I have a confession to make.

I cheated.

After 14 years of watching my husband crawl out of bed at some ridiculous hour of the morning to go lobster fishing, I decided it was time to see for myself what he does at his day job. His morning-noon-and-night day job.

So I monitored the weather for two weeks, waiting for the sunniest, calmest day to come my way before climbing aboard the Jacob’s Journey in Pinkneys Point, southwestern N.S.

Midway through the day my husband points out to me that this particular fishing trip doesn’t compare to the ones that last three times as long in the dead of winter, with sloppy seas and a howling wind.

Lucky for him, and me, I have a good imagination.

I approached this trip not as editor of the Sou’Wester, but instead as Greg’s wife.

Greg’s wife usually only gets up at 6:45 a.m.

Knowing instead the alarm was going off at 4 a.m. left me tossing and turning. I tend not to sleep well when I have to get up early, mainly for fear of oversleeping. During what sleep I did manage, I actually dreamt about being worried about oversleeping. Go figure.

So as we drove to the wharf the morning of May 16, all I could think about was how tired I already was – and also how I hoped today wasn’t the day I’d meet my first rogue wave.

Joining me for my first fishing trip was our youngest son Justin who had the day off from school. This was actually his second trip lobster fishing. Almost six and he’s already an old salt.

While there was little activity in the houses we passed on our way to the wharf, the same couldn’t be said at our final destination. Crews scurried on boats with engines running, lights lit, ropes being untied and bait being bagged.

The rest of our crew arrived about 15 minutes after us. My father-in-law Henry Surette nearly fell over when he saw his grandson.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he said laughing, as another generation of Surettes prepared to head out to sea.

At 5 a.m. we pull away from the wharf, past a vessel named the Penny Pincher. So far, so good I think to myself. We haven’t sunk.

About 45 minutes later I see my first lobster trawl being hauled up. (At this point I should probably clarify. While I tell people I “went fishing,” really the crew went fishing and I stood there taking pictures, asking questions and being in the way.) The pace of the work is fast and furious as 100-pound traps are pulled onboard, the empty bait bags are pulled out, the small lobsters are thrown into the water and the others are set aside to be measured.

The whole time I’m standing there I’m constantly checking my feet. The last thing I want to see is rope wrapped around my ankle as the pots are shot back into the water with me attached to them.

After the first trawl plunges back into the water – without me I’m glad to say – my husband measures and bands the lobsters while his crewmember Alan Saulnier prepares the bait for the next string of pots they’ll haul aboard. With 28 trawls to pull, or 400 traps, it’s a scene that repeats itself again and again.

Too repetitious for my liking, I think to myself. Which is probably why I’m the only person who seems to care about the sunrise taking place on the horizon.

I guess in this business when you’ve seen one sunrise, you’ve seen them all. Kind of like how I was feeling about the 15th lobster trawl into our trip, although I was truly amazed by how much work takes place on a fishing boat before the majority of us get up for the day.

The day goes on. My husband seems pleased with their catch for the day. I’m pleased that I haven’t gotten seasick. And Justin is pleased with just about everything that’s gone on today, particularly since he got to eat pizza at 6:10 a.m.

“That’s for lunch,” I had told him. To which he said, “Well, the sun’s up.”

Okay, so I wasn’t the only one who took note of the sunrise.

“Did you catch more lobsters than it cost you in fuel today?” I ask my husband at the end of the day. The cost of fuel is turning out to be a real back breaker this year. He tells me they came out ahead. If he’s happy, I’m happy.

We arrive at the wharf around 1 p.m. – marking the near end of our eight-hour day. I’m so tired I actually feel like I’m in some zombie state floating outside my body.

How does my husband do this everyday, I wonder? How does any fisherman? They’ve certainly earned my new found respect.

Because if they need help eating the lobsters, I’m there. But when they’re out catching them, I’ll be home in bed.