Salt, Sunrises, and Surrender: Inside My First Lobster Season

The first morning the sun cracked over the horizon, the air was thick with salt and anticipation.

I was cold. Excited. Wide awake in a way that only a 3:45 a.m. alarm can make you.

My new oil gear was still clean then, not yet crusted with saltwater or carrying that unmistakable scent of bait and fish.

That morning marked the beginning of a brand-new season of life.

One that pulled me far away from laptop screens and meeting agendas… and much closer to tides, weather, and the rhythm of the ocean.

I never imagined trading client calls for ocean calls.

But here I am.

And this season has been teaching me more about life than any office ever did.

The Reality of Lobster Season

Lobster season begins long before sunrise.

My alarm goes off at 3:45 a.m., just early enough to eat breakfast, layer up, and get to the wharf by 4:30.

Before we even untie the ropes, there’s work to do.

Bait needs cutting.
Gear needs organizing.
The engine needs time to warm up.

By the time we push off from the harbour, the world is still asleep.

The sky is pitch black except for the deck lights and the faint glow of morning beginning somewhere far beyond the horizon.

There’s something surreal about being awake and working when most people are still dreaming.

At first, it’s sensory overload.

The steady pull of the hauler lifting traps.
The smell of bait and salt air.
The rhythm of the boat rising and falling with the waves.

And then there’s the physical side of it.

After years of working at a desk or sitting around boardroom tables, fishing has been a huge adjustment.

Hauling traps is real, physical work. I’ve had to learn how to pace myself, protect my back, and pay attention to my body in ways I never needed to before.

Some days it feels like a full-body workout that lasts for hours.

Learning Respect for the Ocean

And then there’s Mother Nature.

My first lobster season turned out to be one of the roughest weather years many of the older fishermen could remember.

The wind would cut straight through my jacket while waves crashed over the bow, sending spray across the deck.

Those days, my heart would pound a little harder.

Because the ocean demands respect.

When the weather becomes too dangerous, we stay tied up in the harbour.

But lobster season only lasts two months, and those decisions carry weight. Every fishing day matters. Every day represents income for the crew and progress for the season.

I’ve watched my dad weigh that decision countless times.

Safety versus opportunity.

Even now, after several seasons, I’m still learning something new every day.

Some mornings I wish I were home, warm and dry with a cup of coffee.

But then the sun rises.

The sky turns shades of pink and orange, the water catches the light, and suddenly the exhaustion fades into awe.

Sometimes I’ll pause mid-haul just to snap a photo.

If you follow me on Instagram, you’ve probably seen those sunrise shots.

What you don’t see are the numb fingers holding the phone or the salt spray tangled in my hair.

From Boardrooms to Rubber Boots

One of the biggest changes has been the shift from the polished world of corporate life to the raw reality of working on the water.

My old routine involved business clothes, styled hair, and makeup.

Now?

My morning routine is mostly just sunscreen.

My closet has transformed from heels and blazers to wool socks, hoodies, and rubber boots.

And honestly, it’s freeing.

Out here, nobody cares what you look like.

The only thing that matters is that you show up ready to work.

The exhaustion from a day on the water feels completely different from the exhaustion I used to feel after long days in the corporate world.

That exhaustion was mental.

This one is physical.

And there’s something surprisingly satisfying about that.

Fishing has its own rhythm.

You haul.
You bait.
You reset the trap.
And repeat.

Over time, it becomes almost meditative.

But there’s still a mental side to it.

You’re constantly scanning the waves, reading the wind, and watching the weather. Fishing is strategy mixed with instinct.

Fishing Beside My Dad

One of the most meaningful parts of this experience has been sharing the season with my dad.

My brother grew up fishing alongside him. I didn’t.

But now, as an adult, I’ve stepped into the world that shaped so much of our family’s life.

Watching my dad work on the boat is something special.

He moves around the deck like the boat is an extension of himself. He reads the wind before it shifts and notices subtle changes in the water most people would miss.

He’s been doing this for more than fifty years.

And when he watches me work beside him now, I can see the pride in his eyes.

One of his favorite jokes lately is that I’m the best man he’s ever had working on his boat.

I’m proud to be a fifth-generation fisher.

It feels like carrying forward a legacy that has weathered storms, shifting economies, and thousands of sunrises.

Unlike my old corporate job, where success often lived inside spreadsheets or strategy decks, fishing gives you immediate feedback.

At the end of the day, you unload the catch and see the lobsters shining in the bins.

The result of the day’s effort is right there in front of you.

It’s honest work.

The Ocean’s Biggest Lesson: Letting Go of Control

Every day on the water is different.

You can plan your route, check the forecast, prepare the gear… and still have the day unfold completely differently than expected.

One morning might feel calm and predictable.

The next could bring a sudden wind shift or a mechanical issue that changes everything.

This past season we even got stuck at sea for hours because the tide dropped too low to safely navigate back through our channel.

We could see the shoreline.

We just couldn’t reach it.

So we waited.

Rocking with the waves and watching the harbour we couldn’t get into.

It was a pretty clear reminder of something the ocean teaches again and again:

You are not in control.

You can plan.
You can prepare.
But you cannot control the tide.

And that lesson reaches far beyond fishing.

It applies to business, relationships, and life itself.

When I left the corporate world, I thought freedom meant having control over my schedule and outcomes.

What I’ve learned instead is that real freedom often comes from learning how to flow.

Trusting that when the tide pulls you back, it might be setting you up for the next wave forward.

Sometimes I’ll stand on the deck feeling the boat rise and fall with the swell and realize something simple.

That rhythm is life.

We’re all just trying to find balance between effort and ease.

Between holding on and letting go.

Finding Your Own Rhythm

This season has reminded me that growth doesn’t always happen in constant motion.

Sometimes it happens in the quiet spaces.

In the silence after the engine cuts.

In the moment before sunrise.

In the steady rhythm of waves against the hull.

If you’re stepping into a new season of life, or letting go of something that no longer fits, I hope this story reminds you of something important.

You don’t have to control everything.

Sometimes the tide knows where you need to go before you do.

Listen to the Episode

In this episode of Tides of Change, I’m taking you behind the sunrises you see on Instagram and into the real rhythm of lobster season.

We talk about:

• What the early mornings of lobster fishing actually look like

• The physical reality of working on the water

• Fishing alongside my dad and continuing our family’s legacy

• The unexpected lessons the ocean teaches about control and surrender

🎧 Listen to the full episode here on Spotify or Apple

A Question for You

What season of life are you in right now?

Are you pushing hard toward something new?

Or learning how to slow down and let things unfold?

I’d love to hear your story. Come share it with me on Instagram @julieann.gauthier

Until next time…

Stay curious.
Stay grounded.
And keep listening for the rhythm beneath it all.