Gear and Loafing in Ocean City

Gear and Loafing in Ocean City
The annual Maryland Waterman’s Association Expo attracts commercial fishermen from the Mid-Atlantic States. They buy boats, engines and gear at this show held in Ocean City, Maryland, in January. My fisherman husband and I attended the show every year. It seemed like a good venue to sell my book, Wet and Hungry: A Commercial Fisherman’s Life.
Most booths displayed candy, pens and other freebies to entice customers and occupy children. Life raft companies, engine dealers and government entities could afford such largess, especially the ubiquitous government agencies. NMFS, ASMFC, MDDNR, NOAA and other government acronyms occupied numerous booths.
I considered what hand-outs I could afford to offer. That didn’t take long to consider. None, unless the other exhibitors would each donate one piece of candy to my booth. My daughter rescued me with an offer of leftover Halloween candy an ex-boyfriend had given her, an unusually generous offer for a candy fiend like her. We poured it in a large tin and I took it to the show.
In 2008, fishermen had suffered from profit siphoning, stratospheric fuel costs, added to poor catches, erratic markets and harsh regulations. Now they were broke. Instead of the usual heavy crowd of fishermen eager to buy gear, a meager few trickled in and many carried no money.
Beset with lachrymose ennui, I sat in a ten by ten-foot booth waiting for customers. I looked at my watch, again. Only fifteen minutes had passed since the last time I had looked. I felt like I was back in high school waiting for a tedious school day to end. I visited the other booths, stocking up on pens and note pads. Then I returned to my booth and waited for business to pick up.
Our fish dealer strolled by and plopped a couple of pieces of my candy in his mouth. He grimaced. “Yuck! You need to get better candy!”
I watched people’s faces contort as they tried the candy.
A fisherman tried a piece and his face puckered up like an elderly person who’d soaked in a bath tub too long. He grabbed another piece and offered it to a fellow fisherman. “Have you ever tried this candy?”
The second fisherman unwrapped it, put it in his mouth and immediately spit it into a trash can.
I looked in my tin. The wrappers said, “Extreme Sour.” I made a warning sign, “Worse show candy, guaranteed. Best books.”
This encouraged every passing child to grab a handful. Several returned for more.
During dull spells between sales and candy incidents, I contrived imprecations and ripostes I would like to sling at irksome people who did not buy books. I practiced proper public behavior and only dreamed of using these responses.
To the armed policeman who didn’t have any cash to buy my book, “Are you afraid of muggers?”
To the henpecked man who claimed, “My wife says I have too many books,” I would retort, “Are you afraid of that illiterate battle ax?”
To the woman eating a fried clam and smearing grease over a book, “Pig, you’ve gotten enough grease on that book to deep fry a turkey.”
To adults who grabbed candy without looking at the book, never mind, they were going to get puckered mouths and acid reflux.
To others who passed by, oblivious to the literary masterpieces on my table, “You unobservant numbskulls probably don’t notice sunsets, flowers, butterflies or kittens, either.”
To the guy who stood in my booth to make a cell phone call, “This is not a phone booth.”
To the men, one booth over, selling Diesel additive, “Do you really need a gorgeous, slender blonde in tight jeans and spiked heels to sell your product? What next, a thong-clad girl slathered with Diesel additive?”
To the loquacious know-it-all who stood in my booth endlessly rapping, “Take your big yap over to the booth with the blonde.”
To the idiots who asked where they could get someone else’s book, “You can get it in Hades. Why would you come to a fishing expo, claim to be interested in books about fishing, ignore a highly rated book on the subject and ask for a book not remotely related to fishing?”
Meanwhile, honks and quacks from gaggles of geese and flocks of ducks, emanated from the duck call booth. Fishermen perambulated the hall carrying plastic fish baskets, boat hooks and shopping bags advertising engines. By the end of the three-day show, in spite of low attendance, I’d sold forty books to wonderful, highly intelligent, generous, broadminded, sensible people. I also enjoyed ego inflating compliments from readers and on the second day, the company of my dear friend and fellow author, Ann.
One extreme sour remained in the tin.