“The Shaker” 1/13/2025
The North Atlantic in winter is a brutal mistress. Icy winds whip across the grey expanse, waves rise and fall like restless giants, and the threat of a gale is always just over the horizon. For those who brave these waters in search of scallops, the rewards can be great, but the price is often steep. And for the "shakers"—the greenhorns, the rookies—who dare to step onto the deck of an offshore scalloper for the first time, it’s nothing short of a trial by fire. The promise of "big money" lures many, but few truly understand the relentless physical and mental punishment that awaits.
Jonny was no stranger to the sea. He was a third-generation fisherman, raised on the salt air and the smell of fish. He’d spent his youth dragging, gillnetting, and hook fishing alongside his family, learning the rhythms of the tides and the secrets of the deep. He'd even run his own small inshore boat for a while. But the money just wasn't there. He’d heard whispers of the fortunes to be made scalloping out of New Bedford, and he decided to take the plunge. He arrived at the bustling port, full of a mix of excitement and trepidation. The scalloper he signed onto, a 102-foot steel behemoth, dwarfed the boats he was used to. The crew, a rough-and-tumble bunch of seasoned veterans, seemed to size him up with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. He was a "shaker," and they were there to see if he had what it took.
The first day was a blur of activity. The constant motion of the boat, the roar of the engine, the clang of steel on steel—it was a sensory overload. The sheer physicality of the work hit him like a ton of bricks. The weight of the scallops, the constant bending and lifting, the icy spray that soaked him to the bone—it was more demanding than anything he’d ever experienced. The crew immediately started with the “shaker mind games,” a familiar ritual for anyone who’s spent time on the water. Jonny was tasked with filling baskets and boxes of scallops, and as soon as he filled one, an experienced deckhand would dump it out, sending him scrambling to refill it. "Pick up the pace, Shaker! You suck!" was the constant refrain.
The next nine days became a relentless cycle of work, exhaustion, and pain. Three to four hours of sleep, if he was lucky, were squeezed between watches. The “grip” in his wrist worsened with each passing hour, a constant throbbing ache that made even simple tasks agonizing. The lack of sleep began to take its toll, making him feel sluggish and disoriented. The crew's relentless teasing and criticism wore him down, making him question his abilities and his decision to take this job.
Day 10 dawned with a vengeance. A 25-35 knot northeast wind whipped across the deck, sending freezing spray stinging into their faces. The seas rose to 8-10 feet, tossing the boat around like a toy. Just walking across the deck was a struggle, let alone trying to perform the demanding work of a scalloper. Jonny’s hands felt numb, the skin tight and hot with swelling. It was difficult to bend his fingers, and his knuckles were slightly swollen, with most of the swelling concentrated in his wrist. It was a decent-sized hump, very tight, and it sounded like rubber bands when he tried to bend it.
Then, as the crew hauled back the drags, disaster nearly struck. The tackle wire snapped, sending the 14-foot steel drag plummeting towards the deck. The muffled sound of the snapping wire was lost in the wind and the roar of the engine, but the metallic thud as the drag hit the deck sent a jolt of adrenaline through Jonny. He had just been yelled at to move from that very spot, and he’d obeyed without question. Now, he stood with his mouth agape, realizing how close he had come to serious injury.
Paul’s voice, rough and laced with disdain, cut through the wind and the roar of the engine. "Your old man must be rolling in his grave seeing you out here, Shaker. You ain't got the guts for this."
A wave of heat flushed Jonny’s face, a stark contrast to the icy spray that clung to his oilskins. His jaw clenched, and his fists tightened as much as the agonizing grip in his wrist would allow. He showed no outward reaction, his gaze hardening as he stared out at the churning grey sea. But inside, Paul’s words struck a nerve. A sharp pang of self-doubt pierced through the exhaustion and pain. A memory surfaced: his father, a man of weathered hands and unwavering resolve, standing on the deck of his own small boat, years ago. Jonny had been just a boy, watching with wide eyes as his father expertly mended a net, his movements precise and efficient. A silent understanding had passed between them in that moment, a promise of sorts – that Jonny would carry on the family tradition, that he would be just as strong, just as capable. Now, with the wind howling around him and the pain throbbing in his hand, that promise felt like a distant, unattainable dream. He felt a deep sense of inadequacy, a fear that he was failing his father’s memory.
As Jonny bagged the last of the scallops, a wave of relief washed over him, quickly followed by a renewed awareness of the throbbing in his wrist. He pictured his bunk, his blanket, his pillow, the promise of dry clothes. It was a siren call in the midst of this brutal reality.
Inside, as he tried to eat the lukewarm chicken stir-fry, his hand trembled, making it difficult to hold his fork. The movement exacerbated the swelling in his wrist, the joint feeling stiff and resistant. He had to reposition his hand constantly, seeking a position that offered even a moment of relief, but there was none to be found. He ended up biting at the food, the pain making it difficult to swallow.
Later, as he finally lay in his bunk, the rocking of the boat and the persistent ache in his wrist made sleep elusive. Paul’s words echoed in his mind, but they were now intertwined with the memory of his father, mending that net, strong and resolute. A new thought took hold, a stubborn refusal to be defeated. I’m not giving up, he thought, his eyes fixed on the damp ceiling of the bunkroom. Not now. Not ever. I’ll make it through this. For better or worse, I’ll see this through.
The final two days were a blur of exhaustion and numb determination. Jonny pushed himself relentlessly, driven by a stubborn refusal to quit. The pain in his wrist was constant, but he learned to ignore it, focusing on the task at hand. He noticed a subtle shift in the crew’s attitude. The constant nagging had subsided, and there was a new openness to help him, to teach him, to offer positive encouragement.
The sight of land was a welcome relief. As the boat pulled into New Bedford, Jonny felt a strange mix of exhaustion, pain, and a quiet sense of accomplishment. He had survived his trial by fire. He had faced the brutal realities of offshore scalloping and had refused to break. He wasn’t sure if he would return for another trip—the pain and the memories were still too fresh—but he knew he had proven something to himself. He had honored his father’s memory, not by simply following in his footsteps, but by facing the same challenges with the same unwavering resolve. The “big money” might still be out there, but Jonny had discovered something far more valuable: the knowledge that he had the guts to face whatever the sea—or life—threw his way.
The Relentless Pull of the Sea: A Fisherman's Tale 1/8/2025
The horizon stretches endlessly before me, a vast expanse of blue meeting the sky. This is my world, the world of a fisherman. It’s a world that has been in my blood since I was a boy, a world I tried to escape, and a world I ultimately embraced. I went to college, chased the "better life" of a 9-to-5, but the sea called me back, a siren’s song I couldn’t ignore. It’s a pull, an addiction, a heritage passed down through generations. And despite the sacrifices, the stresses, and the constant uncertainty, I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Why share this story? Because the men and women who bring seafood to your tables are often unseen, their sacrifices unknown. Like farmers, we are the backbone of a vital industry, yet we are often taken for granted. This is a glimpse into our lives, our struggles, and the unwavering passion that drives us.
The draw of fishing is multifaceted. It’s the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit of the big catch, the big check. It’s the camaraderie of the crew, the shared stories, the brotherhood forged in harsh conditions. It’s the satisfaction of hard work, of knowing that your effort directly translates to your livelihood. It’s a primal, frontiersman-like existence, a feeling of being self-reliant and connected to something ancient.
For me, it’s also about familiarity. I’ve been on the water for so long; it’s where I feel most comfortable, where I excel. It’s how I provide for my family, the best way I know how. But lately, with increasing regulations and fewer days at sea, this very foundation has become a source of immense stress.
Being out on the water is freedom, yes, but it’s also constant uncertainty. You never know what the next haul will bring. It could make you a legend at the dock or leave you empty-handed. It’s a battle against Mother Nature, a humbling experience that exposes you to awe-inspiring sunsets, breathtaking marine life, and the raw power of the ocean. It’s a primal dance, a beautiful and sometimes terrifying ballet.
The common misconception is that fishermen are greedy marauders, willing to sacrifice everything for the biggest catch. This couldn’t be further from the truth. We are not simply taking from the sea; we are stewards of it. We are protectors of a tradition, guardians of a way of life that has sustained communities for generations. We understand the delicate balance of the marine ecosystem, and we are deeply invested in its health. We are the ones who witness firsthand the changes in the ocean, the shifts in fish populations, the impact of pollution. We are the first line of defense, the watchful eyes on the water. We are not just fishermen; we are stewards of the sea.
Our daily work is often a grind, repetitive actions performed over and over. When the fish aren’t biting, we aren’t earning, and our livelihood is at risk. And when they are biting? Then comes the relentless work: the sleepless hours, the harsh conditions, the physical pain that seeps into your bones. It’s a love-hate relationship, a constant push and pull. Even when you’re catching well, the competition is always there, lurking in the background.
The sacrifices are immense. Mental health is often neglected; our well-being takes a backseat to the demands of the job. Physical ailments are common, and many turn to self-medication, a dangerous path with its own set of consequences. But perhaps the most significant sacrifice is time away from loved ones. We miss birthdays, anniversaries, school plays, and countless other moments that can never be reclaimed. We’re not the parent our children turn to for comfort in many cases; we feel like outcasts in our own families. My wife often says, “Life goes on whether you’re home or offshore.” There’s no making up for lost time; all you have is the present.
Balancing work and family life is a constant struggle. Fishing demands long, unpredictable hours and often unhealthy human interaction within the close quarters of a boat. Coming home requires a conscious effort to de-stress, to transition from boat life back to family life. And now, with increased time off due to regulations, the stress shifts to paying bills, managing finances, and simply keeping our minds right. Being away, you’re in a trance, knowing that life is happening at home, and you’re powerless to be a part of it. But the need to provide, to give our families the best life possible, keeps us going.
Fishermen don’t receive a steady income, no benefits, no safety net. Paying for insurance, saving for retirement (if we even get to retire – many die “in their boots”), becomes a constant worry. The bills don’t stop just because we’re not working. Money management is crucial, but it’s a constant ebb and flow, a precarious balancing act.
The fishing community is a complex mix. Some are incredibly supportive, generous, and always willing to lend a hand. Others are more competitive, less willing to share. But the camaraderie within a crew is essential. You need that support network to pull you through the lows, to get you through tough trips, to be there if something goes wrong. There’s an unspoken trust, a deep reliance among crewmates.
This is just a start. There’s so much more to tell, so many more stories to share. But I hope this gives you a glimpse into the heart of a fisherman, the relentless pull of the sea, and the sacrifices we make to bring the ocean’s bounty to your table.
Living Hand Over Fist (HOF): A Legacy Forged in Salt and Steel 1/1/2025
The sting of salt spray, the roll of the deck, the clang of the winch—these are the rhythms of my life. Fishing isn't just an activity; it's in my blood. From a young age, it's been more than just an activity; it's been a way of life. I started alongside my father, learning the ropes, then ventured out on my own, inshore, chasing steamers. Even after college, a life away from the ocean felt incomplete. The pull of the sea was too strong. I returned to shellfishing, a demanding but rewarding path that helped me pay off my student debts. Then came the red tide closures, a harsh reminder of the unpredictable nature of our industry. That’s when I turned to scalloping, starting with day trips and eventually working my way up the ranks in New Bedford.
Fishing is in my blood. My father fished, as did my grandfather, and his father before him, growing up in a small fishing community on Cape Cod, surrounded by the ocean's embrace. It's a heritage passed down through generations, a legacy I’m determined to protect.
But the fishing industry is facing a relentless uphill battle. Regulations, unfair competition from imported seafood, uneducated seafood buyers, the relentless squeeze from big corporations on owner-operator fishermen, the ever-rising cost of fuel, faulty science often manipulated for political gain, payoffs, environmental obstacles, and now, the looming presence of wind farms—the list seems endless. These challenges aren't confined; they're widespread, impacting fishing communities everywhere. Witnessing these challenges firsthand, I knew I had to do something. That's how HOF was born.
HOF was born from this reality, a burning passion to create a united voice for fishermen, a beacon of hope in these increasingly challenging times. It began with a simple Facebook page where I shared my own fishing adventures, offering a glimpse into our lifestyle. I encouraged others to share their stories, their catches, their struggles, building a strong brotherhood across different fisheries. Wearing HOF isn't just about wearing a brand; it's about belonging to this community, embodying a shared passion, a drive to see each other succeed, and a commitment to ensuring future generations have the same opportunities we've had.
The most pressing challenge? It's hard to pick just one. The combination of regulations, imported seafood flooding the market, and the rise of large corporations pushing out independent fishermen creates a perfect storm. One example of faulty science and biased regulations is the way stock assessments are sometimes conducted, leading to quotas that don't accurately reflect the health of the fish populations and unfairly restrict fishermen's livelihoods.
HOF is more than just apparel; it’s a commitment. Our designs, inspired by various fisheries, evoke a “Save a Heritage, Support Fishermen” vibe. We’ve supported organizations like the New England Fisherman’s Stewardship Association, which fights to give fishermen a voice in policy decisions. We’ve donated to the Maine Lobster Boat Races, helping to fund this iconic tradition. And we’ve given back to our local community through donations to the Homeless Prevention Council on Cape Cod, ensuring families have a magical Christmas.
“Hand Over Fist” isn’t just a catchy name; it represents the feeling of a big haul, the excitement of seeing plenty of fish coming over the rail, a crew working together, supporting each other. It’s a symbol of hard work, dedication, and the rewards that come from it.
Our target audience is first and foremost the fishermen themselves. But we also want to reach those who love fishing, the consumers who enjoy seafood, and anyone who wants to understand the realities of a fisherman’s life. We want to be a voice for this vital industry, showcasing not just the struggles but also the camaraderie, the perseverance, and the unwavering spirit that defines us. HOF is a legacy in the making, a testament to the enduring connection between humans and the sea. Join us, and become a part of this movement. Together, we can ensure the future of commercial fishing remains as vibrant and enduring as the sea itself.