Attack of the Killer Lobster

It was a foggy morning in Port Bickerton, Nova Scotia. But then that wasn’t unusual. Most mornings in Port Bickerton are foggy. What was unusual was that there wasn’t a lobster to be had in the entire town.

The buyers had just been in, and the weather had been too bad to venture out in a boat on the previous day. This was an acute embarrassment to my friend Mark, who had invited my whole family down to his family’s ancestral homestead for a feed of the tasty crustaceans.

My wife, Krista, my four-year-daughter, Ariana, and I were safely ensconced in the Bishop’s Room of the 150-year-old house and Krista had been salivating heavily all afternoon at the thought of a feed of the fresh lobster. The Bishop’s Room was so-called because 100 or so years ago the Anglican bishop usually took up residence in the room when passing through town.

Mark’s mother, Pat, who had grown up in Port Bickerton, had a solution. Her 78-year-old cousin Harvey still lobster fished (in addition to running the local general store). In his “younger” years (up to about the age of 60) Harvey used to hurl harpoons into quarter-ton swordfish and then haul them kicking into his boat.

He had now, in his retirement, taken up the “gentler” vocation of hauling 50 pound lobster pots. Of course he had one or two helpers, the youngest of them being 72-year-old Clarence, an ex-paratrooper, a Korean War vet who had born the nickname “Captain Chaos” ever since his years in the service. He wouldn’t exactly admit why, but it’s said the North Koreans still speak in hushed tones of his exploits and sometimes bring up his name to scare obstreperous children.

Eighty-year-old Allister would also sometimes tag along in case an extra set of hands were needed. In any event, Pat called her cousin who was more than delighted to head out and pull a few pots for a favorite relative. He even agreed to let Mark and me join in the fun.

Neither Mark nor I had ever lobster fished before. Despite rumors that all Maritimers are fishermen, some of us are in reality landlubbers (sometimes more pejoratively called “dirty ‘angashores” because we “hang ashore” and never go out to sea).

Mark and I soon found ourselves aboard Harvey’s Cape Island boat and cruising out into Bickerton Harbour. Pat had warned us not to use blasphemous language aboard the vessel as Walter was a devout Anglican and didn’t cotton to taking the Lord’s name in vain. She made vague reference to past transgressors suddenly finding themselves swimming to shore, though Harvey would usually throw them a life preserver afterward if he was in a charitable mood.

By now the sun had begun to pierce through the fog and we soon had that Port Bickerton rarity, a clear sunny day. The Bickerton lighthouse stood out picturesquely on the point and the mournful rhythmic lowing of the fog horn was finally, blessedly silenced. We could see huge breakers foaming over the rocks beneath the lighthouse.

“I don’t suppose you gets seasick,” said Harvey. “Cuz if ye does, it’s too bad. We’ll not be turnin’ back.”

Fortunately, most of the pots were in somewhat calmer waters and Mark pitched in helping “Captain Chaos” pull traps while Harvey cunningly maneuvered his Cape Islander.

My buddy, Mark was having a great time pulling lobsters from the pots and putting in the bin where Allister was banding the claws.

I noticed a bit nervously, that Mark was extending his wrist a bit too much when showing off the latest catch, thus putting the lobsters’ claws in dangerously close proximity to his skin. I bit my tongue since I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of a relative.

I guess I should have said something because the next thing I knew an agile and aggressive crustacean had latched onto Mark’s forearm. I responded quickly to the emergency by reaching for my camera to get a close up picture, but unfortunately before I could snap a shot “Chaos” had disarticulated the offending limb (the lobster’s not Mark’s).

Having missed a great photo, I threw down my camera and had a look at the injury. The claw had created an interesting “V” shaped laceration which fortunately was not bleeding too much. That was good because there was no way we were heading to shore into the pots were all pulled. Luckily Mark’s tetanus immunization was current.

We ventured a little closer to the lighthouse to pull the last few traps. The meter-high waves made the retrieval of the traps a bit more challenging, which seemed to please Harvey to no end. My stomach began to roll in unison with the boat.

Eventually we got to shore and disembarked  with the day’s catch. Mark and I ended up purchasing a good portion of it for the big family lobster boil at five dollars a pound (eat your hearts out, non-Maritimers).  I conservatively estimated my wife would eat about five pounds of lobster and I would consume a similar amount so  I bought seven of the tasty bottom dwellers.

We brought our catch home, dumped them by the barbecue, and I tended to Mark’s wounds. I idly wondered how one coded a lobster nip for Medicare purposes.

Next we walked several hundred meters down to the ocean and dipped up a large cauldron of seawater in which to boil our dinner.

Fresh seawater is the best thing by far in which to cook lobster. The fluid-filled container was darn heavy but Mark’s father, Robert, cruised down to the beach on his tractor and hauled the cauldron up from the beach.

Then we cooked up our catch, along with heaping pots of fresh corn and were soon chowing down on the freshest and most delicious lobster we’d ever taste.

Fittingly, I had saved the offending claw and had prepared it just for Mark, who devoured the tasty tidbit with gusto.   This was just retribution we all agreed.
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> After our feast, Mark sat contentedly back, displaying  his wound and embellishing proudly on the vicious struggle he’d had with the killer crustacean.
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> “After all,” he said, “no one can call me a landlubber anymore!”
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> “Don’t quit your day job, Mark,” was my only comment.

Photo Credits

“Captain Allister’s lobster boat” Photo © George Burden. All Rights Reserved.

“Captain Allister displays one of the days catch” Photo © George Burden. All Rights Reserved.

“Mark fishes lobster out of trap” Photo © George Burden. All Rights Reserved.

“Mark’s wound and the offending claw” Photo © George Burden. All Rights Reserved.

“Fresh lobster an hour out of the ocean, boiled in sea water” Photo © George Burden. All Rights Reserved.
“Mug shot of the perpetrator pre-cooking” Photo © George Burden. All Rights Reserved.

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