“A GOOD MAN” IS THE HIGHEST COMPLIMENT I GIVE

And yes, you can find them here. Third in a series: Watermen of the Chesapeake Bay.

JANICE ANNE WHEELER JUL 14

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A Day on the Lady A

At 4:30 sharp on a calm September morning I joined Tommy Lednum on Lady Alison, the forty-two foot deadrise workboat built by his hands in 1987. With an easy smile, Tommy pulled out of his slip, reversed immediately, shifted quickly into forward, and missed the pilings and STEADFAST’s bow by mere inches on the well-practiced route to his usual hunting grounds. Eight other Watermen at Severn Marine Services were idling, ready, tossing their lines off. He hit the throttle on the east end of Knapp’s Narrows, the slim channel that separates Tilghman Island from the balance of Maryland’s Eastern Shore. The throaty roar of his Cummings Diesel somehow signified the power that is required to drag an income out of the belly of Mother Nature. It’s not an easy life, not an easy task. The engine ran perfectly that day, as it does six days a week, three thousand hours a year.

Though the regulations change seasonally, in the fall these state-licensed Watermen can start to harvest one hour before sunrise. Venus was the only light in the Heavens and dawn had just barely tinted the east when we dropped his forty-eight hundred feet of trotline into the brackish water parallel to shore. With hefty weights to keep it in place and a numbered buoy on each end, that line was where we spent the entire day. Thirty minutes before legal light, we settled in to let the bait bags soak and I asked Tommy about the changes he has seen on these shorelines. “There are a whole lot more lights than there used to be, that’s for sure,” he commented, and pointed out two large residences tucked into the nearby woods, their docks jutting far into the river. “Those two guys both go to work by helicopter.” He raises his eyebrows at me. His tone is amused, not envious; he’s just stating a fact, like he does about everything I’ve ever asked him. Tommy Lednum does not judge.

Pink and then orange began to outline the clouds, the colors reflected brilliantly on the barely rippling water. “Best time of the day,” I said to him as we sat, me taking in his life, he sipping a cold can of Coke, watching the sun rise. “Yeah. Oh, yeah,” he replied. Every movement is natural and well-rehearsed; for forty-seven years he has pulled blue crab from these waters, along with eel and rockfish when it was selling well, oysters in winter. “Whatever’s selling, we figure it out,” he told me two years ago as he pulled a wriggling eel trap out from beneath the Lady Alison and I promised myself never to swim in those particular waters. “We used to sell a lot of these. Now, we just put ‘em on the grill.” I stepped back, unable to stop myself. He was grinning.

The sunrise turned exceptionally stunning as the sorting bin, worn down on one side where the dip net has hit it countless thousands of times, was slid back from behind the cabinhouse, two old-fashioned bushel baskets were placed just so, thick rubber culling gloves and crab gauge were at the ready on the engine cover, and the dip net was secured to the starboard side with an old, sturdy, bronze shackle. There is always a fatigue mat under his feet, and he certainly deserves that much comfort. Tommy wears a white t-shirt, jeans and work boots whether it’s fifty degrees or ninety.

When the time was right, we circled the first buoy and turned back toward the other. There was no wasted action, not a single footstep, as he hooked the line and dropped it into the tender secured on the sideboard of Lady Alison. For the first predawn run the overhead lights penetrate just beneath the surface and I hear the short length of chain run over the roller bar, signaling the beginning of the trotline, and the beginning of the harvest.

I peered over the side of the boat as it idled along and was instantly mesmerized. Every ten feet there was a bungy cord with an orange mesh pouch of clams attached, zooming up out of the murky water. Found predominantly by scent, the bait bags lie on the bottom awaiting their prey. Then the crab comes along, tries desperately to get into that bag, and holds on even as he or she is pulled up to the surface of the water and into Tommy’s dip net. On our initial run, there were four crabs clinging to the first five bags. Those were promptly swept into the net, and then dumped unceremoniously into the sorting bin between baits so that not a single crab was missed. This is truly a fast-as-lightning procedure; the Waterman can only see two baits past the one he is harvesting, and the boat is moving at a rapid clip so timing is essential. There are automated assists available but Tommy still dips by hand.

I found myself so intrigued that before I even realized it we were at the other end of the line and the sorting box was teeming with very angry blue crab, some tucked in the corners, some desperately gripping their neighbor, and many looking up at us, waving sharp claws in a final show of defiance. Tommy put a thick rubber culling glove on his right hand and grabbed the measuring tool with the other. This time of year, he catches both male and female. All sizes of females can be kept and it is easy to tell the difference as their claws are tipped with distinctive red. The males have to be a certain size to keep, the balance are culled and returned to the bay to be caught next season.

The culling and sorting process is a menagerie of crabs biting crabs, crabs biting gloves, crabs everywhere. As with the bait, they do not let go once they have attached themselves to something; a small pile of dismembered legs and claws lying in the bottom of the bin, now unattached to anything, attest to that. Tommy calmly throws everyone into their assigned baskets while driving the boat (partially with his thigh, occasionally with his hand) back to the first buoy where we started the process all over again.

Crabbing with a trotline is a juggling act to top all juggling acts. These men truly multi-task. On the first run I just stood and watched, fascinated and intimidated at the efficient fluidity of it all. On subsequent runs I gained enough courage to put that thick glove on and reach into the box after the females, called sooks, and deposit them in their basket. The soft flesh between my fingers and my thumb had three prominent blood blisters as I typed this story, and the knuckles of my pinky finger showed a bruised shade of purple. Half a dozen or more ended up on the floor of the boat, skittering desperately sideways, waving their pincers. Chesapeake Bay Blue Crab have a grip that, pound for pound of pressure, is astonishing. “Those little crabs can drop you to your knees,” Tommy told me, laughing, showing his own scars.

By the third run we got into a rhythm, me helping even though he didn’t need it, allowing me to feel like I was some tiny part of a long-standing tradition, a legacy passed down, in this case, from grandfather to grandson when Tommy was only five. The Lednum name is common here and five generations are passing it along. Certainly, there was a soulfulness about being out there in sync with the animals you are catching, in sync with the resources you need to keep it all going, in sync with how to change your routine, if necessary, to prevail. By the last run, hours later, the bulging bushel baskets were stacked on one side and the equipment properly replaced on the other. As he pulled the bait lines up on our final pass, another successful day behind him, I could hardly express how much respect I felt. I’m still struggling with it, honestly. There were no complaints, no negativity, just a damn hard-working man on a boat making a living in an incredibly self-sufficient way.

Harvesting these crabs has been done similarly for generations. Their livelihoods rely on the health of the Bay.

I know that without my presence all of the things I’m describing would have happened in the same way. I brought lunch, and we shared everything that peaceful day. The hours flew by and my perspective was forever changed as we backed just as easily into that slip, missing those same pilings by those same inches. The wind and water in the Little Choptank River was calm, even glassy, but it can get big and mean, especially in a southerly. Nothing stops them. Six days a week for the entire season, with the possible exception of a doctor’s appointment or a funeral, but most of those are thoughtfully planned after the twelve-hour work day is over.

What inspires these men to come back, morning after morning, crabs in summer, oysters in winter, for an entire lifetime? I found my answer, but I didn’t write this story immediately. It took me a couple of days to truly appreciate the rarity of the opportunity I had been given, and to understand that I was seeing something, learning something, that few people ever had. Tommy’s calm spirit and love of his profession are enviable indeed.

Lady Alison was traditionally named after a woman in Tommy’s life; a tribute to his only daughter. Rugged, capable hands cared for both of them until Alison Ann, age 40, mother and grandmother, passed away unexpectedly in April of this year. Fellow Watermen reminisce about her selling Girl Scout Cookies and shake their heads that she is gone. Soon afterward, Tommy experienced a small stroke and lost the vision in his right eye, resulting in a couple of days in the hospital and an assortment of treatments. With both brown eyes still twinkling, he took it remarkably in stride, while waiting impatiently for permission to get back out on the water. “That’s just life,” he shrugs at me, “These things happen. What are you gonna do?” The question, of course, is rhetorical, and the impediment has slowed him down only when docking, and then only a little. This man is resilient, even in the face of daunting losses.

Special circumstances lead your friends to toss off the lines on your boat as you begin a new journey. For the Sailors, perhaps, it is more special than to the land dweller. To us, it is symbolic as well as exciting, we are no longer tied anywhere, we are free. The first I experienced was David Dunigan, now lost to this world, and he rendered such meaningfulness to the act that I never forgot it. Last winter, when we planned to be gone for years, it was Tommy Lednum that stood on the dock until we couldn’t see him anymore. “You’re a good man,” I said to him, my highest compliment. “I try to be,” He replied simply.

My Wooden Sailing Yacht STEADFAST has been docked among these hardworking Watermen for four summers now, and I have observed their dedication, ethics and consistency. I am an outsider, and was treated as such until I toiled among them meeting my own challenges. Maybe it was our commonality, life on the water, that brought them to gradually speak without being spoken to, allowed their hearts to welcome us. The more I observe the demanding rhythms of their lives, the more I respect them.

My husband and I will sail south again this fall and I rue the day I return to a different version of Tilghman Island than the one I love. It’s bound to happen, and my day on Lady Alison was an experience I will always treasure and a story I will always tell. Thank you, Tommy, for showing me your substantial wisdom and your disappearing world. It was an honor.

Like Tommy’s tale? In case you missed them: read the beginning of our Watermen Series:

One, Severn Cummings: QUITE A LEGACY

Two, David Miller: We added the audio version to this piece for the song “Don’t Be a Waterman” as performed by generations of David Millers. Only a 2 minute listen! Check it out here: WE DO WHAT WE HAVE TO DO

SPARRING WITH MOTHER NATURE

seeks out the stories of the water, ones that I feel should be shared. So please email this publication to like-minded, interested individuals who will in turn enjoy and share these first-hand, varied accounts of the many ways that Mother Nature directs our lives.

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