The Shooting Star
I reach my hands into my gloves. I check all my zippers, take a swig of my hot cocoa and step out onto the work deck as we approach the first trawl. Instantly the sharp wind bites my face. I look out onto the water and see no land. All I can smell is dead, rotting fish and the diesel exhaust. We pull up to the first buoy. I reach my hand over the edge and grab it: a wave slaps the side of the boat drenching me in icy Atlantic water. I feel numb, but I don't stop pulling on the slimy seaweed covered rope.
I had never worked a day in my life. Both of my parents, and most of their friends, are white collar workers. I knew nobody who did hard work. Except for Tim. And his family of lobstermen. The summer of my sophomore year would not be like the rest, and certainly not like the ideal one I had planned out in my head – which was hanging out with my friends at the beach now that we could all drive. My best friend Tim's father Joe was diagnosed with liver cancer. Joe became so weak that he could not run his lobster boat, which was the only way he had to provide for his family. I was asked to work on one of his two boats to help out. I knew Joe needed me, so I said yes.
Six or seven days a week my alarm would ring at four-thirty, jolting me out of bed. Waking up took a while to get used to, but so did the hard, physical workload I was faced with daily. This was not fun. Sure, there were some beautiful summer sunrises, and I got a really great tan, but I was too exhausted to even go out with my friends or play summer league hockey. I was doing my friend a favor, thinking Joe would be better soon and I could go back to sleeping in late and hanging out with my friends.
Summer turned into fall. Joe just got sicker, and weaker. But the lobsters were running, so we worked every weekend. One chilly November Saturday morning it all started to make sense. As I got out of my 2002 Cadillac, I saw Willy and Henry pulling in at the same time. I knew who they were; Two Honduran men that worked on the other boats docked at the wharf. Usually they were already out when I got down there. It had never occurred to me that the beat up bikes at the wharf were theirs, and that was how they got to work every day. Because I had a little time to spare I approached Willy and said, “Willy, it's thirty-five degrees out. Why didn't you drive to work?” He replied to me in his native accent, “I use all the money I make to get my daughter through college.” At that very moment in my life I knew I had to change my entitled way of living. His family had the same values as mine – college is important, and he would do whatever work he could to make it happen. Willy wasn’t complaining about the cold handlebars on his bike. He was glad to be working to make a better life for his daughter.
I reach my hand over the edge and grabbed it: A wave slaps the side of the boat drenching me in icy Atlantic water. I feel numb, but I don't stop pulling on the slimy seaweed covered rope because I know that I am not just pulling the rope for myself, but for Joe, and everyone who works tirelessly to provide for their loved ones. My new found work ethic and the mentality of never taking anything in life for granted will forever be instilled in me.
