Guest Column: Remembering Alfred Osgood, Vinalhaven

I remember as a kid reading about Chuck Yeager, the legendary test pilot who, among other accomplishments, was the first to break the sound barrier in 1947 and went on to oversee the training of astronauts who flew in NASA’s space programs.

David Osgood, Alfred, and David's son Stephen holding his son Deacon, with Alfred's 36' Starlight Express. B. Robbins photo.

Yeager may have been a hotshot pilot with superhuman reflexes, but you’d never know it by his radio voice. His laid-back super-casual drawl — even at 800-plus mph — became the epitome of cool, to the point where his fellow pilots began mimicking his style in radio conversation. Eventually, the airwaves were full of Chuck Yeager soundalikes, which I suppose was a tribute to the man they were imitating, consciously or not.

We had our own version of the Chuck Yeager syndrome here on the Maine coast years ago. I stood many a late-night wheel watch (either headed out on or coming back from an offshore lobster trip) listening to the purse seine fleet on the VHF, when we were close enough to the mainland to hear them.

Sure, there were exceptions, but an awful lot of the conversations featured a distinctive way of talking with a unique cadence to the patter: long, drawn-out vowels and the letter "s" super-slurred – whether it was at the beginning of a word or tucked in the middle; words repeated in a sing-song fashion, with the string usually sped up and then slowed wayyyy down; the overall pitch of the voices ranging from deep bass to a high soprano, often in a single sentence.

Trying to describe those voices in written words to someone who never heard them is probably an exercise in futility. But, if you know, you know ... and perhaps you know who the Chuck Yeager of that purse seine fleet was, the man whose voice they were all trying to emulate.

Alfred Osgood of Vinalhaven, Maine.

Alfred S. Osgood, June 30, 1943-August 14, 2026. B. Robbins photo.

I can’t tell you when I first met Alfred Osgood, but I’m pretty sure it was back in the 1970s and I would’ve been with my brother Stevie ... and chances are good we might’ve been over around Billings Diesel in Stonington ... and if it had been aboard the sardine carrier Pauline, down in the fo’c’sle with Henry and The Swede and maybe even a bottle of rum, I wouldn’t be shocked.

By that time, Alfred was already known as a “herring whisperer” — possessing uncanny powers when it came to tracking the little buggers, often pulling off sets with a purse seine in situations that others wouldn’t even attempt. There were things Alfred did that others might consider reckless; he possessed the talent to back up the dare.

And it wasn’t limited to chasing herring. Alfred was a highliner lobsterman as well.

I remember a period in the late ‘70s/early ‘80s when his Starlight of the moment (that one was a 46’ Jarvis Newman; he had a string of vessels named Starlight before a series of super-fast lobster boats dubbed Starlight Express came along) was rigged so she could go from seining to offshore lobstering without a lot of fuss.

During that time, Alfred would put in a string of nights/days purse seining, then steam out to tend lobster gear off where we were at the time (Jordan Basin and down in the 160-180 fathom portions of Crowell Basin) where he’d haul through, run back home, and go out after another shutoff of herring. It all sounds pretty good, but you might have noticed: there’s not much mention of sleep there.

That was the thing: Alfred was a driver — a hellish hard worker who didn’t just give orders; he set a pace that you had to admire, even if you couldn’t keep up with it.

But throughout it all, he was Alfred. Big Al. AO. That laid-back, sing-song, drawled-out voice on the VHF: “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh ... I guessssssssssss so; I guess so; I guess so. We’ll probably give it a try and sssssssee what happens.”

I’ve heard over the years there were many, many 9-volt flashlights that took a beating when a set on a body of fish went sideways, but we weren’t around for any of that. I only know that Alfred was great to share lobster bottom with off outside. I only knew him to be humble despite his successes and his drive was absolutely matched by his humor.

And, yeah. When I was 20, I thought he was pretty damn cool, too.

After we printed the final issue of Commercial Fisheries News last November, I received many calls, cards, letters, and messages from folks supporting the decision while mourning CFN’s end. It was pretty overwhelming; still is.

Included in the mix was a voicemail from Alfred.

“Hallooooooooo!” it began, in classic AO fashion.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you for everything over the past years and I hate – hate – to think of this 'no more paper' ... but ... what can you do? I agree with you completely that there comes a time when tah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah ... so ... anywayyyy ...

“I’m some proud of you — proud of you as I can possibly be — for what you’ve done over the years. It’s a wonderful thing.

“But I hate — hate — oh, don’t I hate to see it go, but there’s not much we can do about that; there comes a time, like you say. Anywayyyy, if you see the Prince — Dickie Bridges — tell him I agree with every word he said in that article you did with him a while back. What a super job.”

And then Alfred’s voice leveled out, in a solemn tone I’d never heard in my 50-something years of knowing him.

“Okay ... okay, Bri ... love you ... and thanks again. Appreciate it, really. Bye.”

When I went out to Vinalhaven back in late April to sit down with Alfred, his son David, and David’s son Stephen to talk about lobster boat racing for a project, I had no idea it would be the last time I’d see Alfred.

I’m so damn thankful that, just before I left to ride back across the bay to Rockland with David, Alfred and I had a few minutes alone ... and I had the chance to tell him how much his message meant to me, among other things.

Give ‘em flowers while they can smell ‘em.