The order came at 6 a.m. The BP cleanup boats were getting ready to leave. Robin Palmisano, a wiry shrimper not given to many words, was to gather his crew and drive them three hours to the Venice dock. Pronto. It wasn't the early call that bothered him; rising before the sun is second nature to men who have spent their lives trawling. It wasn't the work, which was in many ways easier than hauling shrimp out of the water. And it wasn't the money, which was good. Very good, in fact. It was just that Palmisano, like thousands of other Gulf Coast fishermen BP is paying to clean up the oil from its well offshore, is not accustomed to having a boss. 'We usually come and go as we please,' Palmisano said, gazing out at the bayou that runs past his living room window. 'We know when we got to make money, we know when we can go home early. I'm not used to all these people calling the shots.' By many accounts, including Palmisano's, BP is taking exceedingly good care of the commercial fishermen hired into its boom-laying, oil-skimming armada. But that does not mean they have to like it. Even instructions to stand idle in bad weather -- while being paid -- have been cause for grumbling. ('We could handle this,' one fisherman said last week after being grounded because of strong winds.) On this Thursday morning, Palmisano, father of three sons ages 5, 12 and 15, did as he was told. His new employer is paying $3,000 a day, seven days a week -- $90,000 a month -- for the use of his 67-foot boat, Texas Lady. That is perhaps twice what he might have made shrimping with it in a good month, before the gulf waters were closed. Now Palmisano docks it in Venice, the closest port to the BP well, and ferries his crew back and forth. He returns home while the boat is out. He watches the news. When the boat returns, he is ready to perform maintenance. Meanwhile, he waits for instructions, caged in his spacious living room. The oil company pays for the fuel and the crew of Palmisano's boat and stocks it with steak and fresh vegetables, cases of soft drinks and Gatorade. In their kitchen, the Palmisanos display a framed picture, a gift from BP, showing the Texas Lady in a swirl of fire and smoke as it assisted in a controlled burn of the oil floating on the surface near the damaged well. 'It's calming our nerves, because we paying our bills,' said Palmisano's wife, Kim, who shut down the stall she ran at a local fish market last week, having nothing to sell. 'I don't know about calming nerves,' Palmisano said. 'I'd rather be trawling.' Palmisano delivered his crew in time for the morning safety meeting at the Venice dock. But soon after returning home, his cell phone rang. The boat would not be going out until nightfall, a crew member told him. He sat silently in the overstuffed chair, hands in his lap. 'They rushed us for nothing,' he said. But it wasn't his call. 