Exploration

slow boat to Kenai

2008-08-08T16:42:18Z

It's light outside 20 hours a day in Kenai, AK in July. This is good for those of us with the 20 hour work-day. Commercial fishing periods are generally open for drift-netters on certain days from 7AM until 7PM, which means we'll get up around 3AM to head out to the fishing grounds, and by the time we've delivered the fish and cleaned the boat, it's 10 or 11 o'clock at night. But by comparison to a lot of other fisheries, drift-netting salmon in Cook Inlet is pretty easy. It's a very clean fishery, no by-catch, no heavy gear, no complicated hydraulics, almost no electronics, just a slow boat and a short net. We set and pick, set and pick, dozens of times a day, snaring a few hundred here and a few hundred there, trying to make a day out of it. It used to be a very lucrative fishery. In 1991 the cash buyers were paying as much as $3.15/lb. and 10,000 pound days were common. This summer the price topped out at $1.15 and 10,000 pound days are unheard of. Don't get me started on the cost of fuel. Anyway, "for the money" is a bad reason to be in commercial fishing. So we do some hiking and some clam-digging, play golf and go to baseball games, bar-hopping in Seward and Homer, campfires, horseshoe tournaments, and fresh grilled wild Alaskan salmon every night. Not a bad way to spend the summer.

toughness has a soul

2008-02-24T15:58:36Z

The inaugural Fisher Poets Gathering happened in Astoria, OR in 1998 with a few dozen people from the local area crammed into a little meeting hall, reading their scribbles to each other over coffee and cake. Last weekend, the 11th Annual Fisher Poets Gathering kicked off on Friday evening with a fancy reception at the Events Center. Over the next day and a half, fishermen and artists from the Great Northwest, California, Alaska, and as far away as Florida, and Cape Cod, MA participated in workshops, presentations, gallery showings, storytelling, boat tours, and open mic's at a half-dozen venues all over downtown. The Maritime Museum, Hanthorn Cannery, and local fishermen opened their doors for people to get a little history lesson as well as their hands dirty. A few of the more accomplished artists conducted workshops to assist those aspiring writers and musicians. Poetry readings, funny anecdotes, and short songs carried the evening programs at the Columbian Theater and the Wet Dog Cafe, and the R-rated material lit-up latenight at the VooDoo Lounge. It was standing room only anywhere you went and impossible to find a person who wasn't impressed with the Gathering. Of course, some of the stories and some of the performers were more practiced and polished than others, but everyone spoke from the heart, and the camaraderie and sense of community were really the best things the weekend inspired. There aren't any prizes, awards, book deals, or television shows waiting at the end of the Gathering, just the satisfaction of sharing something meaningful. One fisherman from Alaska related how his fishing buddies depend on his stories and poems for a sense of comfort. When fishing is slow, the weather is bad, and they've been out by themselves for so long they're starting to lose it, they get on the radio and ask him for a bit of consolation/entertainment. Fishing is demanding, rough, dangerous, hardcore...whatever. But its essence is buried in the depths of the subtle and powerful, romantic rhythms of nature. Fisher Poets strive to capture the humanness of this enterprise, to shed layers of toughness, stubbornness, loneliness, and greed, and reveal the soul. And anyone can relate to that.

The Crazy List

2008-02-02T01:44:09Z

if i meet someone who is unfamiliar with commercial fishing, or with the ocean in general, and the topic of my livelihood arises, i can usually count on being queried about three particular subjects. you can probably guess what they are. first of all, there's the "Deadliest Catch", and have i ever done that fishery, what do i think of the show, and so on. well, i've never fished for king crab, nor do i have any intention of ever fishing for king crab. that fishery takes the risk/reward scenario to the extreme. a guy who worked on the boat right next to mine here in Oregon went up there for opilio crab this year and he'll pocket 15 or 20 grand for a couple months work. he'll also be coming home with fingers numbering nine. would you sell one of your fingers for 15K? of course, accidents can happen anytime, anywhere, but the odds jump tremendously in that type of work environment, and personally, i'll pass. but the show is interesting, primarily, i think, because the main character, the weather, is so dynamic and unpredictable. it's certainly the best "reality" show on television.

secondly, there's "The Perfect Storm", and what did i think of the movie, and is it realistic, and so on. well, i think it was a good movie and i like watching it. of course, whatever really happened aboard the Andrea Gail at the end is unknown, and the movie is completely unrealistic in its portrayal of some of the events, but it's a Hollywood production so i don't get hung up on that. i'm grateful for the exposure the film gave to the commercial industry and i'm glad that the men who lost their lives will be remembered and thought of by more people than their family and friends.

the third question is my favorite: what is the craziest thing you've ever seen out there? it used to amuse me that people thought that "crazier" things happened off-shore than on land, and i couldn't respond satisfactorily. but then i thought that maybe it's just my experience has given me a different frame of reference. i mean, from one person to the next, the respective definition of "crazy" is probably going to change. so people are just curious about the mysterious, the unknown, no problem with that. i started thinking about all the times i'd wished i had a camera, or laughed uncontrollably, or just been completely dumbfounded, or whatever. i've started racking my memory to develop...The Crazy List.

-a bald eagle swooped down and snatched the skipper's little pet dog off the bow.

-a huge sea lion followed the drag net up the stern ramp of the boat and right on deck, chasing a meal. it takes four guys with shovels several minutes to get that mean bastard off of there.

-the drag net comes over the side just bulging, bursting with the mother lode. the mate rips the cord and onto the deck bounce four of the most humungous tractor tires ever known to man, all chained together...and about six fish.

-other drag net contents: a television, that folding door off a schoolbus, kitchen appliances, an airplane wing, and an unexploded missile.

-the crew of a huge oil tanker summon a little gillnet boat over to the side and drops a line. the gillnetter hooks up a big, fat salmon and sends dinner up to the crew.

-a guy stands on the back deck of his drift boat, waving nonchalantly at passers-by as he blasts an AK-47 at sea lions eating the salmon out of his gillnet.

-a guy has trouble with ruthless fishermen poaching his pots. early one morning he finds a dead body floating. he fishes the body out of the water and props it up in the stern of his boat with a shotgun stuck under its arm, and fishes the whole day. he has no more trouble with poachers.

-a 15-foot mako shark circles the boat for a few minutes. the crew stays away from the rail and worries about what he might be considering.

-isopods are caught in deep-water crab pots, about 2,000 feet below the surface. they look like an alien cross between a giant cockroach and an armadillo, and they smell horrendous. a mate brings one home and, in a state of inexplicable drunkenness, stuffs it in the toilet at the bar. the next day it's pictured on the front page of the local paper and the mate, now in a state of inexplicable ire, exclaims "hey, that's my isopod!"

-a massive wave rolls the boat to such a severe angle that a mate is literally catapulted from his work station into the sea.

-the longline slips from the hauling block and starts dragging a pot across the deck. the mate standing at the rail can't quite jump out of the way in time and the pot smashes into him and shot-puts him into the sea.

-fish that inflate themselves to the size of basketballs as a defense mechanism, big fish with the tails of smaller fish sticking out of their mouths, ugly, monstrous, slimy, spiky, grotesque fish, and smooth, handsome, colorful, beautiful fish, poisonous fish, and a fish that might be the tastiest thing on the planet.

-in a squall, hundreds of small, brightly colored birds seek shelter in the cabin of a fishing boat. the mate on watch can't concentrate as they flutter all about and their tiny feet tickle his head and shoulders.

-on a trip across the Gulf of Mexico the mate gets the weird feeling that he should check the engine room again, even though he just checked it a little while earlier. sure enough, the bell housing on the raw water pump has split and the ocean is pouring into the engine room, about to submerge the oil pan and drown the engine. disaster is narrowly averted.

-a huge container ship runs directly at a little fishing boat, with zero regard for the fact that the fishing boat has the right of way. the container ship does not respond to radio calls on any channel. last-second, evasive maneuvers by the fishing vessel save the lives of its captain and crew.

-a novice fisherman runs his boat at top speed to set his net. he tears both out-drives off his boat and beaches himself on the sandbar, which he'd mistaken for a great school of fish.

-a sixty-pound king salmon wrestles a 160-pound man over the rail and into the sea.

this is just off the top of my head. perhaps there will be another list at some point. but i still think the Grand Canyon is the craziest thing i've ever seen.

published!

2008-01-27T00:05:09Z

check out my first published article, "How to Get Work on an Alaska Fishing Boat", at www.thetravelersnotebook.com. got me $25 for that sucker. now i can go to Subway!

"the more things change..."

2008-01-26T23:52:39Z

this rainy afternoon(it rains here MORE than reputed) was spent at the Columbia River Maritime Museum. it's kind of small but it's loaded. the Columbia is an amazing natural resource, and its ebb and flow really shaped the development of the region, from the timber industry, to shipping and trade, and of course, fishing. the museum's exhibits feature short and entertaining anecdotes which accompany striking pictures and paintings, fascinating artifacts, and detailed, large-scale models, as well as the decommissioned Lighthouse Ship which served as a huge floating navigational aid/haven from the weather before technology rendered it superfluous. as the museum tells the stories behind the growth of the area, one understands that a river like the Columbia is not merely a natural force, but a political and economic one as well.

the thing that struck me the most, however, was recognizing the true essence of the phrase, 'the more things change, the more they stay the same'. technology is the massive vehicle of change. communication is much faster, harvesting techniques more advanced, production methods more efficient, everything is bigger, faster, stronger. but contention between people over certain things exists today exactly as it did 130 years ago. i read newspaper clippings and other historical documents from as far back as 1880 which chronicled the 'buzz issues' of the time as the Columbia evolved: immigrant labor, preservation vs. exploitation, and the fight for fair market value. it was Chinese, now it's Mexican. it was homesteaders vs. loggers, now it's real estate developers vs. historical society. it's still fishermen vs. canneries, but now it's over $2 instead of a nickel. who knows how the issues will change in the next 100 years, but it's safe to say the fighting will be the same.

another constant issue particular to the Columbia is vessel safety. the small area around the entrance to the Columbia River, where powerful river currents smash into high winds and heavy seas and create shallow, shifting sand bars, has been named the Graveyard of the Pacific. since 1792, over 2,000 vessels have gone down and over 700 people have lost their lives. the conditions insist that the Coast Guard maintains a relatively intense presence around the Columbia River bar, and a section of the museum is dedicated to their great efforts.

i got an unexpected little treat while i was there, as a SeaGrant researcher gave a little presentation on some of the wild and strange fish he's encountered over his years of study around the country. i learned that seahorses are monogamous, squid communicate by changing color, and one little predator actually electrocutes its prey. it was pretty cool. and it made me think about some of the unusual things i've seen during my offshore experience. which gave me the subject for my next blog. all in all, quite a worthwhile afternoon.

weather & whiskey: a fisherman's tale

2008-01-12T19:42:15Z

the dungeness crabs in Oregon have caught a break this year. we haven't been able to do that much fishing so far this season. we've been plagued by the worst weather anyone can remember out here. it started with the typhoon that hit on the second day of december destroying many people's homes and essentially stranding thousands more with road closures and power outages. while i feel fortunate to come out of the ordeal unscathed, the cost of this event to us fisherman is huge. once the seas calmed down and the businesses got back up and running we were able to go fishing, but we could only locate a fraction of our pots. the wave surge was so severe that a lot of our gear was simply carried off at mother nature's whim. i was told that the weather buoy measured a swell of 72 feet before it got wiped out and ceased transmitting. we've since gotten calls from fishermen as far as thirty miles away reporting the discovery of our pots. unbelievable. and the worst part is that the crabs were there. when we pulled the pots that we did manage to find they were all stuffed with crabs, forty, fifty, sixty pounds per pot. unfortunately, by this time they were mostly dead, just a disgusting waste. although you can't really say that you "lost" something that you never actually had, i figure that little blow cost me, conservatively, 10K. and i'm the lowest guy on the totem pole. on top of the opportunity cost is the real cost to the owner in the form of lost pots, line, and buoys, hundreds of thousands of dollars altogether. it can be maddening for the most important variable of the industry to be completely beyond our control, but that's the chance we take when we make the choice to be fishermen. the debate rages as to whether or not we should receive government subsidies. personally i'm opposed to the idea, just like i don't think agriculture or other industries should get the big bail out either. anyway, things have only marginally improved since then. it's frustrating because on days that we are able to go fishing we do quite well, those days are just too far in between. and even moderate success causes a whole new set of concerns for some captains. the mate on the boat next to mine is called Butterbean because he looks like the mini-me version of that big bald boxer. well as long as Butterbean was broke he was the best mate on the planet. but as soon as he got his fat fingers on some whiskey coupons the guy went underground and his skipper's been grumbling about him every morning since. i've known some skippers who essentially kept their crew broke until the end of the season to ensure that they didn't disappear. and i've known one crewman who got fed up with the practice and came one night and burned the boat to the waterline. it's a sad but true commentary on some of the characters in the industry, and i think that the often outlandish circumstances of the business is what ignites many people's profound curiosity.

Keys Disease or American Dream

2007-11-21T12:38:40Z

Yordy Martinez and six other people left Cuba one summer night on a poorly constructed raft. Even mild seas regularly capsized their craft. By the second night they had lost almost all of their provisions and one soul. Not long after another older woman succumbed to exposure and dehydration. On the ninth day of the ordeal the remaining refugees reached Summerland Key and a new beginning. That was 1994.
A sickness exists in the Keys called Keys Disease where the notable laissez-faire attitude of the Keys allows a lazy person to become a sloppy, useless, unproductive member of the community. It's almost acceptable to drink and do not much else. I don't know if risking your life to escape social oppression makes one immune to such a sickness, but today, only thirteen years removed, Yordy is living the American Dream better than a lot of Americans I know. He and his gorgeous Costa Rican wife and their two lively young children have just moved into their brand new three-bedroom house that Yordy is finishing himself on Big Coppitt Key. He owns a boat and runs a small business, commercial fishing for lobster and stone crab from August through May. He takes time off in the summer to spend with his family and work on his boat and his gear. He operates entirely under one general premise: keep things simple and work like a motherf&#%er.
On this day we leave to the dock before 7AM. It takes less than twenty minutes to reach the first line of traps. With the sun still crawling over the horizon, crawfish fill the crate. Yordy and two other men crew the boat. The shallow water allows them to haul and set a trawl at the same time. As one trap reaches the rail, the previous trap is pushed off the stern. Enough line is tied between the traps to allow it to be emptied, cleaned, and re-baited before the line comes taut and pulls the next trap back over the stern into the ocean. Meanwhile, the next trap has been pulled to the rail and awaits tending. All of this means that the crew can pull over 500 pots in about six hours. On this day we're heading to the dock around 1:30 PM with 600 pounds of crawfish on board. The price is just over $7/pound right now. You do the math.
Of course it isn't always like this. But this is where Yordy's philosophy prevails. When the industry was really booming several years back, he denied greed and refused to over-leverage himself the way a lot of guys did. He made less money in the short run, but he kept the pressure off and was able to survive when the fishing dropped off a few seasons later. He's one of the few operations left with a firm foothold in the industry. Even the encroaching condominiums and resorts that presumable threaten his existence don't faze the kid. In fact, a sly little smile crosses his face when I mention it.
"All ah den rich people, they likey eatey the longosta."
Yes. Yes, they do.
We get back to the dock just after 2PM. Yordy gives me twelve lobster tails out of sheer kindness and generosity. I want to talk with Yordy a bit longer, to absorb some more of his vibrant spirit, but he has other plans. "Brah, I needey go ang workey on my house."
Of course.
And off he goes to bust his ass and be a hero, just living the American Dream.

the price of progress

2007-11-09T18:56:21Z

the commercial fishing fleet in Key West used to be based right downtown, conveniently servicing the bars, shops, and restaurants that cater to the tourist traffic there. but now fancy marinas, hotels, and resorts dominate the downtown waterfront and the crawfishermen and longliners have been pushed over the Cow Key Channel Bridge to Stock Island. I beat the docks the other day to try to find a site and get the word on the street. guys are sweating, and not just from the heat and humidity. hurricane Wilma blew through two years ago and significant aspects of the local economy have been seriously struggling since. people with meager means were forced to simply leave. people with medium means, including many commercial fishermen, are hanging by a thread. the price of lobster is up, but no one came seem to find any in any abundance. and they boys can see the conglomerates' shadow looming on the horizon. the latest rumor is for two massive concrete piers to be demolished, displacing dozens of vessels and making way for a massive resort/condo complex. I should be fishing by next week and learn the real deal from the boys in the trenches.

tiny revelations

2007-10-08T03:29:23Z

I'm in Astoria, OR for a couple of weeks of gear work to prepare for Dungeness crab fishing season. I just got off the Providence Wednesday afternoon, left Kodiak at 8 PM, and landed in Portland at 6 AM. I was psyched to drive straight out to Astoria and get to work, but my boss told me that he wouldn't be ready for me until the next day. For the first time in a long time, I had a day in front of me with nothing to do. This got me thinking, 'how many days in a row have I worked'? The answer, tracking back to June first, is 126. I would like to say, 'and counting', but that option kind of got taken out of my hands. So I'll have to start a new streak. The other day I bought my ticket to Florida for the end of the month. I catch the red-eye across the country, leaving on a Monday night and arriving on Tuesday morning, so I can keep the continuity for that jump. So now I'm thinking, 'how many days in a row can I work'? I figure I'm easily covered until Thanksgiving, when whoever I'm working with will probably want the day off and I expect even the day labor place will be closed. Plus, since I work primarily outside, I'm bound to run into a 'weather day' here at some point. So it's going to demand some creativity and planning to surpass the number I've already established, but I'm very interested for it to play out, and then discover where I stand at the end, spiritually, physically, financially and all. That being said, it felt fantastic to sit at Henry's in downtown Portland and order-up plate after plate of delicious $2 happy hour appetizers and observe the attractive waitresses satellite around my fixed position at the well-conceived bar. The more social atmosphere I soaked in, the more my Alaska mission felt like a sentence. I'm very glad that this dungeness fishery is structured around day trips. Speaking of which, it took no time to get myself situated out here in Astoria. I hooked up an '89 Ford Tempo for the cost of insurance and a 23-foot Jayco trailer - affectionately known hereafter as 'the Jake' - with electric, water, sewer, and cable for $300 a month. So things are looking good after a disappointing month in Alaska. My new boat, the Melko II, looks good, and my new skipper, "Woolly" Mike, is calm and smart. So the gear work starts and I cycle back to the beginning of the fisherman's mental circle of life, nervous and excited, willing and wary, straining to figure, surmise, and anticipate something essentially unknowable. I'm realizing that I'm an incredibly hopeful person. And that I'm beginning to grow weary of such hopefulness.

                                           Astoria, OR, tucked along the Columbia River

                                                                    the new office

                                                                   new ride, new digs

The sharpest thing on the planet

2007-10-02T17:20:57Z

The sharpest thing on the planet, without question, is a brand new Victoronox fishing knife. There is no question about it. The thing will cut you to the bone from across the room. The first thing that happens when I purchase a brand new Victoronox fishing knife is that it leaps from its incompetent little plastic sheath and attacks my fingertips. It takes a moment to notice you've been cut by one of these things, like when you glance down and notice the steady stream of blood gathering around your feet and you think, 'Where is that coming from?', and then you check your hand and it's completely smeared in deep red ooze and then the fierce sting registers in your brain. A Vicky is so quick it takes your nerve endings a minute to catch up. So you wrap some electrical tape around this wound that you can't even see and now the problem is not so much the cut itself, but the fact that you're reduced to four operable digits on the one hand for the foreseeable future because Vicky cuts are loath to heal. This is how my codfish trip begins.
                                                                            ready!

Actually it begins two weeks prior with twelve-hours-a-day of gear work to get all the huge traps ready to fish. This is the unglamorous side of commercial fishing that goes unrecognized by those not familiar with the industry. The hours spent working on pumps, motors, valves, hoses, line, mesh, traps, gear, electronics, cleaning, grinding, painting - the bulk of the work for which no one earns a dime. It's a huge gamble, to hope that the relatively brief period of actual fishing will make up for all of that time spent, the incredibly gross hours of opportunity cost. The guys on deck have a hard job, true, but the skipper is the one who has all the pressure to produce, to make the sacrifice pay off for the crew, to put us on some damn fish. Otherwise he won't have a crew for very long. Not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of gear and machinery being put at risk out there on the open ocean. It's easy to understand why so many of them are rather high-strung individuals. A certain degree of catastrophe has to be expected with so many variables conspiring out there, so many chances for something to go wrong. The odds of a flawlessly productive trip are nil. If you want to avoid trouble you better just tie your boat to the dock and slap up the 'For Sale' sign.
                                                       let's see what we got!

We're 'plus four' on this trip, meaning we've got the skipper, Craig, plus me, Nate, the rookie from Colorado, Justin, the big guy from Dutch Harbor, and Loren, my old buddy from the Totem crew over in Bristol Bay. Justin and Loren have worked the Providence before and Nate has experience in some other fisheries, so we have the makings of a really good crew. So the deck is loaded with traps and line, we've got our grub, we've got our bait, and we're out. Eighteen hours to the fishing grounds. This, and the eighteen hour steam home with a boat load, is the joy of a fishing trip. The two weeks in between is a numbing blur of cold, wet, mumbling, grumbling, sleep-deprived, mild chaos. Everyone talks about quitting - except Justin, who scarcely says a word even when you ask him a direct question - and everyone continues to do their job with vigor. The weather is poor half the day, and really poor the other half. When we were on the beach we couldn't wait to leave. Now we can't wait to head home. This is the eternal cycle of a trip fisherman's life - in too deep.
                                                       a couple of twenty pounders

Anyway, we all work through our cuts and bumps and bruises and fatigue and foul weather, and eventually circumstances dictate that we head for the beach. I sleep like a big, fat, happy baby. We deliver our fish. We are unimpressed. I was going to leave Kodiak this week, but I have yet to recoup what I've invested up here. Call the airline, change the flight. Bait, fuel, grub - we're out. One more time around, echoing the wicked hope of every trip fisherman - 'this could be the one.'
                                                                    nap time

the worst criminal ever

2007-09-06T20:23:03Z

As I watched the soft red glow of my cell phone slowly curling to the depths of Kodiak Harbor, I curiously found myself feeling about as placid as the water itself. And I felt good about that, pleased with myself in a rebellious-freedom-satisfaction-type-of-way. Then I thought that it also meant that I had no one important or special enough in my life that I should feel distressed about not being able to conveniently speak with for the foreseeable future, and a mild depression settled into my chest with a considerable thunk. I always try to flip the coin. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but it does help keep a guy in check. Anyway, the tendering season is over, and I've agreed to help Craig with shipyard work as he prepares the Providence for fishing the cod season. He asked me if I want to fish with him, and I said that I was expecting to have a prior engagement. I prefer the winter weather in Florida, or at least somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line. He told me how much money I was leaving on the table. I told him I was traveling in New Zealand one time when it started to get a little chilly, I cut my trip three weeks short and left the country. My hyper-aversion to frost, snow, ice, etc. astonishes some people, seeming rather infantile I reckon. I stand by my belief that life is too short to spend cold. But for now we're off to Homer to haul the boat out, pull the props, shafts, cutlass bearings, clean and paint the bottom, weld some doublers, blah, blah, blah. The original plan was to travel to Seward for this mission, which would have been nice since I've already done Homer. But Craig changes his mind with the tides. His voice and mannerisms remain composed, but I've come to think that they decorate a roiling infrastructure. Craig does quite a bit of stream-of-consciousness talking and easily backtracks on his own sentences: "In Seward we'll get hauled out and get a first-rate job done. You can't let the boat fall apart underneath you. It'll cost more and we'll miss some fishing time, but I can't afford not to." "Yeah, well, every decision you make is going to involve some opportunity cost." "Right. But in Homer we could just beach the boat on the gravel bar, swap props, slap on some paint, and get fishing. You know, the boat doesn't make any money sitting on the rails. I've got to keep it fishing, I can't afford not to." "You could just retire and not worry about it at all." "Retire? No, this is what I do. There's this guy, though, that wants to buy this boat for $600,000 and it isn't every day you get a buyer like that come along. I better call him tonight." At this point I cease my attempts at helpfulness and humor. In this hurry-up-and-wait business the best plan often is no plan, but Craig appears to be dragging himself in too many directions at once. Every time we get to the dock he has some pressing matter to tend to in town, and has to hustle away. He often forgets something and has to backtrack his steps much the way he does his sentences. So I'm left to manage the unloading process at the cannery, pump and clean the holding tanks, reorganize the deck, and drive the boat across the harbor. Which isn't a problem, I'm glad to reduce the burden on Craig, and I was basically doing it myself even before the other deckhand left. Because Zack moves in one exclusive direction - his own. The last time we got the dock, Zack said, "The coffee shop just opened, let's go for breakfast." I stared at him, wondering how he could possibly disregard the four hours of work immediately in front of us. "No," I said. But apparently he thought I was referring only to myself with that answer, as the next time I turned around he was nowhere to be found. Backpack and skateboard, gone. Typical. I wouldn't care except that Zack and I are being paid the same wage and Craig, despite all of his complaints about the kid to me, continues to tolerate the behavior. And I continue to tolerate the complaining. From both sides. Zack makes Craig seem like a mute. He absolutely does not shut up, even when you clearly aren't listening to him. He contends that Craig does not treat him fairly or pay him adequately, laughable pleas to the objective observer. But Zack is on a mission to delude and dilute himself. These are the topics of his rambling: whiskey, bitches, tobacco, crime (mostly his own), vodka, jail, beer. When he's not rambling he's dedicated to myspace, or sometimes both at the same time. Zack is due back in Oregon soon to face sentencing on charges that may keep him locked up until his nineteenth birthday. He's a felon who can't even drive yet. He is also a vulnerable kid trying to find his way. I don't say too much to him, I'm trying to lead by example, don't smoke, don't drink, don't chew tobacco - deeds, not words, and all that. How much would he listen anyway? But when I do talk, I try to say meaningful things like, "Zack, the only question is if the things you're doing are making your life better, because you're the only person with the power to do that." He goes on about hating hangovers and all the different ways he knows how to make a bomb. I finally tell him that he is excruciatingly boring. He actually stops talking for a minute. Then he asks me if I ever got arrested. "No." "Did you ever do anything illegal?" "Yeah, plenty." "Well how is it that you don't get caught?" "You don't hear me talking about it, do ya!" I point out that he's been caught for everything he's ever done. He's only sixteen and already the worst criminal ever. That gets a chuckle. For all of his nonsense, the kid does make some interesting observations from time to time. He tried to buy a video game at the K-Mart but was denied because he isn't seventeen. But they did allow him to purchase a gas can and a Zippo. "Now how much more trouble do you think I'm going to get in with this than with that stupid game?" He tells me I don't have much longer to fool around, I better get married soon if I want to have kids. He, on the other hand, has all the time in the world. After he's done causing trouble - "maybe in two or ten years..." - he's considering the military, and/or starting his own business. I don't know what kind of chances he has, but I'm very interested to discover what happens to the kid down the road. Before he left, in a subdued moment, the kid asked me a rather poignant question: "Hey, Brad, what are you going to miss about me the most?" I have no idea what kind of value for him hinged on my answer. Maybe none. But it didn't seem right to say that I wouldn't miss anything about a person who I knew I wouldn't soon forget. I told him I'd miss the chance to get to know more about him. And that was good enough for both of us.

The Bear Minimum

2007-08-13T04:22:00Z

I’ve got work on a tender called Providence. The owner/skipper, Craig is a relatively calm but hard-driving man who tries to work his boat as much as possible. He resides in Kodiak and likes to “dabble“ in real estate. The other mate, Zack, is a sixteen-year-old kid on a work program to avoid juvenile detention back in Oregon. Some rather adult philosophy seasons his adolescent attitude. And he’s a good worker - when he’s not sleeping.

I’ve been on this charter for four days. We’ve packed a quarter of a million pounds of salmon, lost fuel flow to the John Deere generator (twice), tore the 10-inch suction hose off our Transvac fish pump, and run aground steaming through Whale Pass. We were on the rocks for about eight hours waiting for the tide to come up enough to float us off. Again, the work remains relatively easy while the hours border insanity. I welcomed the respite.

Kodiak itself seems like a pretty chill place. There are lots of young people, every kind of outdoor activity imaginable, and, if you like boats or any boat-related industry, plenty of work all year long. The Coast Guard station looks like a major university campus, and the word is they have a nicer bowling alley and movie theater on-base than they do in town. A recent population boom paved the way for, yes, a Wal-Mart, but the local sporting goods stores survive. The funky homespun things maintain also, like the Kodiak Classic Golf Tournament - one hole, about two thousand feet straight up the mountain. The hardcore guys drink a beer with each swing. I don’t know if anybody has ever actually won the thing.

I’ve committed here through the end of this month, at which time the daily mean temperature will determine if I stick around or start sliding south. At best I’ll have a pocketful of cash and amazing prospects. At a minimum I’m eager to see a bear up close. Then the Alaska trek will feel complete and I can bounce whenever.

better take that luck to Vegas, baby!

2007-08-07T23:49:31Z

I’ve been completely out of digital reach, seemingly at the end of one part of the earth, for almost two months. I knew what I was getting into, and I thought it would be a spiritually rewarding bit of escapism, a comfortably temporary disconnect from the tele-techno-communication frenzy of civilization. I was not disappointed. It felt good, liberating. I know I could live in Now York City and choose not to own a cell phone or a computer, but that brings me directly to the second point: fifty days is puh-lenty of time to go off the grid. En Vogue rings in my dome: “back to life…back to reality.”

Less than one month passed before the thought of talking with my family and friends blossomed into desire, then quickly developed into ever more urgent need. And that felt good too. I think that not simply the isolation, but also the physical environment of western Alaska contributed to the rise of sentiment. The immense and desolate beauty of the mountainous Aleutian chain must be witnessed first-hand. The shapes and shades, colors and contours create a vast, evocative panorama for the senses, the essence of which words and pictures cannot hope to convey. I thought about life and the people I love. Then I stopped thinking altogether, and I could feel my heart swell.

The work proved quite demanding but not overwhelming. We would drop anchor in a strategic spot in or near the Naknek River and wait for the catcher boats to deliver their fish to us, the tender. When our tanks filled up, meaning we had approximately 150,000 pounds of salmon on board, we would then deliver the fish to the processor, a massive ship anchored farther out in the Bay. We also supplied groceries, oil, antifreeze, fuel, fresh water, and other necessities for the catcher boats. Since everyone has to quit fishing at designated hours, but we only have two cranes on the Totem, catcher boats would be lined up behind us for hours waiting for their turn to unload and stock up. Then we would have to deliver and get back in time for the next fishing “opener”. If that wasn’t enough, we were also pressed for time coming and going, because at low tide there wasn’t enough water in the river to get where we needed to go. We slept little, and in between not sleeping, we had to maintain the Totem. Mild chaos wrinkled even our best days.

Trials accompany the daily operation of any work boat. Ours started less than ten minutes from the dock in Homer. We haven ‘t even cleared the jetty when the starboard engine alarm starts blaring, the port crane drifts wildly off the rail, one generator engine stalls, and all the electronics go dead. Other boats dodge us as we slide toward the rocks. But the Captain is right no top of the situation. With his prowess we managed to get everything fired up just in time to avoid a catastrophically short trip. I was perversely glad - if we’d made it the five days to Bristol Bay without incident, I would have worried that we were due for some mishap at any second. But with that emergency out of the way, and a shot of confidence about the Captain’s skill, I could relax. He had demonstrated only the crust of his ability. Which was good, because things fall apart.

A pulley drops off the crane. A hydraulic line erupts. Pumps fail, engines die, switches break - and always at the worst possible moment. A short in the reset switches killed our main engines one time and I barely got the anchor down before the outgoing tide crushed us against a huge barge. Then, with catcher boats tied off on both sides of us and the river full of boats, we start dragging anchor, and get fired up to narrowly escape crushing the tender behind us. A hydraulic line erupts when we’re trying to get to the processor in a hurry. And on it goes. Finally, at the end of the long season, ready to steam home, we get bent rods on the number four cylinder, and the port main engine is out of commission. I know that Murphy guy was a fisherman.

Behind the Captain’s resourcefulness we quickly overcame each malfunction. The running joke was that with our luck we should take our settlement checks straight to Vegas. Unfortunately, I think the pressure to maintain a high level of performance under these less-than-ideal circumstances caused the Captain a bit of strain, and a strong bit of animosity festered between him and some of the crew. Granted, we weren’t the most seasoned deckhands in the world, but sometimes it seemed that his response was disproportionate to the nature of our gaffe. For now I will say that if the Captain’s people skills ever approach the level of his boat savvy, he will be an incredible leader. But I refused to let the testy atmosphere corrode my experience, and in the end I must thank him for the lead to my next job.

Hours blur and days blend on the water in Bristol Bay. Time is punctuated not by the hands on a clock or the sun that never really sets, but by the unique episodes and instances that stamp themselves into memory. The two months remain thick with uncommon detail, thrills and drama that require pages and pages to effectively capture. And though, to a man, we’re glad this mission has reached its end, we all anticipate returning to the Bay in some capacity next summer.

In the meantime my journey continues, and I go to meet new adventure on the great island of Kodiak! We just got into Homer this morning, cleaned the boat, got paid, then I checked into the Best Western for a few hours to use the computer, do my laundry, take seventeen showers and catch one long nap, and watch TV, and now I’m out to catch the midnight ferry back to Kodiak to start my new gig in the morning. Hopefully I won’t be off the grid for so long over there.

Heroic...Homeric...whatever...

2007-06-14T19:55:44Z

The Totem is ready. And it only needed somewhere between 500 - 600 man-hours. We’re loaded with gear and supplies for the fishermen already over in Bristol Bay - oil drums, lumber, big plastic totes of groceries, even an outhouse. I haven’t quite figured that one out yet. But the crew is fired-up to get busy doing what we came here to do. After the five days it takes just to steam there, we’re doing 45 more on the Bay, a place with a rugged, renegade reputation and only about a jillion miles from anywhere. The rumor goes that some crazy tele-pioneer put a cell phone tower out there once, but it inevitably came down in a storm and no one else is crazy or stupid enough to go fix it. Anyway, if I’m out of touch for a couple of months, y’all know why. The guys out there are hardcore, so goes the other rumor. My crew is a little bit hardcore too. The guys have been keeping me up with some all-hours shenanigans the last couple of nights, spending some quality time at the Salty Dawg, a dead ringer for the cantina at Mos Eisley Spaceport from Star Wars. Well, except for the lighthouse.
Anyway, while we’re on the beach it’s none of my business, and I’m operating under the assumption that all will be chill while we’re offshore. But I told the owner that if I once sense my welfare in jeopardy, I’m bouncing in a hot second. This job is hard enough. I have everyone else’s welfare in mind with the moves I make, and I only expect the same. All that said, I’m pretty fired-up. Hopefully we’ll return to the Spit and the Salty Dawg in heroic, Homeric fashion. Here we go…

Key West with mittens

2007-06-11T01:42:00Z

A young former lawyer from Israel came around the Totem this week, looking for some work, or a bunk on a ship to Kodiak, or both. He says he’s done with the law game, he’s got a new plan. His father always wanted to be a fisherman, live the life, but a marriage and two kids put the kibosh on that grand design. Now the kid’s doing the proxy thing. He jumped on a jet from Tel Aviv to Stockholm to Dallas to Seattle to Anchorage. Now he’s in Homer, still hunting for a site, determined to discover his slimy, smelly glory. He’s got no money and no prospects and he’s loving every minute. It’s fun to know other people’s stories, and find the occasional reminder of souls out there taking a bigger flyer than you are.

The Totem approaches readiness every day, sort of. You find one thing that’s broken or busted, and chasing it becomes like the layers of the onion. The more we fix, the more we find wrong. We’re due in Bristol Bay for fishing on the 20^th - we got the tools, we got the talent, and if the onion isn’t too big, we even got the time. Today I was live with no net, fussing with 220 volts while hanging by my knees thirty feet over the deck. At least it wasn’t raining. Actually, the Alaska summer weather that I enjoy finally crept in today - clear, sunny, mid-60s, just a puff of wind - perfect. I tried to check MSN Weather for the latest conditions over in Bristol Bay, and the report came back “Not Available”. Hmmm…

The rest of the crew flew in from Kodiak yesterday, Captain Allen and another deckhand, Loren. We got a little work done, then went into town for a little bonding session at Pudgy’s Roadside. I put on my extra-thick skin when I go out to bars because I don’t drink and it takes a bit for that absurd behavior to settle with some people. Anyway, some of the sweetest decor I've ever seen hung around the place, featuring a pine carving of a full-size naked chick in hip boots holding a salmon. And I forgot my camera. Anyway, a fun, funky-hip, local band jammed all night to a packed house. Even the horseshoe pits out back saw good action. A lot of patrons rocked the XtraTuff fishing boots and a blanket or two. I felt overdressed by virtue of my clothes being clean. Interesting characters bounced all around the joint. The whole attitude of the place felt comfortable and familiar. Then I realized, I was in Key West, just with mittens.

"a nice thing to be surprised about"

2007-06-07T02:15:00Z

I’ve got work on a tender vessel named the Totem, an eighty foot steel scow straight outta Waterworld. We’re fixing the pluming, wiring, generators, hydraulics, everything. I have trouble eating lunch because my hands are a bloody, greasy mess. It’s a good thing my boss, Paul, doesn’t mind spending what it takes to get things working properly. Turns out he’s a state legislator, wicked smart, and relates with a very agreeable manner of diplomacy. He’s calm and thorough, real easy to work for, and a guy can really get a lot done when it’s daylight forever. I work with this other cat, Jason, up from Cleveland, fresh out of the corporate game and determined to earn his captain’s license. He’s a steady worker and likes to laugh, so it’s cool. Reinforcements should be showing up in a couple of days or so.

I haven’t been into Homer proper, but the Spit is pretty sweet. There’s action every day, the same but different. I watch people leave in the morning on charter boats, fishing boats, water taxis, whatever, a little trep in the step, just a pinch tense, like they’re not quite sure what to expect from the day‘s excursion - or maybe it’s just way early and colder than a polar bear’s toenails. But then later in the day the people cruise back into port, their faces mimicking the round, pale-red buoys dangling from the boats’ rails - plus a sweet smile pasted in between. They’re comfortable - sated. It’s refreshing to watch.

A good looking dog hangs with about every other person. It makes me want one more than I already do. Six days, 57 dogs, 0 barks - they’re all awesome. The other day my boss left the ignition keyed on in his truck all day. While we were jumping the rig he said he was surprised that no one came around and shut his lights off for him - what a nice thing to be surprised about. But that just seems to be the flavor of Homer.

any second now...

2007-06-03T00:45:16Z

A few weeks ago I was soaking up the warm sunshine of south Florida. Last week was gorgeous in Westport, Mass. Now Homer, Alaska is gray, a little rainy, between 50 and 60 degrees, and daylight about 20 hours a day. What the hell am I doing? Oh, yeah...I'm in the hot spot for some summertime fishing.
I'm out on the Spit. A road runs like the long part of an exclamation mark from the south of town, past an abandoned pirate ship that a guy's turned into a sweet condo.
Then the dot comes, a curious blob of shops, stores, bars, cafes, a live theatre featuring the "Vagina Monologues", (which, oddly, was the last thing playing when I left Key West), and shacks offering charter fishing and an assortment of the most amazing expeditions imaginable. And boats, lots and lots of boats. People wear their slickers all the time and drive exactly the speed limit. It constantly feels like something really cool is going to happen any second. I'm gonna give it a couple of weeks.

Portland promise

2007-05-28T18:38:00Z

I ventured up to Portland, Maine to visit my little brother, Mark. We ventured down to the docks in the afternoon to see what we could see. I know, I should have put him in the pictures, but the scenery was classic. Obviously I didn't have the chance to find a site on this trip, but I'll definitely be back. I can't wait to hear what these guys have to say. Notice the working waterfront abruptly shortened by the fancy condos at the end of the pier.

love the Drake

2007-05-26T16:50:47Z

The first skipper I spoke with, Charles Borden, calls me a few days later, early evening. "We're going out tomorrow, if you want...six am." I tell him I'll be there. This is essentially the first mission of my quest. I try to keep my excitement to a dull roar.

It’s hazy-light, just me and some ghosts down at Lees Wharf at 5:30 AM. A steady wind eases out of the east, like it has been for the last few days. Capt. Borden said they usually didn’t catch much during an easterly blow, and he wanted something picture-worthy. I told him I’m not that great a photographer anyway. So the captain and his crew show up and I’m all in, wind or no. We shove off at 6:15.

The Drake is a beautiful new vessel, delivered from a shipyard out of Maine just four months earlier. She’s nice and wide with plenty of deck space for easy working and stacking traps. The boat is rigged to easily adjust to different species though, so today we’re gill netting - dogfish, monkfish, flounder, skate. It’s been slowing down a little lately, so the crew isn’t quite sure what to expect today, not to mention that the Drake is powering through some huge, soft, rolling swells like the crew hasn’t seen before, adding to the mysterious potential of the day.

"Monkfish"

We hit the gear and Josh, a quiet, hardworking kid, gaffs the buoy and passes the lead line to Charles. The skipper loads the hauler and engages the hydraulics. Dogfish and skate start pouring over the rail. The work is quite straightforward. The net passes through the winch and gets passed along a wide sorting table. The crew stands staggered along the table, wrestling the snared fish from the webbing. Matt, the other deckhand, carefully flakes the net in a bin at the end of the table, ready to set back out without getting snarled or tangled. Though Matt says he’s always thought about fishing he and Josh are both relatively new to the job. They perform diligently and efficiently. We haul four sets in about three hours. Charles looks over the booty, nods ’not bad’, and turns it for the beach.

"Teamwork"

Charles Borden conducts himself with a certain calmness, a reserve indicating great confidence and focus. He doesn’t waste any words, not even when discussing the fishing life. When I suggest that the new boat means that he’s in it for the long haul, he simply states, “There’s nothing else I’m interested in doing.” His father, a long-time industry manager, introduced Charles to the game early on. In his early teens, Charles fished a couple hundred traps out of a little skiff down Houseboat Row, over in Westport Harbor. While all his friends waited tables and pushed lawnmowers, Charles made his own hours, not to mention twice the money in half the time. (I have to laugh because Roche, the Key West native from my Florida trip, told me the exact same story. He said, “Fishing is more fun, the smaller the boat gets.“) Then Charles went to college, or enrolled anyway, for one semester, hacked around at a couple of other things, but came back to the ocean with the positive focus of knowing that this is the lifestyle he wants. So he does what he has to do to make it work.

"Houseboat Row"

“You gotta fish multiple species these days, with all the regulations. I tried having another job, then a little boat and a big boat, whatever, but you just end up spreading yourself too thin. You have one boat that can fish different seasons, dedicate yourself to the effort, and you’ll get back what you put in.”

I’m glad that maxim has proven itself for Charles, and I wonder how many commercial boys would agree with him. He chuckles about the “interesting conversations” with his Dad, and about how the fisherman swarm the man, peppering him with questions and demands, whenever he happens to come down around the docks. Fishermen fight a constant battle with the government’s regulatory bodies - not to mention the weather and the fish stocks - to know where they stand today, to try to predict tomorrow. Many live with the fear of having their ambitions simply snatched away.

Charles knows the future though. As the subject of the weekend comes up, I ask him half-joking if he’s going to church the next morning. He smiles slightly. “Yeah,” he says, “I’ll be right here.”

The Baseline Truth

2007-05-21T17:09:24Z

Head down Main Street toward Westport Point and it’s hard not to feel like a stranger. Despite the new cars parked on the road or in driveways, the scene feels drawn from another age. Moss-covered stone walls border the yards. The homes look like they haven’t been touched in a century. The small, flaking, faded plaques nailed to the front of each one suggest it may have been even longer. The plaques list a name, a title, and a date. John Allen, Minuteman, 1777. William Sisson, Sea Captain, 1819. The Historical District.

It’s a fitting passage, kind of separating me from the texture of the place and the moment, because even though I’m a commercial fisherman by trade, I’m basically a foreigner, an outsider, at any port I’ll find. I talk up one guy, a guy roughly my age, a gill net captain. He asks me all the questions, sizing me up. It’s interesting for me to be on this side of the exchange. I make sure not to say the things that made me cringe: “I’m the hardest worker, I’m the fastest learner, blah blah blah”. He relents a little, takes my number, says he’ll call me later in the week.

I walk around the pier a little bit. The buildings are gray. The sky is gray. Even the water is gray. There’s a nice chill on the wind. A gull bombs the blacktop with a quahog. The thick shell holds this time, but the bird will extract his juicy treat before long. I notice another guy, a little older than me, has been keeping a wary eye on me from beneath his cap while he readies his gear for the day’s fishing. I finally angle toward his boat. He says ’can I help you’ before I’m even close, but it’s a warning more than a question, a barrier more than an invitation. I love it. Finding these sites is not going to be a straightforward proposition. I wouldn’t have it otherwise.

I give short, definite answers to his questions. In this situation, less is more. He flips off a reason why I don’t want to go. I tell him I’m not worried about the money. The reason changes. I accommodate all the reasons until we get to the baseline truth. “I’m just used to being by myself out there.“ Now there’s an answer I can respect. His turf, his time.

I start asking my own questions. He gets a chance to vent about the time, the cost, the grind of the work. He says he might have to find work on a scallop boat out of New Bedford to get the money to replace his rotting deck. It’s a poignant aspect of this industry, a small business owner looking for work. He’s not overly bitter though, things just are what they are. I empathize. He can tell.

I tell him I’ll leave him alone, let him get busy. He steps up off the boat onto the concrete apron, shakes my hand. I think a part of him wants to take me out there, but he can’t quite push through himself. ’Maybe if I see ya again’ he tells me, looking down, ’maybe’. He shakes my hand again. ’No problem’ I tell him.

Maybe next time.