Page 21 of On Dry Land

When he climbs back to his feet, groaning, I snatch up the camera and follow, watching as he tips one of the lobster traps onto its side. It’s tall, almost as tall as me, and although I’m not usually the biggest guy in any room, it still feels large when I consider that it’s a lobster trap. He pats it.

“To tie the traps together, we need a connection point,” he tells me without preamble. Reaching over to the bench he draped his coat on, he snags a metal piece in the hand not holding one of the lengths of rope he just cut. He lifts it. “The dog bone is connected to the trap by the bridle and allows the trap to spin around underwater.”

“So the ropes don’t get twisted,” I realize verbally. Dryden nods. Resting the dog bone on top of the trap, he taps each corner.

“Hitch knot on each of the four corners.”

I move a little closer, watching his long fingers as he loops the rope through holes in the trap, tying it with the kind of speed and dexterity that can only come from muscle memory. One corner tied, he slips the end of the rope through the dog bone, positions it in the middle of the trap, and brings the rope to the next corner, poking it through the cage again. As I watch, he moves a little slower, giving me a better view of exactly what his fingers are doing. When he’s on to the fourth and final corner, he pulls the rope and the dog bone cinches tight, perfectly centered in the middle of the trap. I can’t help but smile, watching as he finishes the final knot.

“Does that hurt your hands?” I ask him, peering at the rope. It looks rough, and although he was efficient, quite a few steps went into tying each knot.

“After doing fifty? Yes,” he replies.

“Is there a faster way to do it? Or…an easier one?”

“Yes, and no. Everyone will do this differently. Some just use a single bridle. However, the four-point method is a little better for handling. Fewer snarls, and less chance of the lines twisting. I learned it from a friend,” he adds, a strange look crossing his face for a quick second before it’s gone. “I intend to fish these traps for the next five years. I won’t cut corners just to save a little skin off my palms.”

Dog bone secured, Dryden reaches for another piece of rope. Slipping it through the little piece of plastic, he ties another knot.

“See?” he prompts, and indeed, I do. No matter how he manipulates the rope, it rotates around the dog bone easily. No twisting.

Untying it, he reaches for a little piece of metal, holding it up for me to see. “This is a fid, which is simply for bringing the tag end back through the inside of the rope. Keeps it secured and prevents fraying.”

Stabbing the little silver tool through the middle of the rope, he pushes the tag end inside and pulls it back through, like a seamstress might do with a thread. Bending down and snagging yet another bit of rope, he opens the trap and begins tying this one on the inside.

“Bait bag string,” he mutters, tugging on it to make sure it’s secure and closing the trap once more. Looking around, he adds, “One down, forty-nine to go.”

Dryden doesn’t talk me through the four-point bridle each time; he just gets to work. I find a good spot for the tripod and leave it there, not wanting to move around Dryden too much and get in his way. For the most part, he works in silence and doesn’t pay me any mind. A handful of times, without looking at me, he’ll speak a soft request, always addressing me by name.

“Spencer, can you pass me the fid, please?” or “Spencer, can you put this with the others, please?”

I jolt a little bit each time, like hearing my name is the equivalent of an electric shock. I don’t hear it often, that’s for sure, and hearing it from him feels almost intimate. It’s hard to remember that we only just met days ago. In the space of a few hours, comfort has bled into the air between us that before had been nothing but fear and mistrust.

I wonder if he’s going to stop and take a break, or just do half and finish the rest later, but Dryden bridles all fifty of the traps himself. Toward the end, I notice some of the smoothness in his movements is lost, and he flexes his hands after each hitch knot is tied. His skin probably feels more raw than my own.

“Wow.” I look around at the traps, all freshly bridled, and feel a little impressed. I’m no slouch, but even I might have found this task laborious to do all by myself.

“Not done yet,” Dryden tells me, pulling a water bottle from a case sitting on the floor and tossing it to me. He grabs one for himself, taking a sip and eyeing the tripod I have set up on one of the benches.

“I can show you the video before I post it,” I offer, unable to parse the emotion in his eyes. “I can edit out anything you want removed.”

He shrugs as though it doesn’t matter, capping the bottle and putting it down to pick up a Sharpie in its place. Pulling a stool out from under the bench, he sits on the edge of it, legs spread wide, and points toward one of the buoys. Before he can ask, I snag it, bringing it over.

“License number,” he says, balancing the float in his lap and scratching off a series of numbers across the middle. He taps against it. “And here we’ll put the buoy number. One through ten, five traps per buoy.”

I expect him to hand it back to me to put with the others but am instead pointed toward another piece of equipment I don’t know the name for. I hand it to him—nod when he utters “spindle” and twists it onto the back of the buoy—and take the whole thing when it’s eventually given back to me. Without prompting, I put the finished one down and pick up a blank one, handing it to Dryden. He labels, twists on another spindle, hands it back, and waits for another.

“Thank you,” he says when I take the last one from him and stack it with the rest. He looks at his wrist, adjusting the watch there so he can see the face, and sighs.

“What’s next?” I ask. We haven’t used half of the rope that’s stacked around here, and I’m dying to know what all the different colors and sizes mean.

“Nothing today. The bottom warps will need to be connected to the top warps and attached to the buoys⁠—”

“Warp?” I interrupt, not having heard him use that word yet. He sends me a slightly withering look, and I shrug. Sue me. I’m invested in this now.

“Pot warp—it’s the rope used to connect the traps, which lie on the seafloor, to the buoys up on the surface.”

“Got it. Thanks. So, trap is connected to the warps, which is connected to the buoy.”