They go out alone, before sunrise, in all kinds of weather. And sometimes, they don’t come back.
A string of recent fatalities along the Maine coast has put a grim spotlight on one of the most dangerous occupations in the country — lobstering. Within a span of weeks, at least five fishermen lost their lives on the water, their boats found running unattended, circling in empty bays, or beached against rocky shores. Each death tells its own story. Together, they tell something larger.
A Boat With No One at the Helm
Thomas West, 63, of Steuben, Maine, was last seen aboard his 35-foot lobster boat, Aces and Eights. Local fishermen spotted the vessel running with no one aboard around 9 p.m. on the night of April 21. Marine Patrol crews launched a search using a remotely operated vehicle, but low visibility forced them to suspend operations at 2:30 a.m. By 6 o’clock the next morning, family members found West’s body in the water of Dyer Bay. His remains were transferred to a relative’s fishing vessel and sent to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Augusta, as documented by the National Fisherman. The Aces and Eights was still running when crews arrived — a detail that, for anyone who works the water, carries a particular kind of weight.
It’s a scenario that has repeated itself with unsettling frequency. An empty boat. A missing man. A search that ends the wrong way.
Natural Causes, Unnatural Setting
Not every death involves the sea swallowing someone whole. Robert Staples, 78, of North Haven, was found unresponsive aboard his 40-foot lobster boat Legacy, which had been circling in rough waters off Rockland Harbor. Rescue crews boarded the moving vessel and found Staples already gone. The state Medical Examiner ruled he died of natural causes, according to a report from the Pen Bay Pilot. Still, the image of that boat tracing slow, driverless circles in the chop is hard to shake. At 78, Staples was still out there doing what he’d presumably done for decades. That’s not a cautionary tale — that’s a life.
Witnesses Couldn’t Stop It
Then there’s the case that might be the hardest to sit with. Scott Chandler, 51, of West Jonesport, went overboard from his 20-foot lobster boat Marie Louise II near Hopkins Point — and people saw it happen. Jeff Nichols, a spokesman for the Maine Department of Marine Resources, confirmed the grim sequence of events: “Chandler was seen falling off his 20-foot lobster boat near the island at approximately 9:20 a.m. Tuesday… by commercial seaweed harvesters in the area who reported the incident.” His body was recovered approximately 200 yards away, near Doyle Island. Witnesses. A Tuesday morning. Two hundred yards. That’s how fast the ocean works.
Youngest of the Fallen
How young is too young to be out there alone? Tylar Michaud was 18 years old, from Steuben — the same small coastal town as Thomas West. He went missing while tending lobster traps near Petit Manan Island. His body was eventually found seven miles away off Addison and identified by the state medical examiner. Eighteen years old. He was barely getting started.
Lobstering is often passed down through families — fathers to sons, sometimes sons to fathers. For many coastal Maine communities, it’s not just a job. It’s an identity. Which makes incidents like Michaud’s death something that a community feels in its bones, not just in its headlines.
Another Boat. Another Empty Wheelhouse.
A lobsterman identified only as Ciomei was found dead in Jericho Bay after his son reported him missing. His 36-foot lobster boat, the Chelsea Lynn, was discovered aground with its engine still running — a detail that’s become a grim motif across these cases. The account from WHDH offered few additional details, and perhaps that’s fitting. Some of these stories don’t come with explanations. The boat is there. The man isn’t.
A Dangerous Living, By the Numbers
Commercial fishing consistently ranks among the most lethal occupations in the United States, with fatality rates that dwarf nearly every other industry. Maine’s lobster fleet is the backbone of the state’s fishing economy — worth hundreds of millions of dollars annually — and it runs largely on individual fishermen working solo, often in cold water, often in the dark. There are no co-workers to call for help. No safety net, literal or otherwise.
That said, regulation and safety culture in the industry have improved significantly over the decades. Emergency position-indicating radio beacons, survival suits, and better vessel monitoring have all saved lives. But the sea doesn’t care about improvements. It’s patient in a way that people aren’t.
Five men. Five boats. One coast. The lobsters are still out there, and so are the fishermen who go after them — before sunrise, alone, in all kinds of weather.
