(or How a Frayed Fishing Net Turned Me Into a Dockside Performance Artist)**
I thought it might be fun—possibly therapeutic, possibly alarming—to show you how my mind works creatively.
Or doesn’t.
I was strolling through the Port of Galilee, minding my own business, photographing Harbor and Gray Seals like a perfectly normal citizen, when something on the stern of the FV Excalibur reached out and grabbed my eyeballs.
A net.
All rolled up on the drum.
With ends so frayed it looked like it had survived a bar fight with a weed-whacker.
My first thought?
“Wow. That net is in worse shape than my New Year’s resolutions.”
Turns out—nope. Not damaged at all.
What I was seeing was chafing gear—also called chafe mats or the delightfully named cookies. And apparently, it’s supposed to look like a maritime toupee having a midlife crisis.
Translation for Landlubbers:
1) Chafing Gear – the net’s sacrificial superhero cape
- Trawl nets get dragged across sand, gravel, rocks, shell beds, and possibly Jimmy Hoffa.
- Without protection, the expensive mesh would disintegrate faster than a beach chair in a nor’easter.
- Fishermen lace on extra layers made from old rope, heavy twine, and what appear to be the dreadlocks of retired sea monsters.
- The fraying = success. The uglier it looks, the happier the boat owner.
2) “Cookies” or Rockhopper Pads
- Shaggy patches along the bottom of the net.
- Think of them as the knees on work jeans—except instead of kneeling in a garden, they’re wrestling boulders at the bottom of the Atlantic.
3) The Codend Jacket
- The very end of the net—the fishy purse, if you will—gets wrapped in a thick furry sleeve.
- It looks exactly like a wool blanket knitted by an angry lobster with a caffeine problem.
Why the glorious mess?
- Loose fibers = cushion against rocks.
- Shag = better glide, fewer snags, less sailor vocabulary practice.
- Cheap and replaceable = maritime duct tape.
- Also doubles as deck traction so no one moonwalks into a pile of fluke.
Now here’s where my brain left the harbor and applied for artistic asylum.
I was immediately hypnotized by size, color, texture, and direction—the four horsemen of my photographic apocalypse. I could already see the image: cropped tight, abstract, painterly, possibly requiring a note from my doctor.
I made a beeline for the gear like a man who had just heard the words free clam cakes.
The fishermen on the dock gave me that universal look that says:
“Yup. Another one.”
They were welding, sanding, repairing—doing real work—while I circled a pile of rope fuzz like it owed me money. I’m fairly certain I provided the afternoon’s entertainment. Community outreach through awkward behavior.
And then I heard the voice of Don Toothaker in my head—the man who first introduced me to the wonderfully dangerous idea of ICM: Intentional Camera Movement. Don taught me that sometimes the best way to see something clearly is to blur it on purpose, to loosen the bolts on reality and give the camera permission to dance.
So I danced.
Which is a fancy way of saying:
“I wiggled the camera and hoped it looked brilliant instead of like I sneezed.”
The result? Three images that trace the exact moment my curiosity outran my dignity.
Your Part in This Madness
Art, of course, is a two-person game: the one who presses the shutter and the one who squints at the result and says, “I see a galloping seahorse made of spaghetti.” These images are invitations, not instructions. If one of them speaks to you more than the others, congratulations—you’ve discovered why they make chocolate and vanilla.
So, let’s recap.
- I went to photograph seals.
- I fell in love with a shredded fishing net.
- I entertained half the port.
- Don Toothaker whispered “ICM” in my subconscious.
- And now I’ve written an essay about rope dandruff.
Conclusion?
I am no longer just a photographer and writer.
I am now—officially—
an entertainer.
You’re welcome.
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Browse my complete art portfolio and shop for prints at imagesbygacioe.shop
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