and to which I likely owe my life.
If you choose to venture alone offshore in boats,
Never underestimate the value of a good sharp knife.
----------------------------
A Horse Named Imagination
Sometimes late at night, sound asleep in my bed
a reoccurring vision pops into my head.
The scene's a familiar one, and it's always the same.
The North Atlantic Ocean, somewhere off the coast of Maine.
I'll be standing at the helm of my old lobster boat.
In a gurry-stained cap and a blue denim coat,
Watching the radar with the depth sounder on,
Heading offshore in the dark before dawn.
The boat, is all ship-shape, I'm rarin' to go,
Just holding her steady for that faint orange glow.
The diesel is perking at that old steady boil.
Hell, the surface is so smooth, it looks like warm baby-oil.
Got Credence on the tape-deck, my feet feel like moving.
John Fogerty telling me to keep on chooglin'.
With a sliver of moon's hangin' low in the sky.
I feel like I'm on some kind of natural high.
It all harkens back to a simpler time,
And a fisherman's life long-ago left behind,
When my primary focus and full-time occupation
Involved ranging offshore in pursuit of crustaceans.
It's all quite compelling--too real to resist,
This romantic fantasy's got me in its grip.
And as it sequesters my psyche night after night,
I find myself wishing I had back my old life.
At the crack of dawn, approaching my goal,
The easternmost edge of some thirty-fathom shoal.
I'm circling back to locate the gear
As the sun bursts into the atmosphere.
Sunrise on the ocean's an awesome thing,
Gannets and herring gulls on the wing.
I gaff the end buoy, the hauler whines,
A pair of wire traps emerge from the brine.
The gear's always plugged with lobsters, I'm whistling a tune,
Maybe looking at a couple of grand before noon.
Feeling like a prospector whose just struck gold,
Tapped right into the old mother lode.
And contemplating dinner with wine,
Consisting of fishes of various kinds.
There'll be cod and cusk, even wolf eel and hake,
And of course, all the lobsters I can eat for Pete's sake!
But there's no way in Hell I'm getting it back.
Now I feel like I'm having a panic attack,
When reality sinks in, I'll wake up in a sweat
As I relive the good life I cannot forget.
I'm having trouble breathing, my chest is all tight,
My sweet loving wife asks me "Honey, are you all right?"
I tell her I'm ok, but how can I explain,
When the truth would only cause her pain?
No longer can I be a slave to this thing,
To the longing, the hoping, the heartache it brings.
If only I could find some way to crack this nut.
I've got to do something, I just don't know what.
Until one particular night, I'm having the dream,
Reliving all the old familiar scenes,
When, just as the rising sun clears the horizon,
There appears the strangest vessel I've ever laid eyes on.
This is no recognizable fishing craft,
Somewhat high up forward and fairly low aft,
And while she's still fairly far away,
I hear a horse whinny, just as plain as day.
The boat’s out of gear and I'm just standing there
When McDaniel rides up on a chestnut mare!
Now, I've had a few bizarre dreams in my time,
But this one is definitely over the line.
From his jet-black stetson right down to his pointy toe
McDaniel cuts a distinctly striking pose,
High in the saddle on his chestnut mare,
Why, I'd recognize him anywhere.
So I ask him "How'd you get into this dream I'm having?
Shouldn't you be riding fences or tending cows that are calving?
You look out of place riding around way out here,
Decked out in all that regalia and fancy roping gear.
To which he replies, "Don't you recognize me amigo?
This here cowboy you're lookin' at is your alter-ego,
And though it might to you appear a tad absurd,
I've ridden a long way out here to give you "THE WORD."
You may think I'm just a figment of your imagination,
Nevertheless, I've had you under careful observation.
You've been acting about as loco as a tail-hooked salmon,
And I reckon you need to have your head examined."
Taken aback, I begin to explain to him about all this wishing,
How I've lately been jonesing to go back out fishing,
When he shoots back, "Whoa there partner, not so fast!
What makes you so anxious to relive the past?
What you've got here is a whole lot of hokum and mythology.
And it calls for some old-fashion shade-tree psychology.
Let's face it Mister, you've been living in a dream,
And you've managed to concoct a most fanciful scheme.
Now, I can understand your wanting to fish.
You've always had the unscratchable ocean itch.
These wishes will often go unsatisfied.
It's all this wishin' that I can't abide.
A wish by itself can be fairly benign.
We all live with these wishes most of the time,
But, put a wish on a horse named Imagination,
Now there's a volatile combination.
I'm afraid your ego's taken you for a ride,
And egging him on is his old sidekick pride.
Better rein 'em in compadre, hold their feet to the fire.
What we're dealin' with, plain and simple, is repressed desire.
These two have rode roughshod all over your id,
Who doesn't want you forgettin' why you did what you did,
'Cause the fact still remains you were looking for more
When you gave it all up for your new life ashore.
As for memory, there's a strange fellow, and poorly understood.
Always trying to winnow out the bad from the good.
He'll have you believing lots of things that ain't true,
Which, of course, is quite natural. That's what we all tend to do.
Now, desire, she's seductive and you'll never forget her,
But you watch her man, she's a wily witch. She'll rule you if you let her.
You've played a good hand , but your deck has been stacked.
This card game is over and it's time you faced facts.
This fantasy of yours ain't worth a hill of beans.
We've all seen this movie and you're forgetting some scenes.
You've forgotten the shivers, the bone-chilling cold,
The funk and the fury, the buck and the roll.
The gurry, the grind, the sweat and the toil,
Lying in bilge-water changing the oil,
All those screaming nor-westers with spray in your face,
While pukin' your guts out and cursing your fate.
It seems you've forgotten the salt-water sores,
And a multitude of menial chores.
You forgot disillusionment as winter winds howled,
All those nights you were ready to throw in the towel.
In case you need remindin' Mister, consider this;
Tendonitis in both of your wrists,
The aroma of greasy bait that lingers,
Low-back pain and swollen fingers.
How 'bout scratching for lean pickin's day after day
And living in long-johns November to May?
You try throwin' some of these into the mixture,
I'll bet you five dollars you'll get a different picture.
Well, this old girl's gettin’ jumpy, I best be going .
It's a long ride back, but hey, it beats rowing.
I trust you'll consider what I've had to say."
With that he tips his stetson and rides away.
I'm reminded of a scene from the old Lone Ranger,
And wondering if this dream can get any stranger,
When, just as the horseman disappears from sight,
Something in the way we're riding doesn't seem right.
As I reach for the controls to put her in gear,
The bilge alarm goes off , screaming in my ear.
A glance below confirms we're half-full of water!
Seems this dream-boat is headed for Davy Jone's Locker.
Ten miles offshore with McDaniel long gone,
I consider putting my survival suit on. But I’m dreaming,
Anyway, that seems pointless, I've found my solution,
As this odyssey draws to a fitting conclusion.
Aware now that nothing’s ever quite what it seems,
Stepping from the helm as the boat goes down, I drift out of the dream,
Back to where an alarm clock is ringing–back to my life,
Much to the relief of my sweet loving wife.
The ordeal is over, the spell has been broken,
And I can still recall every word that's been spoken.
No longer must I be a slave to this thing,
To the longing, the hoping , the heartache it brings.
McDaniel's rant had reached its mark,
Though the picture he painted was a tad bit stark.
There'll always be a downside and no-one's to blame.
Any fisherman will tell you, it's all part of the game.
As for me, I'll keep walking this path that I've chosen,
Or forevermore in the past be frozen.
Desire will be back again, she's never far away.
But I won't have to give in to her, as long as I've got one more card to play.
It's clear to me now what I have to do,
I must to myself and my family be true.
And although it wasn't easy to let it all go,
That fishing life ended a long time ago.
So, now late at night as I lie in my bed,
And visions of lobsterboats drift into my head,
Better judgment will trump my desire to go fishing,
Yeah, I might miss the wish, but I sure won't miss the wishin'.