It’s 4am.

I’m curled up in my bunk, but despite being asleep I’m consciously aware of the pain that courses through my body.  It keeps me in a half-sleep stage, where every move, every roll onto my side, jolts me awake momentarily from the throbbing discomfort that races up from my hands into my forearms.

As I adjust to try to fall into the blissful sleep again, the muscles in my back tighten, reminding me of my desperate need for rest.

Suddenly I hear a click followed by a long beep, the sound of the key alarm alerting everyone that the engine is about to start.  The captain has decided that the fishing day has begun, and as the engine rumbles to life below deck, we all begin stirring in the forecastle, where we all sleep.

In the half light of early morning, with muscles groaning, we all began getting ready.

We played an odd race that no one wanted to win, one where we all wanted to appear as if we were the first to get out of our rack, but in reality, that remaining minute of laying in the bunk while the others swing out to rummage for socks and boots in the small forecastle is like hitting the snooze button, a small moment of rest that we get to enjoy past our allotted time.

I sit up and reach for my boots, struggling to pull them on.  After just two or three hours of sleep, my muscles are cramped and don’t want me to be stretching or making quick movements. 

This job has taxed my body and pushed me to my physical limits in ways that I had never experienced.

The work days that often reach 23 hours and the constant physical labor of hauling gear and plunging with no days off to rest are brutal, and I struggle to get going every morning.  Most days we’ve put in an 8 hour day by noon, but at this point I don’t like to think about the day ahead of me.

As the engine warms up and the crew is getting dressed and ready for the day ahead of us, I throw a pot of coffee on and start pulling out some bagels and cream cheese to start off the day.  I’m walking stiffly, as I struggle to make my legs obey my brains commands.

This job is not for the person who needs a solid 8 hours of sleep nor the out of shape.

We operated on black coffee and a stubborn refusal to quit, and despite physical pain, we faced each day with a good attitude.  In reality, that is what makes this job possible.   I came to realize that my attitude was all I had control over, and only I could decide how I would respond to the pressures of the job.

It’s 1 am.

I’m stumbling towards my bunk, ready for a few hours of sleep before we do it all again.  Besides maybe a quick nap on deck during the day, I’ve been working for over 20 hours.  We’ve just delivered our fish and dropped anchor to catch a few hours of sleep, and I am sore, exhausted, and heartily sick of the smell of fish.

Yet I’m also filled with a sense of accomplishment at having made it through another day, and I know that I’ll make it through the end of the season - as long as we have an unlimited supply of coffee.

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