Head down Main Street toward Westport Point and it’s hard not to feel like a stranger. Despite the new cars parked on the road or in driveways, the scene feels drawn from another age. Moss-covered stone walls border the yards. The homes look like they haven’t been touched in a century. The small, flaking, faded plaques nailed to the front of each one suggest it may have been even longer. The plaques list a name, a title, and a date. John Allen, Minuteman, 1777. William Sisson, Sea Captain, 1819. The Historical District.

It’s a fitting passage, kind of separating me from the texture of the place and the moment, because even though I’m a commercial fisherman by trade, I’m basically a foreigner, an outsider, at any port I’ll find. I talk up one guy, a guy roughly my age, a gill net captain. He asks me all the questions, sizing me up. It’s interesting for me to be on this side of the exchange. I make sure not to say the things that made me cringe: “I’m the hardest worker, I’m the fastest learner, blah blah blah”. He relents a little, takes my number, says he’ll call me later in the week.

I walk around the pier a little bit. The buildings are gray. The sky is gray. Even the water is gray. There’s a nice chill on the wind. A gull bombs the blacktop with a quahog. The thick shell holds this time, but the bird will extract his juicy treat before long. I notice another guy, a little older than me, has been keeping a wary eye on me from beneath his cap while he readies his gear for the day’s fishing. I finally angle toward his boat. He says ’can I help you’ before I’m even close, but it’s a warning more than a question, a barrier more than an invitation. I love it. Finding these sites is not going to be a straightforward proposition. I wouldn’t have it otherwise.

I give short, definite answers to his questions. In this situation, less is more. He flips off a reason why I don’t want to go. I tell him I’m not worried about the money. The reason changes. I accommodate all the reasons until we get to the baseline truth. “I’m just used to being by myself out there.“ Now there’s an answer I can respect. His turf, his time.

I start asking my own questions. He gets a chance to vent about the time, the cost, the grind of the work. He says he might have to find work on a scallop boat out of New Bedford to get the money to replace his rotting deck. It’s a poignant aspect of this industry, a small business owner looking for work. He’s not overly bitter though, things just are what they are. I empathize. He can tell.

I tell him I’ll leave him alone, let him get busy. He steps up off the boat onto the concrete apron, shakes my hand. I think a part of him wants to take me out there, but he can’t quite push through himself. ’Maybe if I see ya again’ he tells me, looking down, ’maybe’. He shakes my hand again. ’No problem’ I tell him.

Maybe next time.