DEATHS AT THE BAYSHORE
The Disciples were fishers: either of men
or sometimes even of fish. Discipleship--
losing the nets and following Jesus--
was a job promotion. If anyone killed them
it would be a mob,
not a storm or boatful of fish.
I knew them. They were neighbors.
They went out each morning
into Raritan Bay and fought for their catch,
splintering fingers on the ropes,
slicing them on fins.
Freezing water, icy wind.
Per diem work to feed their families.
On good days, with the fish running,
nobody got rich but few went hungry.
The old hands would teach the younger.
Stay close to shore. Don't sail alone.
It sounded like Boy Scouts but was sense.
I saw the fishermen as drunks.
Peter, foul-tempered and fearful.
That would account for the stress
and need for relief. Get
off the boat, head for the bar.
He was not alone.
I lived side-by-side with them for years.
Risk death each day,
fight and get drunk by night.
When the alarm rang at 5 AM,
they were up
and ready (or needed)
to go out again.
Then one day two did not come home.
Lost 100 yards offshore in ice,
Boat caught and crushed, people on the ferry
screaming in panic. Come from New York,
see this happen. Men crushed
two families ruined. In spring
the bodies were recovered.
The widows had supposed "closure":
one with two young kids,
the other pregnant with their first.
The fisherman took up a collection.
They were Disciples.
KW
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