The Dark Before the Workday Begins
Most people think my workday starts when the sun comes up. The truth is, I am already halfway through it by then.
Out here on the Louisiana Gulf Coast, the day begins long before light touches the water. When I wake up, it is still dark enough that the world feels quiet in a way most people never get to experience. No traffic. No phones ringing. Just the low sound of wind moving across the dock and the distant slap of water against wood.
I usually move on instinct at this point. Coffee first, always. Strong, simple, nothing fancy. My father used to say you do not need a perfect morning, you just need a steady one. I still think about that every time I step into my boots.
Heading Out to Sea
By the time I reach the boat, the sky is still black-blue, not quite morning yet. The dock is familiar in a way that almost feels like home itself. I check the lines, the gear, the fuel. Nothing happens fast in this work. If you rush, the water will remind you who is in charge.
Most mornings I am shrimping or crabbing depending on the season. The Gulf is generous, but it is never predictable. Some days it gives, some days it takes, and you learn not to argue with either.
When I push off the dock, there is a moment where everything behind me fades. It is just the engine, the open water, and the feeling that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
The Quiet Work of Fishing
People imagine fishing as peaceful, maybe even relaxing. There are moments like that, but most of it is work. Real work.
We set the nets carefully, watching depth and current. You learn to read the water the way other people read a clock. A slight shift in the tide tells you more than any forecast ever could. My father taught me that when I was still too young to fully understand it, standing beside him on a boat that smelled like salt and diesel.
Out here, patience is not optional. You wait. You adjust. You wait again. The sea does not respond to urgency.
Sunrise on the Gulf
There is a point, usually about an hour into the work, when the horizon starts to change. The darkness softens. Then slowly, almost without announcing itself, the sun begins to rise.
That part never gets old.
The Gulf turns from black to deep blue, then to gold in layers that seem impossible to describe the same way twice. Some mornings the water looks like glass. Other mornings it looks alive, moving in every direction at once.
I usually pause for a moment when that happens. Not because the work is done, but because it is worth noticing. My father used to say the sunrise is the ocean reminding you that you are small, but not insignificant.
Life Between Hauls
Once the nets are in, there is waiting again. This is when most people think nothing is happening, but that is not true. There is always something happening.
We check equipment, sort what has come in, and make adjustments for the next set. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we do not. Silence is not uncomfortable out here. It is just part of the rhythm.
I think a lot during these hours. About my father. About the way he never needed to explain much because everything important was learned by doing. About how I still use some of his old gear because it feels wrong not to.
There is a kind of continuity in this life that you do not get in many others.
The Weight and Reward of the Work
By mid-morning, the boat usually carries the weight of the catch, the sun, and the effort of the hours before it. My back is sore most days. My hands are never quite clean, no matter how much I wash them. That is just part of it.
People sometimes ask if it is worth it.
I always say yes, but not because it is easy. It is worth it because it is honest work. You get out of it exactly what you are willing to put in. No shortcuts. No pretending.
And when the day is good, when the nets are full and the water is calm, there is a quiet satisfaction that is hard to explain to anyone who has never done it.
Heading Back Home
The return to shore always feels different than the way out. The light is higher now, the world more awake. You can see the coastline clearly again, and with it, everything waiting on land.
For me, that means Marisol. It means home, even if the word feels too simple for what it really is.
She usually knows how the day went before I say a word. I do not know how, but she always does.
And more often than not, she is already thinking about what she will cook.
A Life That Feels Steady
People think this life is about fish. Or boats. Or weather.
But really, it is about rhythm.
The rhythm of tides. The rhythm of work. The rhythm of coming home again.
I learned it from my father, and I still live by it now. Some days are harder than others, but the water has a way of reminding you that nothing stays the same for long.
And maybe that is the point.
Before sunrise, when the world is still quiet and the boat is already moving, I am reminded of something simple.
This is not just my job.
It is my life.