Backstory: Dangerous waters
Among lobstermen on Maine's Matinicus Island, a Wild-West mentality prevails.
On a Sunday morning last month, the lobster boat captains on this distant island gathered in the church basement for their annual meeting. A pressing item of business was how to deal with a 73-year-old lobsterman who'd left the island a decade ago but was still setting traps in its waters, some of the most crustacean-rich in the world.Skip to next paragraph
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In the musty basement, one floor below the pews, two dozen lobstermen, large men mostly, talked about how Victor Ames had ignored warnings to keep out, and how he'd allegedly made violent threats against other lobstermen, including his own relatives. It no longer mattered that Ameses had lived here for two centuries, and still made up a good number of the 50 year-round residents. In their minds, Mr. Ames had broken faith with Matinicus.
The wide band of water between Matinicus and the mainland was no longer a moat, shielding the fiercely independent island against the predations of outsiders. Nowadays, there was a need for other forms of self-defense.
Before the meeting was over, according to witness statements in court records, Ames's own son-in-law urged the other lobstermen to take an extraordinary precaution before their next trip to sea: bring guns.
At least one person at the meeting heeded the advice. A thickset man with freckles and a graying red beard, Joseph Bray knew firsthand how easy it was to get on the wrong side of island lobstermen, a gruff lot who didn't necessarily mind their mainland reputation as modern-day Blackbeards.
Two days later, Mr. Bray boarded his boat, the Si Ling – Chinese for phoenix – with a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun.
Matinicus, the most seaward of Maine's inhabited islands, is cut off from the mainland town of Rockland, and the nearest police station, by 20 miles of water.
Frontier justice has reigned on this speck of granite – two miles long, one mile wide – since its first white settler, Ebenezer Hall, arrived in 1750 and tangled with the Indians. The native Penobscots warned the colonial governor that if Hall wasn't removed, they'd take matters into their own hands, according to a local history book. A plaque under weeds near the post office commemorates the episode's end: "Ebenezer Hall. The First White Settler on Matinicus Isle, Maine. Killed by the Indians. June 6, 1757."
Since then, the island has done little to live down its notoriety. "There's been a reputation, cultivated lovingly, that we're all cutthroats, pirates, inbreds, and totally wild out here," says Eva Murray, the town clerk, treasurer, solid-waste coordinator, school bookkeeper, emergency medical technician, and one of the few year-round residents not in the lobster business.
When Knox County Sheriff Daniel Davey told The Working Waterfront newspaper in 2001 that there was a group of Matinicans "that definitely does not want the presence of law enforcement," one lobsterman wrote to the editor that some didn't much like Mr. Davey either: "Sheriff Davey was unable to win an election out here in which he was unopposed; out of 24 votes cast, one was for an island resident and 12 were for 'anyone else.' "
A touch of Wild West anarchism has always been a part of lobstering. Despite advances in technology and conservation, the profession is much as it was centuries ago: One or two men in small boats vying in open water for a finite resource, far from the eyes of the law.
In Maine, a decade-long boom in lobster harvests belies the cliché of the rugged lobsterman eking out a bare-bones existence. Last year Maine fishermen landed 65 million pounds of lobster, worth a record $301 million. The coveted crustaceans were shipped live to places as far flung as Japan, Liberia, and Ukraine. Skilled lobstermen – so-called "highliners" – can earn in the low six figures.