When new friends learn I’m a com­mer­cial fish­er­man, their eyes often drop in an almost-uncon­scious sur­vey. What they see — a petite, 5′2″ female — does­n’t match the burly machis­mo tout­ed as an indus­try require­ment. “But isn’t that hard work?” is a fre­quent response.

I strug­gle to answer that ques­tion. Yes, the work is phys­i­cal­ly demand­ing, but many of us take per­verse delight in push­ing our bod­ies beyond their pre­sumed lim­its, learn­ing that our force of will can be greater than our height, weight, and gen­der. How to explain the far more daunt­ing men­tal challenges?

Enter Moe Bow­stern. One of my long­time lit­er­ary heroes, Moe’s been author/editor/publisher of Xtra Tuf, a zine chron­i­cling the sto­ries of com­mer­cial fish­er­folk, since 1996. She’s a leg­end on the Fish­er Poets’ cir­cuit. It was here that I found her prose poem, “Things That Will be Dif­fi­cult.” I read it aloud, and as I read, my heart shift­ed into my throat and my mouth went dry with recog­ni­tion. These days, I have the lux­u­ry of crew­ing with like-mind­ed loved ones, but that was­n’t always the case, and her words rang painful­ly true. Though she described the chal­lenges green deck­hands expe­ri­ence, Moe nailed exact­ly what I’d strug­gled to articulate.

Yes, fish­ing is hard work, and these are some of the rea­sons why.

(Post­ed with immense grat­i­tude to Moe Bow­stern for her elo­quent words, and her will­ing­ness to see them re-post­ed on Hooked. She’s amaz­ing; buy her zines and fol­low her work here.)

Things That Will Be Difficult 

(Orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished in Xtra Tuf #6, The Green­horn Issue)

It will be hard to nev­er know what is going to hap­pen next or indeed what is hap­pen­ing right now. It will be hard to not under­stand what is going on for days, weeks. The entire first sea­son. It will be hard that every­one else knows how to do every­thing, and they know that you, the green­horn, can do noth­ing right. It will be hard to have no opin­ion worth attend­ing. It will be hard to have no one around to whom you can say, will you please explain that whole knot ver­sus miles thing again?

It will be hard to look at the fish hold and see an undif­fer­en­ti­at­ed mass of fish, while your crew mates are sep­a­rat­ing fish into five dis­tinct species. It will be hard to wake up in your tiny lit­tle bunk in the pitch-dark fo’c’sle in the mid­dle of a scream with your crew­mate shak­ing you by the shoul­der, telling you to shut the fuck up, we’re try­ing to get some sleep. It will be hard to dream that you are in a cof­fin every night.

It will be hard to cook two or three meals a day, every sin­gle day and have no one ever ever not once say thanks. It will be hard to get the hatch cov­er off. It will be hard, if you are a woman, to strug­gle to do any­thing new with­out hav­ing some man come and take the tool from you and do it. It will be hard, lat­er, to hear your­self described as lazy when you’ve giv­en up doing any­thing because some man takes over every­thing you start doing. Except the cooking.

It will be hard if you are a man, to under­stand why your female crew­mate, who start­ed out so friend­ly, is so silent now, when you are only try­ing to help.

It will be hard, if you are a woman, to go two weeks with­out speak­ing to anoth­er woman, to only see a woman as a far­away fig­ure clad in raingear on a dis­tant boat.

It will be hard, if you are a man, to read a poem or draw a pic­ture with­out hav­ing anoth­er man call you a fag­got or a pussy. It will be hard, what­ev­er you are, to go for weeks with­out a touch, a caress, a hug, a kind word. It will be hard, if you are queer and a man, to nev­er let any­one know who you are. It will be hard, if you are queer and a man, to work all sum­mer and nev­er dare to get drunk with your friends and crew­mates lest your resolve fail and you act, after which you will be called ‘the kiss­er’ in har­bor leg­end for­ev­er, and you will nev­er return.

It will be hard, if you are queer and a woman, to keep it to your­self lest you scare away the few women around you, and bring clos­er the men who have rent­ed a spe­cif­ic video they think you might have starred in. It will be hard, if you are a woman, to walk onto a boat filled with men watch­ing porn and see your friends among them. It will be hard, if you are a man, to refuse to watch porn with those men. It will be hard, if you are a woman, to remem­ber that you are pro-porn.

It will be hard to keep every­thing to your­self, but­toned inside your head and locked in your heart. It will be hard when you go with­out laugh­ing for so long.

It will be hard, if you are a man, to go with­out see­ing a woman except as a far­away, raingear-clad fig­ure on the stern of a dis­tant boat. It will be hard when you real­ize you are help­less­ly hot for your crew­mate. It will be hard when you real­ize that the skip­per has a crush on you and your crew­mates hate you for the spe­cial treat­ment you did­n’t ask to get.

It will be hard to find joy. It will be hard to make it through those last twen­ty days of August. It will be hard to regress to the child­hood frus­tra­tions of not know­ing how to do any­thing, even the sim­plest thing, with­out any­one to cheer you on when you final­ly fig­ure out the sim­plest thing – tying a knot you are sup­posed to know, fuel­ing up with­out spilling a drop.

It will be hard to be green. To hurt all over your body and have nobody care. To see whales — whales! — and when you run in to tell your crew­mates they are irri­tat­ed at their inter­rupt­ed naps, they who have seen a thou­sand whales, they to whom a whale is a fish­ing obstacle.

It will be hard to return to the boat for your sec­ond, tri­umphant sea­son, and real­ize that you are still a green­horn. It will be hard to find a place alone, where no one can see you cry or mas­tur­bate or read kid’s books. It will be hard to look at the beach every day and nev­er set foot on land, fif­teen days, twen­ty days.  To live in thir­ty-eight or forty-four feet with three or four oth­er peo­ple, that will be hard. It will be hard to watch your­self become your worst pos­si­ble self, to under­stand even­tu­al­ly that all along the prob­lem was you, and even with this epiphany, you can’t stop being that self.

And then, final­ly after it’s all over, and you are back home, wher­ev­er that may be, among those who love you, who praise you, who hug you and laugh at your jokes and always say good morn­ing – then you will find that beyond all rea­son, you are home­sick. A truck will belch diesel as it pass­es you and the stench will trans­port you to a moment in a qui­et bay, fuel­ing up at your favorite ten­der. Every­thing will be too fast and too loud, there will be too many peo­ple every­where. You will devel­op an affin­i­ty for men with beards. You will learn how to spot a work­ing fish­er­man,  a fel­low. You will miss the boat. You will miss the ocean. And that will be hard.

And you, sweet read­ers? Does this ring famil­iar for the fish­er­folk among you?  Those of you on land, are there places you’ve expe­ri­enced sim­i­lar struggles?