The crisp air around the salt pond is autumnal. Jaime Boyle stands silhouetted against the first flecks of the rising sun tending to the 1992 Hewes skiff that’s been outfitted for his use in the briny waters around Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. He’s not a tall or imposing man, but his shoulder-length blond hair and broad smile break through any pretense that one might bring to this fishery.
“Wish the wind was better and it wasn’t so cold,” he says as we load the skiff and back it down an “unimproved” island ramp.
“Might warm up this week,” I say, trying to make a good impression. He nods and shrugs, and I realize that it’s all right with him either way. The day has started, and there’s a breathy feeling of ease around me. The long drive, the lack of sleep, the problems I left in New Jersey don’t exist now. But I would come to realize that this is how most people feel around Boyle. And in my head, I recall freshman chemistry class and the laws of gases. Pressure is inversely proportional to volume.
Pressure: that stuff that eats away at our better selves; those twinges of doubt that ruin good fishing trips; the self-imposed exile from the moments in which we find ourselves. While not a chemist, Boyle has certainly harnessed the particles around him. My interpretation of Jaime Boyle’s Law
