The following is from the introduction to a new novel, Bismore Park, by Peter Vander Wolk. The author currently divides his time between Cape Cod and South Florida.

THIS PARTICULAR sunrise was a daisy; the ocean was almost an infinite pond with a nice gentle swell. The morning sky was crystal clear as the stars gave way to sunlight 90 miles south of Nantucket Island in the Ambrose shipping lane while the F/V Madison Reilly steamed eastward to the 3000 line on the LORAN overlay to start hauling the first of her 1,500 traps.

The Madison Reilly was a refugee, so to speak, from the Louisiana shrimp industry that was overpowered by offshore lobstering standards.

At only 55’, this Bruno-Stillman was rekeeled with a 9’ draft and powered with a Detroit Allison 12-71. . . . [T]he horsepower was reserved for running the hydraulic pot sheaves at full bore and steaming at 13-plus kts., which is pretty respectable for an offshore commercial fishing vessel. She was, however, modest compared to the larger 65’ and up “Lobster Yachts.”

Onboard the Madison Reilly the captain was out in the elements, good or bad, with the crew hauling the gear, not inside wearing shorts and slippers with the heat on, screaming out a window like the big boys.

“I can smell the bugs, Skipper,” Bobby announced, walking into the wheel house as he made his way to the galley to get a “Cup a’ Joe.” . . .

“Hope so,” the captain half-answered as he studied the trawl numbers, reviewing the catch from the last trip and trying to figure out the benthic arachnids. The water was finally warming up, which meant stripers and blues, summer girls on the Cape. The lobster world was finally awake, looking for food, and the crew was looking for a paycheck.

“So last night,” the captain paused, tossing the ledger on the dashboard, turning around, “Ginger or Mary Ann?”

“Ginger . . . , trapped in Mary Ann’s body,” the first mate chuckled. . . .

The captain ran the boat and dealt with the owner, fishmongers and other pleasantries while the handling of the crew was delegated to the first mate, Bobby.

Bobby and the captain had been good friends for years, always covering each other’s back, and when the stewardship of the Madison Reilly came along, the captain didn’t hesitate to have Bobby, . . . who could select and direct the crew while the captain focused on making the boat money. They had a Gilligan’s Island banter that just started one day and stuck.

“All right, kids, time to rock and roll,” Bobby warned as he flipped on the lights and hit the power button on the stereo. Suddenly Neil Young and the Blue Notes stepped aboard, wailing: “We are men at work / We got a job to do / We gotta keep you rockin’ / To keep your soul from the blue.” . . .

“Five minutes,” Chris pleaded, knowing the answer would be “Sure, get a job at BK and have it your way.”

Chris, Bobby’s younger brother, fishing during school and summer vacations, had a good work ethic for a “kid,” as the captain called him. . . . Tom Irving, the other crew member, was a more permanent member of the crew, but everything is prone to change. Tom was from a Plymouth fishing family but didn’t want anything to do with fishing, or his family. Tom wanted out of “America’s Home Town” and his fishing dynasty, but until he had the means to get out, this was all he had and he appeared grateful to have it.

As they approached the west end of trawl 14, the flag was motionless and the pod of dolphins that shadowed the Madison Reilly was dropping off the chase as the captain eased back on the throttle. No matter how many times they escort the boat, it is still an engaging show. As the captain and mate watched, the rest of the crew appeared on deck.

“How close, Cap’n?” Chris asked.

“Half a cup” the first mate barked, “get moving.” By the time Chris and Tommy appeared on deck ready to work the captain had already hooked and hauled in the hi-flyer and the mate had it stored on the port gunwale and with the buoyline starting to pile up on deck, the end trap was approaching the surface.