The fluke came off the FV Debbie Sue like playing cards slapped onto a table—one after another, white bellies flashing, brown backs freckled with those impossible polka dots nature seems to have applied with a paintbrush and a sense of humor.
Above deck, it was 9 degrees—the kind of cold that makes metal sting your hands and turns breath into something you can almost snap in half. Down in the hold, it had to be worse. I pictured the man below, boots planted in slush, shoveling ice and fluke into the hoist bucket, rhythm steady, face red, shoulders burning, doing the same motion he’s done a thousand times. Scoop. Lift. Slide. Repeat. The bucket rises, swings, and another tote fills on the dock. Nobody applauds. Nobody needs to.
To most of us, a fluke is dinner.
To the crew, it’s math.
Fuel burned. Nets mended. Ice bought. Quota counted.
A good day might be a thousand pounds, a great day three times that, stacked in blue and pink totes that smell like the Atlantic itself—part brine, part engine oil, part something ancient and honest.
Each fish told its own little story.
The two-pound “market” fish—workhorses, destined for plates with lemon and parsley.
The six-pounders—thick as a Sunday newspaper, making the deckhands grin.
And every so often, a proper doormat, big enough to make a grown captain pose for a photo he’ll pretend he doesn’t care about.
When they spotted me, one quipped, “If we knew you were coming, we’d have put on some make-up – with a wink.
Around me, everyone was doing their job without ceremony. One man ran the winch like he’d been born attached to it. Another guided the hoist bucket to the two men waiting to add the fish to the tote.
No wasted movement. No wasted words.
And it never ends.
When they’re not at sea, they’re in port grinding, sanding, painting, plumbing—punching the endless list that keeps a boat alive. Rust never sleeps, nets don’t mend themselves, engines don’t apologize before they break. You name it, somebody’s got to do it, usually in weather that sensible people only experience on the walk from the car to the front door.
Fluke are funny creatures. One eye slides across their head like it changed its mind about where it wanted to live. They spend their days lying on the sand, looking up at the world sideways, until a net reminds them who’s really in charge. Today, the Debbie Sue won the argument.
The gulls supervised with their usual confidence. The winch squealed. Boots thudded. Another tote filled. This wasn’t sport fishing—it was grocery shopping for an entire coastline.
I thought about how many dinners were stacked in those gray boxes. How many summer nights, how many paper plates, how many “this is delicious, what kind of fish is it?” conversations were riding on that one hard day at sea.
Think of the men—and the effort—that got you the meal you’re eating.
The next time you’re in an armchair with a hot drink, watching the thermometer drop, think of the men and women working in that same weather so there’s food on our table.
The last tote hit the dock, and the fish kept staring at the sky like they were still trying to figure out how they got here.
Honestly?
So was I.
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