Lobstermen colorful group personify Maine’s essence

Lobstermen are a colorful lot – from the clothes on their brawny backs to the fluorescent yellows and greens of their buoys to their clipped dialogue laced with vernacular peculiar to Down East Maine.

“That’s the lookinest thing I’ve seen this week,” announced a fisherman over the radio the other day as he passed a spot of shore where tourists perched on rocks looking like cormorants in vacation garb.

The conversation continued, almost to the rhythm of the bell buoy that was rocking and clanging with the constant motion of the waves. Never silent, the bell is a warning to mariners at night or in thick fog, and its incessant tolling is hypnotic.

Never silent, the lobstermen talk and work, swap stories, shift traps, trade tips and play tricks on each other. It’s all in the tradition, and it too is as hypnotic as hearing the peeps of the baby osprey from the giant nests atop the spindle marker, or watching the gulls and terns circle overhead.

The coves and bay itself are reflecting the vivid colors of their bobbing buoys and floats: striped red, green and white; turquoise and white; cerise and baby blue; maroon and white; chartreuse and black; yellow and red; orange and black and blue. The color combinations are as endless as the fisherman’s imagination, and there’s nothing subtle about either.

No sweet pea colors of violet or peach for them but rather hot colors matched only by birthday balloons or the bright yellow of corn on the cob and deep orange of steamed lobsters. Or summer sunsets.

One boat captain sported a pink shirt under his bright orange oilskin coveralls; another wore royal blue the color of the summer sky. No drab browns or olive greens, no gray shirts or black pants during this brilliant season.

Nope, these are colorful folk, these lobstermen.

Read this description by T.M. Prudden, who wrote in 1962 “About Lobsters,” published by The Bond Wheelwright Company in Freeport, Maine:

“Hen-ray has a strong face, seamed and tanned, and piercing blue eyes which impel one to look back with equal concentration. He is not the smiling type, and gravely greets the two brothers with ‘Mornin’, boys.’ The brothers make the introduction, and the salesman tells the story of the plugs. Hen-ray listens impassively, not quite antagonistic, but rather holding himself coldly aloof from this city slicker in store clothing who is brash enough to tell him about plugging lobsters. The sales talk ends with ‘Here’s a handful. You try ’em.’

“There is no response in Hen-ray’s face as he receives the plugs in a big knuckled hang. He doesn’t even look at them, but continues to coldly and silently appraise this stranger. His jaws chomp on and the tension grows. Then he does examine the pile of plugs. He doesn’t take one up singly to test its sharp point or scrutinize its shape. He is deliberate, and one can feel his unspoken contempt for them. Finally, he tosses the handful over his shoulder into the water, leans to the rail to spit overside and says, ‘Them plugs ain’t wuth a good Goddam.’ He looks up with an icy glare to show that he isn’t to be taken in by any lubber who doesn’t know lobstering.’

“Of course, the salesman is angry. And he’s also aware that Hen-ray expects him to be angry. He takes out another handful of plugs, slowly and deliberately and holds them out to Hen-ray. He tries to grin as he says, ‘Maybe so, Captain, but suppose you really examine these before you heave them overside. Hen-ray receives the plugs, never taking his eyes away from the stranger, and just a twinkle replaces their frigid antagonism. It is enough to make his whole face light up.

“He spits again, and sits down on the wash-rail to examine the plugs with the sure movements of an expert. When he looks up again, he addresses the brothers: ‘Don’t look so bad. I’ll try ’em.'”