MAN OVERBOARD

by Dr. John Todd

People who spend time on the water tend to be preoccupied by fate. Sailor's egos are tempered not only by the winds and tides but, most profoundly, by a deep-seated belief that unpredictable things can happen on the water. At sea there is no foreknowledge of either time or place, only foreboding. The seasoned boater doesn't expect the future to be some fixed compass point or course along which our lives follow. He or she respects the elements and knows damn well that there will be times when we are completely at their mercy. At such a point, what happens to us will be defined by forces beyond our control. What we do with the unexpected during these encounters, however, is entirely in our hands. Our fear, skill, and experience weave together to produce a response and sometimes can determine the outcome. At other times the forces are beyond us and lives are lost.

This past spring traveling along a coastal road I spotted offshore, less than half a mile away, a fishing trawler on the rocks. On the chart the area is called Great Ledge. At low tide the rocks reach within two feet of the surface. The dangers are well marked by buoys. The trawler had strayed off course and was breaking up. It had come up on the ledge so hard that recovery of the vessel must have been impossible. Months later the ends of the trawler's booms still stretch out of the water. A danger sign has been attached to the rigging, a constant reminder of the fragility of human experience. I speculate on the nature of the accident: was it fatigue on the part of the operator, faulty radar in a fog, too much confidence by the captain, or were the currents too powerful for the vessel to hold its course? What happened to the lives of those on board? What hopes and plans and livelihoods were dashed upon the rocks?

Over the past few years I have noticed that the commercial fishing vessels that tie up at our town dock seem to be getting older and smaller. Real dregs of the fleet turn up every now and again. It seems incredible that they stay afloat. As the New England fishery dwindles, it seems as though the most desperate try to hang on. Not in every case to be sure, as there are still well kept and well run vessels, but the sad times in the fisheries shine through. One day down by the docks, an old wooden eastern rigged dragger was unloading. A man and woman on board were screaming furiously at each other. I felt like an interloper in my skiff, but I couldn't get away before hearing fragments of a their tale. The man hadn't made enough money on the last trip. He hadn't been able to pay the bills on the boat and have anything left over for his family. He was several thousand dollars short of making a living. The woman was explaining other things that were befalling them. Their lives were falling apart. In the heat of anger they blamed each other for the state they were in. Nowhere in the exchange was any mention that the fish resources were simply not there to sustain them. I felt sick for them. There seemed no way out. Lives on the rocks. They were still screaming as I rowed out of hearing range, relieved for the peace of the sound of the oarlocks and the waves. I found myself wishing for a world in balance with the larger realm of nature, and wondering about an economy that forces us to consume and destroy those very things that sustain us. I wished for some system of resource stewardship that would enable the couple to have an economy that would provide for them and restore peace between them.