Ode to the Fisherman’s Wife
The salty air sprays my tired face
as I slowly trudge to the harbor.
The boat was due back yesterday;
yet there’s still no sign of its arrival.
The icy wind whips my hair,
blowing my dress between my legs
and tearing my heart into shards.
My son holds my hand tightly;
cars whizz behind me; I am completely unaware.
Fog so dense the lighthouse beacon barely glows;
Uncertainty grabs at my soul like a lion in a cage.
The baby I carry on my hip was a chick just hatched
when his boat left the shore;
the child at my side a young fledgling.
Worry paints new wrinkles on my face.
Angry waves foam against the rocks;
Seagulls sing an elegy;
Ferocious clouds above threaten another squall.
The smell of tulips fill the air;
I long for the smell of rotten fish.
My legs buckle—Will I have to face this life alone?
I stand firm—I must be strong for these children of mine.
I want to fall and weep here on the cobblestone.
Instead I stand tall, looking out, my hope a beacon;
praying for his safe arrival.
We had just moved to the North Shore of Massachusetts when we first visited Half Moon Beach. We were driving home through Gloucester in search of the Fisherman’s Statue when we passed a statue of a woman with two children watching over the ocean. I knew very little about the history of Gloucester, but there was something about this statue that made me want to know more.
I instantly knew it would become a favorite place of mine and went home that day to research her. Erected in 2001, the Gloucester Fishermen’s Wives Memorial is just a few blocks away from Man at the Wheel—a statue erected in 1923 in honor of the Gloucester fishermen. At its base, it reads:
“The wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters of Gloucester fishermen honor the wives and families of fishermen and mariners everywhere for their faith, diligence and fortitude.”
When I received an assignment to write an ekphrastic poem in my recent poetry class, I immediately thought of this statue. I thought it could be a good excuse to sit by the ocean for an hour or two, but the weather for the week didn’t look promising. When I woke Friday morning to sunlight streaming through my window, I seized the opportunity.
I called the girls upstairs and told them my plan. I was going thrifting, then to sit by the fisherman’s wife—did anyone want to go with me? They responded with a resounding “YES!” I reminded them I needed to sit there a while and write, so they needed to pack their own activities. They happily agreed, excited for the adventure. We all love going to Gloucester, and it had been far too long since we had taken a day to sit by this favorite statue of ours.
We went to the local thrift store and then out to brunch like I had promised. I thought if I had filled their bellies, they’d be more likely to let me sit for a while. Grateful to find a parking spot in a space with a 1-hour limit instead of 30-minutes, we parked and gathered our things. With backpacks on, the girls raced towards the tulips in bloom. I grabbed my bag and strolled along The Broadway, soaking in the smell of the sea. We stopped to smell the tulips and take some pictures before arriving at our final destination—The Fisherman’s Wife.
We walked around her slowly, taking pictures and noticing details. My kids are great at observing works of art; they love pointing out things they notice and I love hearing their perspectives. After a few minutes of this ad hoc Artist Study, I found a spot on the bench and took out my notebook and pen. Autumn continued taking pictures and Eden sat down beside me to play with the toy dog she packed in her bag.
Just as I found my flow of writing sights, smells, and sounds around me, the littlest quietly said, “Mama, I think I drank too much at lunch. I have to go potty again.” I gathered all of our things and headed to the porta-potty at the end of the street, checking my watch to see how long we had been parked. At that same moment, I got a text from David telling me he needed the van to pick up a couch we bought at the thrift store that morning.
I took a deep breath, gave a final glance of longing toward the fisherman’s wife, and loaded everyone in the car to go home.
Later that weekend I pulled out my notes and tried to recreate the scene in my mind. It wasn’t quite as magical as writing a poem while sitting at the feet of the fisherman’s wife; but as I wrote the words from the safety of my home, I felt a deep connection with this wife and her longing.
In 1991, a commercial fishing vessel and her 6-man crew were lost at sea. If you’ve seen the movie A Perfect Storm, you know the story. I highly recommend the book. It’s an incredible nonfiction account of the storm and the people involved. It reads like a thrilling novel. I had a hard time putting it down.