The Junkyard Gang

Around Sao Jorge, wind from any direction is something for fishermen to take into account. The Azores are really nothing more than a few tiny bumps of green poking out of the middle in the big Atlantic pond. Although April is considerably nicer than May, and the bulk of the fishing craze coincides with warmer temperatures and calmer breezes. This is June through September- tuna time- where frenzied fishermen chase frenzied albacore. Football-sized torpedos with fins are caught by chumming the waters, then dropping a big barbless hook into the boil, attached to a cane pole just like a big version of the one your great-great grandfather used for trout back in the good ol’ days.

This is only exciting hearsay, as far as I’m concerned- a teaser for you and me- although I can’t wait to take Paul up on his invitation to come back another year to crew during the peak of the tuna run, on a new boat he has in the works. Before tuna, Paul and his crew put the Familia to work lobstering. But before that, it’s trap-making time.

The glorious life of a fisherman doesn’t start or end on the water, or even with dealing with the boat. The time-consuming gear work is quickly forgotten or optimistically overlooked when calculating how fast a deckhand makes his or her money, and similarly gear expenses are often the troughs where a skipper dumps all his so-called profits. Is this what the business world calls capital investment strategy? Fishermen probably call it survival.

While the wind blew steadily from one direction or another, this junkyard gang was my crowd, and Paul was a hands-off welding mentor, for the most part letting me figure it out on my own. Through trial and error, mostly error, I got a basic handle on how to spot weld with the shop’s tempermental machine, and only flashed my eyes a couple of times in the first day or so. The task was churn out around seventy new lobster traps, made by bending and welding nine individual pieces of half-inch rebar into a lobster trap frame. Chico, Mario, and Joseph would then take funnels, made of plastic buckets with the bottoms cut out, they’d cut plastic fencing material for the trap walls, and would lash together a complete trap. Each trap, start to finish, took around three hours of work. The somewhat more evolved Maine lobster trap has entrance funnels, two “rooms” within with a narrowing walkway connecting the two, escape slots, and hinged lids. Paul’s spartan design, in comparison is basically an open cage with a tapering hole in the top. Stick some bait in and drop the trap to the bottom. Maine’s high-tech pots don’t outsmart the lobster anyway- observation has shown that a significant majority of the lobster that enter a trap eat and exit before the trap is hauled- so Paul’s pots are probably just the ticket. Lobster trap are more like lobsters kitchens- the trick is to pull the pot when it's dinnertime.

Paul is a remarkable example of a well-rounded fisherman. He’s adept with wrenching, (fiber)glasswork, and wielding a welding torch, on top of all the navigation skills that come in handy when away from terra firma. His shop, a few kilometers up the hill from Velas, is home to all sort of projects, is the stomping ground for all sorts of scallywags and riffraff. Paul seems to be the regional consultant on all matters of maritime mishap. Nearly every dat I've been hanging around his shop, he’s dropped his own projects to give a hand to a friend who’s stopped by. The shop is the nucleus of an auto junkyard, which is a steady source for all sorts of odd nuts, bolts, and scrap metal, and masculine procrastination. What a place!

The junkyard regulars are an eclectic group. Master Eduardo, Paul’s dad, spends at last half of each day piling partially crushed cars on top of each over with a bucketloader, playing a giant game of car wreck Tetris. His game plan leaves me confused. Maybe he’s really playing Jenga because some of his teetering piles seem to go straight up. Master Antonio, a German by descent, is a talented alcoholic who has yet to let his reputed welding prowess poke through his passion for the booze and butts. He’s a pleasant guy to be around, despite being no model for productivity. Ricardo is a massive guy, tall and strong and with a fitting deep laugh, so loud that hurts the ears if you’re with him in any confined space. He’s working hard on restoring a 40-foot hulk of steel, a boat something like a Coast Guard cutter, an endless welding project and constant fight against rust. There’s an old-looking young guy I’ve nicknamed the Jolly Friar, on account of his goofy grin and donut of remaining hair, who seems to have plenty of mechanical skills but is more content being Master Eduardo’s assistant in the mysterious car shuttle. A half dozen other cats stop by on a regular basis, mostly men in their 40’s with an itch to escape their wives and work for a while and join in the junkyard fraternity.

For reasons I can’t fathom, conversations between the men are intense, loud, and full of wild hand gestures. Ordinary events, like weather or a neighbor’s new car are described as if the man had just been an eyewitness to a train robbery, or like he’d walked out his door and discovered a lion screwing a tiger in his front lawn. This Azorean flair for creating intensity out of the mundane still hasn’t ceased to amaze me, although usually the only phrase I can pull out of the tumble is “fila de puta!”…