Free Lobster
What would you do for free lobster? My friend Judy answers that on our recent day trip to the New Hampshire shore. For fun we walk 3 ½ miles in the hot sun along the coastline from North Hampton to Seabrook oblivious to the reward coming our way. 
We spot a fisherman coming in along a dock to gas up and see lobsters on his deck. Judy will talk to anyone. She asks him how to get a lobstering license and what he does with the lobsters he hauls in. He tells her that with a personal license you can’t sell them, and Judy’s mind processes that little tidbit quickly. “But you can give them away, right?”
He proceeds to grab two, dump them into a huge white plastic paint bucket and hand them up from his boat to Judy. We’re thrilled. Free lobsters! We are among those who think these creepy crustaceans are a taste delight that’s too expensive for all but special occasions. We feel like we’ve been handed gold. In my amazed state I take eight photographs of the man and his boat heading back out.
But instantly we realize this will not be simple situation. We are 3 ½ miles from our car, an hour from Judy’s house, and the lobsters are exposed in the sun. We’ve heard that dead lobsters are no good for eating. We have to act fast and get these lobsters cooked. But all our attempts to get help come to naught. The man at the lobster pound near the dock won’t even answer us when we ask if he can cook our lobsters for us. The man at the tackle shop suggests we just throw them away “right here next to me.” The woman at the charter fishing boat office says, “I don’t think my friends will appreciate me sending you over.”
Within a matter of 10 minutes our bonanza has turned into a burden. The bucket is getting too heavy for Judy. She dumps out the water, put seven tiny scraps of ice on the lobsters, and covers them with a paper map. I touch the lobsters. One of them barely moves a tiny leg in protest. The other ignores me completely.
“Judy, why don’t we just go back to tackle shop and give them the lobsters?” But Judy will not be parted from her fortune.
And so we start the trek back to our car. The bucket moves back and forth between Judy’s arms and alternates between held in hand and draped over forearm. She wants to stop at a beachwear shop on the way and leaves the bucket outside. ‘Dear God, please let someone take the bucket,” I pray. But it is not to be.
About two thirds of the way back to the car, Judy asks, “Are you getting tired? Do you want to sit and babysit the lobsters while I go get the car?” I’m not taking the bait. I’m also thinking we could leave the bucket right there and find it when we drive back. I’m quite sure no one else is going to take up our load.
By the time we get back to our car Judy has bruises on her forearm. When I drop her off at her car she asks me if I want to take one. No, no, no, I want to leave them far behind. And after all I did absolutely none of the work of carrying them back to the car.
Judy calls me the next morning with the end of the story. Tired as she was when she got home she had to cook the lobsters and research dead lobsters online. Both tails curled when she put them in the pot. Good sign. But only one tail curled back when she stretched them out after cooking. Bad sign. One was dead when cooked – the sad, smaller one who had ignored me when I touched him.
Judy has a tiny bowl of lobster meat in her refrigerator that she got for free. Free? That might be the most costly lobster Judy has ever eaten. I’ll wait for my Maine vacation for mine.
