Edra, Mark and I returned to the port. Edra wanted to shop, and she’d seen a cool tour she wanted to go on—lobster fishing! Mark and I were game for that.
While Edra headed to the shops, Mark and I headed to lunch. I lived up to my “lobster every day!” decree and ordered a lobster roll from the Portland Lobster Company. (Lobster roll rating: 10 claws, out of 10. Was going to subtract points for not using the traditional mayo recipe, but it was made with drawn butter instead, which was incredible. So, no subtraction.)
(Oh, and other scary fact—you can buy lobster rolls almost anywhere—including Arby’s! And you can buy fresh, live lobster at the gas station! So gross!)
Mark didn’t want lobster, and opted for the roadside hot dog stand instead. He returned holding some weird neon red dog that I swear would glow in the dark. It definitely freaked me out.
“Why is your hot dog HOT CHEETOS RED?” I gasped, but apparently, only I was alarmed.
“It’s a Maine dog,” Mark shrugged, as if that explained anything, and lit into it. I actually stopped eating my lobster roll to watch him, horrified. (Amber later explained that it was, indeed, a Maine hot dog, and that Mainers swear by their bright red dogs—they refuse to eat a normal, brown hot dog. Well, OK, then…)
Edra joined us, with her lunch. The sun was shining, and after eating, we headed toward the lobster boat, excited to get out on the water.
Once aboard, we donned bright orange rubber aprons and gloves—it was time to work!
Our two awesome guides explained the ins and outs of lobster fishing. They showed us how to find the right buoy among all the other buoys, and how to pull in the traps. There were some other kids on the boat, and while Mark wasn’t as crazy about touching everything as they were, he held his ground when they tried to shove him aside. He had a prime spot for reeling up the lobster pots, and he didn’t give it up.
It was a lucky day—we hauled in at least one lobster per pot. We tossed a couple back for being just shy of legal size, and another one because she was a breeding female. But we ended up with five or six keepers.
After hauling in the pots, we learned to re-bait the traps, and sink them again. Mark was the master of pushing the traps back into the water.
Mark overheard the guides telling a kid he could buy a fresh-caught lobster for $6, and take it to the Portland Lobster Company next door, where they’d cook it for $9. Mark was intrigued. Even though he doesn’t eat lobster and refused to hold a live one upon boarding the boat, he couldn’t be swayed form wanting one. Edra said she’d buy him a lobster if he swore he’d taste it, and before I could protest, Mark agreed and was holding a bagged lobster.
Which was a little problematic, since we were going out for the night, and weren’t sure what to do with our crustacean. (That’s right, we had a little crustacean frustration!) I didn’t know what to do with the lobster, because we were on our way to a baseball game, and probably wouldn’t be ready to cook it until the next day. The captain assured us we could keep the lobster in the fridge overnight, and so, a little apprehensively, that’s what we did.
I planned to gently break the news of the crustacean house guest to Amber, but Mark beat me to the punch.
“Uh, so, you’re fridge is gonna smell bad,” he told Amber bluntly. I thought she was gonna crash the car when she screamed, “WHY???” She was right to be alarmed!
I explained about our trip, and about Mark’s souvenir, but Amber wasn’t sold. She was gracious as only Amber can be, but even she could take only so much. She wanted to know exactly what we were gonna do with it, and then immediately changed her mind and DIDN’T want to know. We told her we were making our very own lobster rolls the next day.
“I don’t have a lobster pot!” she protested, but we insisted (incorrectly, it turned out) that her stock pot would be big enough.
Amber tried to put the news out of her mind. Instead, she drove us to our next adventure, to see another really cute lobster shack nearby. But when we drove by a super cool cemetery on the way, I yelled at her to stop.
The cemeteries back East are so different than those in California. Every once in a while, you see a historic California cemetery with the giant granite headstones. But here in the East, they are the norm. I wanted to get out and look around closely.
The headstones were old, old, old—some from the early 1800s! Mark was very excited to find one guy who died in the 1800s and was a veterinarian.
“He was in a war!” Mark yelled, and I realized he meant “veteran,” not “veterinarian.”
“There are lots of veterinarians,” he called out. “This guy was in the War of 1812.” He paused, looked at me and asked, “Which war was that?”
And although I am no history buff, for once, I was smarter than a fifth grader.
“It was called…the War of 1812!” I told him. Luckily, sarcasm is usually lost on him.
Then it was on to the lobster shack, which was really cute. We didn’t have time for dinner—we had to get to the baseball game. The local favorites, the Sea Dogs, were playing, and the stadium was PACKED. (It’s the minor league team for the Boston Red Sox, so the fans were rabid!)
Amber had a volunteer commitment, so she didn’t join us, but before she left, she told us we had to do three things: 1) Take a picture with Slugger the Sea Dog, 2) Eat a Sea Dog Biscuit and 3) Fill up the Trash Monster.
We succeeded in two out of the three. We took a pic with the Slugger statue, but then I grabbed the real Slugger and got my photo with him.
Mark wolfed down a Sea Dog Biscuit (an ice cream sandwich), then proclaimed it “just okay.” The Trash Monster passed us by, but we were so busy cracking up at it, we forgot to put our trash in there.
The game was a blast. For seven bucks each, we got general admission tickets, and sat just behind home plate. It’s the closest I’ve ever sat to the players at a baseball game! I was a bit scared by all the fly balls dropping around us, but my fear proved unfounded—we never got hit.
What I loved was the whole small-town feel—everyone loved those Sea Dogs, and all the fans seemed to know each other. (The game was almost sold out, with 7,100 fans in attendance.) I also loved the whole local vibe—there was a giant L.L. Bean duck boot out in right field, and whenever the home team hit a home run, a giant lighthouse arose from underground in the scoreboard. It rotated its light a couple times, then disappeared. I thought it was hysterical.
The game, like any other baseball game, had a loud, obnoxious guy seated behind us. The difference here was that everybody knew him, including the security guards, so he never got too out of control. I loved when he started yelling at the players (who could totally hear him, we were that close!) to hit the dang ball.
“Hit it outta the ballPAHK!” he screamed in a thick Maine accent, and I silently applauded him in my head for his awesome accent.
“Yeah, Mahk,” I whispered to my son., “Hit it outta the pahk!” We both giggled uncontrollably.
Amber picked us up just before the game ended. Mark was bummed, because it was bobble-head night, but only for the first 1,000 people (which we were not). He was scouring the seats for any forgotten bobble-heads and was mad I dragged him away before he found one.
I was finally able to lure him away by gently reminding him that there was a lobster in the fridge at home, just waiting to scare the bejesus out of Amber. He didn’t care much about the lobster, but the thought of Amber’s face when she saw it—that actually made him giddy. He left willingly with that promise.
Amber lived up to her part, too. When Edra took the lobster from the fridge and held it up to Amber, I thought Am might scream. Instead, she squirmed and gagged and quickly moved away. Which Mark thought was hilarious, so Edra did it again. Amber was finally brave enough to actually touch the lobster, but I saw her shiver when she did.
And so we ended another busy day in Portland. I was really beginning to dig Maine…
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