The Molly Mae was a Jarvis Newman 36 with a 671 Detroit Diesel cranking out 230 HP. Ezekial Brown ordered it in the early 70s after selling his mother’s house. One small problem, his mother was still very much alive, alert and physically fit. In other words, she was perfectly capable of living on her own. However, thanks to Ezekial, she now needed a place to live. So, she moved in with Ezekial’s sister way Downeast in Meddybemps near the New Brunswick border.
Everyone called Ezekial ‘Easy’, which he most definitely was not. His anger, impatience and selfishness were barely contained by his skin. And he lay in wait for any excuse to pounce.
Easy lived on plug tobacco and Allen’s Coffee Flavored Brandy with a splash of milk (some referred to this concoction as Maine’s fertility drink, because it went down smoothly, and lowered inhibitions quickly). Easy supplemented the brandy with raw hotdogs dipped in yellow mustard.
He had a gang of 400 traps, mostly trawl strings of six, with a handful of pairs to fish inside waters when the shedders hit. Easy could catch lobsters. He was high-liner at the Linekin Lobster Pound most years and a close second the rest of the time. He was supposed to be paying his mother back for the house he sold out from under her, but stopped after a few payments, leaving his sister, who he’d been fighting with since childhood, to finance their mother’s care.
Because of his temperament, Easy went through wives and stern men like most fellas go through clean shirts. In late spring that year, wife #4 packed her bags and fled as soon as Easy left to go lobstering one morning. She’d managed to make it through the winter, when most folks thought she’d be gone by the holidays. No one’s heard from her since.
When Molly Mae Pinkham, Easy’s first wife and the boat’s namesake, left him years ago, Easy’s reaction was to cross out her name on the stern of his boat with copper bottom paint and a 4” roller, drips and all.
Easy hauled his boat and gear out just before Thanksgiving, stowing boat & traps on the south side of his property the only level piece on the entire plot. He put everything back in around Easter. Regarding his stern men, Easy went through 2-3 per summer. That is until John Peter Allen showed up after barely surviving a decade on the flats, digging clams & blood worms.
John Peter Allen, the man with three first names, was known to all as Joppa. He was built like an ox and nearly as smart. But this hulk of a man was a kind and forgiving soul and in spite of the tirades and abuse, Easy filled his pockets with cash. They were a matched set, like salt & pepper shakers.
Joppa was a crooner, who loved to sing sad country & western songs and he had a nice voice. On the occasional summer Saturday night (no lobstering on Sundays in the summer), he could be found at the local VFW Hall, ‘sitting in’ with the Flat Tires, a local band playing dances and weddings, as well as Quisiera’s, Bar and Bat Mitzvah along the mid-coast. Joppa liked to share his soft, smooth tenor while folks shook their bones and polished their belt buckles on the dance floor.
Easy & Joppa had a constant dialog which started in the parking lot of the Linekin Lobster Pound each morning, continued throughout the day, and lasted until they returned to respective vehicles in the afternoon. Their conversations weren’t hard to hear as both were rather deaf and Easy was primed with brandy by the time the third string was hauled, cleared, baited and set back in the water. It was one of these exchanges that my cousin and I witnessed north of Tumbler Island on a calm July morning without a breath of wind.
Easy had backed down a bit too hard trying to get as close as possible to Tumbler’s ledges as the lobsters were moving inshore to molt. The shedder season was upon them. When Easy backed down he sucked a buoy and some line into his wheel and they were dead in the water until it was removed. Both were on the transom, one with a gaff, the other with an oar, trying to get the line free. They weren’t making any progress. Easy’s frustration was beginning to ramp up.
Easy, “Joppa, you’re gonna have get in the water and cut that line out of the wheel”
Joppa, “It’s your boat why don’t you go in?”
Easy, “I can’t swim a stroke”
They went back and forth for a few minutes before Joppa acquiesced, removed his boots and oil skins and stripped down to his tighty whitey’s. He looked like pasty 55-gallon drum with arms and legs and bushel basket perched on top. Joppa had a huge head.
Easy was sharpening a knife as Joppa prepped. Joppa got up on the transom, Easy handed him the sharpened knife. Joppa put it in his mouth, Tarzan style and dived into the water. But his form was bad, so when he hit the water he turned his head, stabbing himself in the shoulder and dropping the knife. Easy was not pleased!
Easy, “Now you done it. I don’t have another knife so you’ll have to use the saw. You stay right there”
Easy went forward and returned with an ancient handsaw, so rusted that you might get tetanus just by holding it. Easy handed the saw down to Joppa.
Easy, “Quit screwing around Joppa, we got a lot a traps to haul and your wasting time!”
Joppa started to reply and stopped. He seemed to understand the futility of arguing with Easy and began maneuvering to get underwater and remove the line. But Joppa was as buoyant as a mooring buoy and no matter what he did, he couldn’t submerge more than a few inches. Easy began swearing, grabbed the oar they’d been using earlier, stood on the transom and started pushing down on Joppa’s back to get him underwater. Joppa thrashed and sputtered. That’s when my cousin started the engine and moved toward the MollyMae (or should I say, ex-Molly Mae) muttering that Easy was going to drown poor Joppa if someone didn’t intercede.
We saved Joppa and offered to cut the line, tow them to the grid in town where he could beach the Molly Mae and get the remaining line out of his wheel at low water. Easy, worn down by the efforts to free his vessel, agreed without much fuss. Now we had to get Joppa back on board, all 300 lbs of him!
Easy rigged a block to the head of the mast for his riding sail and led a line to his hydroslave for power. He engaged the hydraulics and pulled on the line. He got Joppa almost clear of the water, when the line parted. Joppa made a huge splash as he dropped back in. We tried a few more times to retrieve him, but the old pot warp kept parting and neither Easy nor my cousin had a long enough piece of warp to replace it. Joppa was getting chafed from the line and hit pretty hard against the gunnel with the last attempt. So, we rigged a bridle and towed the big man behind the boat, on a slow bell to the Tumbler Island dock The dock had a ladder. Joppa, looking like an injured beluga, climbed out, a little shaky and banged up from the retrieval attempts, got on our boat and we returned him to the Molly Mae.
We used the same bridle we rigged to tow Joppa and lengthened the towline by tying a couple shorter pieces together. We then towed the Molly Mae to the town dock, maneuvering the vessel over the grid. All they had to do was wait for low water.
Easy, a huge wad in his cheek, walked up to the grocery store, muttering profanities non-stop, while spitting every few steps. He bought a package of hotdogs, some yellow mustard and a pint of Allen’s Coffee Flavored Brandy to keep him company while he waited.
Joppa dried off, put on some clothes and began to croon.
© 2026 Marginal Effort Publishing
