NARRAGANSETT — The odor of bait –– specifically, the odor of skate, an ugly flat creature, pungent in death –– suffuses the deck of the Sea Star on this otherwise pristine morning. Barrels and barrels of salt-packed bait: an assault to the human nose but a delicacy to the seagulls that swoop everywhere, and to the lobsters that draw the Sea Star far out to sea.
Owner and captain Morgan Garrett stands inside the galley of his boat, which is docked near a Block Island ferry, a larger but substantially less adventuresome vessel. By the day before, he knew that it was time to sail: after a few days ashore, he had started to wear what his wife calls his “fishing face” again. He was fidgety, anticipatory. An old romance had rekindled, as it does almost every week, year-round.
“Once I get in that mode, it’s time to go,” Garrett says.
Mike Labonte, one of Sea Star’s crew of three, takes the captain’s order for the grocery-store run. Steak, hamburger, coffee and cigarettes top the list. “These guys eat like cows,” says Garrett, writing a check for $500. Soon, a truck will deliver diesel fuel, Garrett and his three men will shove off, and the Sea Star will disappear into the horizon beyond the Point Judith jetties. When the boat returns, Garrett hopes to have a full cargo.
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