Shrimp boats and Cigarettes: Working at the Dike

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I can still vividly recall the scorching Texas heat shimmering above the pavement as I pedaled my bike home after a long day working on the dike—nearly five miles each way from our old house on 16th Avenue in Texas City. Those junior high summers were defined by relentless humidity, the smell of dried squid and shrimp guts, and my t-shirt stained with the aroma of the fishermen's Marlboro, of course, the annoying mosquito bites ciphoning my inexperienced deckhand blood with incessant itching, leaving an impression I carry with me to this day. I know that I grew up with classmates who were lucky enough to spend their summers at home, getting better at Zelda, Super Mario Bros., or Duck Hunt, but not me. I would learn the value of work. Although not intentionally, I sported a farmer's tan that would make most envious, as I rarely put sunscreen on my rebellious puny arms and legs. You can picture shrimp boats lined up at the dock on those midday mornings after setting out in Galveston Bay before the sun had time to heat all the surfaces of the Texas Gulf Coast. Shrimpers got an early start, got out, set their nets for a drag, and when they returned, brought the haul in to be weighed and sold for market. At the baitcamps is where I cut my teeth on challenging, grungy work, lessons that prepared me to be resilient.

My days began at zero-dark-thirty, well before sunrise. Texas summers brought mornings that were unexpectedly cool and damp, with temperatures in the seventies or eighties. A salty breeze from the bay refreshed me until the midday heat pressed in. I’d pedal my bike down 16th Avenue beneath flickering streetlights, racing past stop signs to make my shift. I was always up earlier than my parents, who were still asleep when I left for work—no one was going to give me a ride, so my bike was my only companion. Quietly, I crept out through the garage, leaving behind the comfort and security of home. The last thing I’d see was a swarm of Texas June bugs humming and fluttering around the bright outdoor garage light, a small ritual before I slipped away and pedaled toward the dike.

As I neared the bay, the air grew brisker, and I’d spot pickup trucks lined up outside the bait house. Inside, rugged men—some seasoned, others teaching their sons—gathered with fishing rods, tackle boxes, steaming coffee, and cigarettes. The bait house buzzed with anticipation for the day’s hopeful catch, mostly flounder reeled in by rock fishermen casting from the man-made road that jutted out into Galveston Bay. Live bait was essential, and we sold shrimp to eager anglers who transferred them into saltwater trolling rigs. The rock fishermen were a breed apart—down-to-earth, friendly, and always willing to strike up a conversation. In contrast, the sport fishermen with boats often seemed more presumptuous and less approachable. Some of the wealthier customers even treated me as if I were invisible, but I didn’t let it bother me—I simply focused on doing my job.

Customers would line up at the counter with a six-pack or two of light beer, an extra pack of smokes, lure tackle and weights, a bag of chips, Cokes for their ice chest, and a plastic-wrapped sandwich from the store cooler, like an Oscar-Meyer. I’d step outside to the bait wells to scoop up a quart of live shrimp, scraping the tanks with my net before transferring the catch into the fisherman’s troll. Sometimes, I’d earn a dollar or two in tips, which I’d tuck into my saltwater-soaked cotton shorts. I never seemed to dry off at the bait camp, always getting splashed by the tanks or shoveling ice into the display coolers. Lunch breaks were spent on the back deck, overlooking the bay as I ate my sandwich and a bag of Funyuns—my favorite snack back then. My duties included cleaning and turning the live bait tanks, removing dead shrimp to keep everything fresh, and repacking ice to preserve fish, crabs, squid, and other seafood for sale.

I remember every once in awhile ringing up customers and standing next to the store manager who was a seasoned baitcamp manager, he was tall, large in size, overweight but had strong hands that looked used and scarred from years of handling the tools of fisherman trade, he smelled like the ocean not stinky, more like a sweaty unshowered scent but not pleasant and had a foul mouth, the likes to make even a sailor blush, I am sure I learned things I was not supposed to know as a pre-teen, the tells of fisherman some true, some tragic about being on a boat, catching and not catching and the ups and downs with the whiles of their women. I would pretend to be working nearby and keep my hands on the tasks. Still, my ears perked as I eavesdropped on that old man as he talked to the regulars who came into the bait shop over a cigarette and what seemed like a bottomless pot of coffee, sipped enthusiastically from a styrofoam cup. The Texas Gulf Coast was renowned for its exceptional fishing and seafood, and those early days at the bait camp were my first taste of real maritime experience.

Whether I was hauling heavy boxes of shrimp and fish off the boats, shoveling ice, or learning the rhythms of tides and weather from seasoned fishermen, I was immersed in the realities of life by the water. Those long days instilled a deep respect for hard labor, forged my strength and resilience, and prepared me for the demanding amphibious training I would one day face as a Marine.

Together in the struggle, 

Brian