Leave it to me to provide a moment of hilarity for the others on board. In my rapidly declining state of mental alertness, I walked toward the cabin door, failing to notice a fish hold hatch cover had been removed. If the fish hold were empty, it would be a drop of about 15 feet to the bottom of the boat. Thankfully, I think, it was better than half full of fish. I fell through the 22 inch circular hole, a miracle in itself, and sank in fish up to my neck. Not being able to push my boots against anything solid, I felt as though I was suspended in a bowl of smelly jello. There was nowhere for me to go. The noise of the engine drowned out my cries for help. I lay there like the Pillsbury dough boy waiting for someone to peek into the hold from above. After God knows how long, Jimmy’s head appeared silhouetted against the sky as he peered down at me, only to disappear and then reappear along with Jim and Ray. I did not have to hear them to know they were laughing hysterically. With all the dignity I could muster I waited patiently for their laughter to subside so they could take the necessary steps to get me the hell out of there.
After having about all the fun they could stand they finally lowered me a rope. That was fruitless because I barely had enough strength left to hold a rope let alone climb one. About all it did was allow me to extend my arms overhead enough so that Jimmy was able to reach down and grab my hands. Like all men who have done this type of fishing for any length of time, he had forearms like Popeye and was as strong as an ox. He lifted my water logged, slicker clad body out of there and plopped me on the deck like a rag doll. I thanked him and went below to prepare a lovely meal of breaded cod. After which we again iced down the days catch.
Another three hours sleep and we were on deck for day three. Day three is a critical day of fishing for the Collier Brothers. Jim tells me that the fish plant will not take fish that have been refrigerated for more than three days. Iced down fish are considered refrigerated, not frozen. The freezer capabilities Jim has now allow him to stay at sea longer but at the time of my trip it was necessary to return to port after three days fishing, whether the holds were nearly empty or completely full. Ideally you would like to reach your 200,000 pound capacity as quickly as possible but at least by the end of the third day and then head for home. Fishing had been good for us and it looked like we would have a full load and be on our way home by sun down.
About mid-day Jim’s marine radio crackles. It is the Coast Guard calling and asking for permission to board. The Coast Guard will board for a variety of reasons including checking for compliance with marine and fishery regulations and drug enforcement. Due to poor visibility we could not see them but they were close by and had picked us up on their radar. In order for them to board it meant we had to stop, which meant terminating the current drag. Jim was irritated at the thought of losing valuable fishing time. He stalled as long as he could; knowing that every minute meant more fish. After repeated request Jim radioed them to stand by while we hauled back.
The Coast Guard boat, with its familiar red stripe running at an angle from the deck to the waterline, near the bow, appeared out of the mist. Being well over 200 feet long, it was an imposing site. They stood by off to the side and waited. As luck would have it we had our most successful drag of the trip. This meant the entire deck was waist deep in fish. The Coast Guard lowered four men and a boat into the water. They pulled up alongside and boarded. Jim took a perverse glee in watching these guys, in their starched uniform’s, plod their way through the fish to the cabin.
After examining the boats papers they went over every inch of the boat, from bow to stern. There are many stories of million dollar boats being seized by the Coast Guard and heavy fines paid for traces of drugs or even a filet of an out-of-season salmon in the freezer. It is common to be written up for an inoperable horn or not enough flotation devices. In our case we passed with flying colors. They thanked us, returned to the mother ship, and disappeared into the mist. While often expressing annoyance, commercial fishermen recognize that the Coast Guard is an integral part of their community. There are legendary stories of boats rescued and lives saved by the men and women of the Coast Guard, who oftentimes in this area, answer a “Mayday” call for help in some of the worst weather conditions on the face of the earth.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
NORTH TO ALASKA / PART 4
The entire process was repeated. The day’s last drag resulted in finally stowing all fish below decks well after dark. Since everyone on the boat was far more experienced and skillful at performing the necessary tasks to be done at this time and, I suspect, as another dose of the greenhorn process, it fell upon me to prepare dinner. I rummaged through the refrigerator, looking for something that would be easy to prepare and serve while drifting in 30 knot winds. I came across packages marked “elk.” In the summer months in this area, fishermen hunt between fishing seasons to stock their freezers for the winter. I decided spaghetti with elk meat would be the entree du jour.
Stove tops on boats have adjustable arms that can be arranged to keep pots and pans from rolling off the stove. I arranged the arms to secure a pot for boiling water to cook the spaghetti, a pan for browning the elk meat, another to warm the sauce and voila, Spaghetti ala Kodiak. Told of this later, my wife, who says a three minute egg is more of a mental challenge than I can handle, was incredulous. Nevertheless, the crew showered me with praise. I am sure, it dawned on me later, their motivation was to ensure my continuing as chief cook for the duration of the trip.
As is often the case when fishermen are gathered around a galley table for dinner, there are fish stories told. In this case three of the four gathered were telling tales foreign to all but those who have fished the Arctic regions of the world. It is with good reason that crab fishing in the Bering Sea is considered the most dangerous occupation in the world. The hauling of miles of pots, whirling gears and winches and coiled rope everywhere are disasters waiting to happen. The type of fishing we were doing ranks right up there due to the enormous strain exerted on every inch of the boat as it drags staggering weight through the water. A full net can hold 40 to 50 tons of fish.
Trying to make a living while encountering extreme cold, monstrous seas, high winds and water so cold it will take a man’s life in minutes if he is unfortunate enough to fall overboard at sea, can be deadly, especially when the greed factor is added. More than a few boats have been lost at sea because they ignored warnings of impending severe weather to maximize a streak of good fishing. It can be lucrative but the risks are great. Story-telling wound down and I thought it might be a good time to hit the sack. Wrong! The fish must be iced down.
The ice is stored in bins that run down the middle of the boat from the engine room to the stern. The only way to get to these bins is to drop down through the hatches into the fish bins. This being our first day of fishing, the holds were not completely full, but full enough that we sank in fish up to our chest. Then we worked our way through the fish over to the side boards separating fish and ice, climbed over the boards and down into the ice. The only light was what little filtered down from the deck lights through the hatches. Having just come from the bright galley we had to wait for several minutes as our eyes adjusted to almost total darkness.
The ice, which had come aboard through hoses as shaved ice, was now frozen into a mass. Thus, before we could begin shoveling, we had to break it up by beating on it with shovels. Once broken up Jimmy and I began shoveling it into the fish bins where Ray spread it evenly on top of the fish. With tons of fish being put to bed for the night I hosed off my slickers and boots, staggered to my bunk and fell asleep before hitting the pillow. Naturally, since I made my trip, Jim has refrigerated the holds on the Collier Brothers, thereby eliminating the need to manually ice down the fish.
Three hours later we were on deck again before dawn. It was impossible to see the sun rise. In fact, it was impossible to distinguish any horizon at all. Sea and sky blended into one sheet of gray. The wind, up to 35 knots now, was biting cold. Our gear was in the water and another drag was underway when daylight engulfed us.
Sophisticated electronic gear allows you to return to the exact spot you were fishing the day before, even though you may have drifted many miles during the night. We repeated the same drag, haul back, bleed, shovel, cycle of the day before. The only difference being my fatigue factor and growing realization that this indeed was a young mans game.
Stove tops on boats have adjustable arms that can be arranged to keep pots and pans from rolling off the stove. I arranged the arms to secure a pot for boiling water to cook the spaghetti, a pan for browning the elk meat, another to warm the sauce and voila, Spaghetti ala Kodiak. Told of this later, my wife, who says a three minute egg is more of a mental challenge than I can handle, was incredulous. Nevertheless, the crew showered me with praise. I am sure, it dawned on me later, their motivation was to ensure my continuing as chief cook for the duration of the trip.
As is often the case when fishermen are gathered around a galley table for dinner, there are fish stories told. In this case three of the four gathered were telling tales foreign to all but those who have fished the Arctic regions of the world. It is with good reason that crab fishing in the Bering Sea is considered the most dangerous occupation in the world. The hauling of miles of pots, whirling gears and winches and coiled rope everywhere are disasters waiting to happen. The type of fishing we were doing ranks right up there due to the enormous strain exerted on every inch of the boat as it drags staggering weight through the water. A full net can hold 40 to 50 tons of fish.
Trying to make a living while encountering extreme cold, monstrous seas, high winds and water so cold it will take a man’s life in minutes if he is unfortunate enough to fall overboard at sea, can be deadly, especially when the greed factor is added. More than a few boats have been lost at sea because they ignored warnings of impending severe weather to maximize a streak of good fishing. It can be lucrative but the risks are great. Story-telling wound down and I thought it might be a good time to hit the sack. Wrong! The fish must be iced down.
The ice is stored in bins that run down the middle of the boat from the engine room to the stern. The only way to get to these bins is to drop down through the hatches into the fish bins. This being our first day of fishing, the holds were not completely full, but full enough that we sank in fish up to our chest. Then we worked our way through the fish over to the side boards separating fish and ice, climbed over the boards and down into the ice. The only light was what little filtered down from the deck lights through the hatches. Having just come from the bright galley we had to wait for several minutes as our eyes adjusted to almost total darkness.
The ice, which had come aboard through hoses as shaved ice, was now frozen into a mass. Thus, before we could begin shoveling, we had to break it up by beating on it with shovels. Once broken up Jimmy and I began shoveling it into the fish bins where Ray spread it evenly on top of the fish. With tons of fish being put to bed for the night I hosed off my slickers and boots, staggered to my bunk and fell asleep before hitting the pillow. Naturally, since I made my trip, Jim has refrigerated the holds on the Collier Brothers, thereby eliminating the need to manually ice down the fish.
Three hours later we were on deck again before dawn. It was impossible to see the sun rise. In fact, it was impossible to distinguish any horizon at all. Sea and sky blended into one sheet of gray. The wind, up to 35 knots now, was biting cold. Our gear was in the water and another drag was underway when daylight engulfed us.
Sophisticated electronic gear allows you to return to the exact spot you were fishing the day before, even though you may have drifted many miles during the night. We repeated the same drag, haul back, bleed, shovel, cycle of the day before. The only difference being my fatigue factor and growing realization that this indeed was a young mans game.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
NORTH TO ALASKA / PART 3
COLLIER BROTHERSKodiak, Alaska
You haven’t lived until you roll out of a warm bunk, put on two pairs of woolen socks, long underwear, pants, tee shirt, hooded sweat shirt, wool gloves under rubber gloves, knee high rubber boots, wool ski cap and day-glo orange slickers, then step out of a heated cabin, pre-dawn, onto the rolling deck, in sub-freezing temperatures with the wind howling and salt spray going sideways. So much for the romantic notion of fishing in the Gulf of Alaska.
Jimmy and Ray were already on deck preparing for our first drag. Shouting, so as to be heard above the wind, they told me what I could do to be useful. Basically, just stay the hell out of the way. The greenhorn orientation was beginning. With his eyes on the fathometer Jim maneuvered the Collier Brothers into position over the cod. His voice came over the on-deck speakers telling us to put the net in the water.
As the boat slows to about 4 knots there are two large metal doors, one on each side of the boat and attached to the leading edge of the net, that are lowered into the water. These doors weigh close to 2,000 pounds each. Their function is to drive the net deeper and to fan open the mouth of the net, so it acts as a funnel shaped scoop moving through the water. The net itself, attached to steel cables, peels off a steel drum near the back of the boat, down a ramp and disappears into the slate gray, 33 degree water. There are old rubber tires attached to the leading edge of the net, allowing it to bounce when it becomes necessary to drag the net close to the bottom of the ocean. Jim tells us to set the nets at 53 fathoms. Jimmy, monitoring the descent of the net with a set of hydraulic controls, stops the drum when he determines, by markings on the cable, that the net is down to 53 fathoms. Then you wait.
It is during this first drag in the morning that the crew takes advantage of the brief and only break they will have. They use this time to check the engine room, take a brief nap, read or eat. Eating is on your own. I fixed myself a bowl of cereal and had a cup of hot, strong coffee.
Jim does not rest during this time. In some ways, for him, it is the most intense time of all. Knowing the net is trailing along behind the boat he must use all his skills to put the boat on top of a mercurial school of fish some 300 plus feet below. Schools of cod might change depths or direction in an instant, making for an empty net.
Jim does not rest during this time. In some ways, for him, it is the most intense time of all. Knowing the net is trailing along behind the boat he must use all his skills to put the boat on top of a mercurial school of fish some 300 plus feet below. Schools of cod might change depths or direction in an instant, making for an empty net.
Drawing on years of experience and some guess work Jim must judge when and if the net has enough fish in it to warrant bringing it to the surface. He does not want to go through the arduous haul-back process only to gaze at an empty net. In business, time is money and commercial cod fishing is no exception. The sluggishness with which the boat handles indicates that the net is filling with fish.
Jim sticks his head out the cabin door and tells us we are going to haul-back. He slows the boat as slow as it will go and still maintain headway. Jimmy sets the cables and pulleys in motion and the 1,000 horse power diesel engine turns the big drum as we begin to retrieve the net. If Jim has guessed right the net will soon pop to the surface behind us. All eyes are anxiously focused on the wake of the boat.
All of a sudden the net pops up some 150 feet behind the boat and it is jammed with fish. Jimmy and Ray high-five each other and cheer loudly at the sight of a fully packed net that insures a great start to our trip. The drum continues to turn and the net gets closer and closer until the lead edge of the net comes up the ramp and then stops at the end of a boom, high above the deck. Ray climbs up the rigging and releases a zipper in the side of the net. As he does, thousands and thousands of fish spill onto the deck. All of a sudden I am standing in fish up to my waist. The glamour of all this is starting to fade rapidly.
I am then informed that rather than funneling the fish through hatches into the fish holds to be iced down, we must first bleed the fish. This ghastly process is done because the fish processing plant will pay 3 cents a pound more for fish that are bled. The theory is it makes for a better quality fish in the marketplace. The Collier Brothers can hold 200,000 pounds of fish so we are talking about a few bucks. I was to learn quickly that for 3 cents a pound the fish plant was getting the biggest bargain since the United States bought Alaska from the Russians for peanuts.
After the net was emptied, it was again lowered into the water as we began another drag. There are two tasks that the crew must perform at this time. One is to go through the fish spread all over the deck and cull those fish that are called by-catch. These are fish that are not the targeted species and, by law, must be returned to the ocean, dead or alive. Jimmy and Ray, being very experienced at this, wade through the fish with a pole that has a metal point on the end of it and, with a flick of the wrist, fling the by-catch overboard. These are mostly bottom dwelling fish including skates and rays up to 75 pounds, sculpin, flounders of varying types and a few sharks.
Meanwhile, as the greenhorn on the boat, I was to begin the other task, which is to bleed the fish. Basically, that means slit their throats. This process is performed by picking up each fish by the gills and using a long, curved, extremely sharp, black-handled knife. Even though there are cod up to 40 pounds the average is 8 to 10 pounds. I did not want to even think about how many 8-10 pound fish there would be in the 200,000 pounds it would take to fill our holds.
I began by working my way through the fish bent over like a strawberry picker working his way through the fields. As I became more fatigued, I went to my knees and finally, near total exhaustion, I just sat down among fish, blood and slime, oblivious to waves sloshing over the deck. A pace of several fish per minute had slowed to a fish every minute. I glanced up to see Jimmy and Ray laughing at my pathetic plight.
I began by working my way through the fish bent over like a strawberry picker working his way through the fields. As I became more fatigued, I went to my knees and finally, near total exhaustion, I just sat down among fish, blood and slime, oblivious to waves sloshing over the deck. A pace of several fish per minute had slowed to a fish every minute. I glanced up to see Jimmy and Ray laughing at my pathetic plight.
Like most things, when you have been doing it a while it becomes easier. This was evident as Jimmy and Ray, having disposed of the by-catch, grabbed knives and with negligible help from me, finished off the rest of the fish. We removed manhole sized hatch covers from the top of the fish holds and, with large snow shovels, shoveled the fish through the hatches and into bins below deck. We then hosed down the deck with high pressure sea water to clean up the residue of our first drag. Attracted by the steady stream of fish related run-off, hundreds of sea gulls and shearwaters trailed along behind us, searching our wake for a snack. Often several birds would descend on the same scrap, trying to out maneuver each other for the spoils.
I hosed off my slickers, hung them up then headed for the galley. I consumed gallons of whatever liquid I could find, in this case lemon-lime soda, then inhaled a peanut butter and jelly sandwich just in time to hear Jim’s voice over the speakers telling us we were going to haul back again. I returned to the deck just in time to see another plumb full net pop to the surface behind the boat. Despite the shouts of glee, I witnessed the incident with much less wide eyed curiosity and enthusiasm than I had earlier that morning.
Monday, April 19, 2010
NORTH TO ALASKA / PART 2
After a stop in Seattle, it was on to Anchorage. From Seattle north I saw more snow from my window seat than I had seen in my entire life. Being from southern California I always associated snow with a mountain cabin and skiing. Here there was snow from the peaks of mountains to the shores of the ocean. Along with two other people I boarded a puddle jumper in Anchorage for the 250 mile flight southwest to Kodiak Island at the foot of the Aleutian Island chain. Even though it was broad daylight, I never saw the ground from wheels up to touching down. That gave me an inkling of what kind of weather to expect.
The first thing I noticed, when I stepped off the plane in Kodiak, was the overwhelming smell of fish. The nearby fish processing plants which, during the season operate 24 hours a day, and fishing boats of all types that fill the piers and docks, all make their contribution to the smell that hangs over the waterfront. As I was to learn it becomes a part of everything you touch and breathe until you leave the island.
I had not seen Jim for a while. The years of fishing had changed him from the youthful athlete he was in high school to what central casting would send if you asked for a skipper of a fishing boat. He is a little over six feet, blue eyes, with a heavy salt and pepper beard born out of not having the need nor the desire to shave. From years of doing the work fishermen do he had thick shoulders and huge forearms. If he chose to his grip could take you to your knees. I threw my duffle bag into the back of his pickup truck and we headed into town. He told me the boat was fueled, loaded with groceries and ready to leave as soon as we arrived. We made a stop at a fishing supply outfitter to get my slickers, heavy socks, knee high boots and an Alaska commercial fishermans's license, then drove to the docks.
The tides in this area can be extreme. As we approached the Collier Brothers, the tide was so low that we could not see her. It was well below the level of the dock. My first look at her was while leaning over the railing and looking down. Access was by a steep, rickety, wooden ladder that had been nailed to the dock. I climbed a ‘board, Jim threw my gear down to me, and then assigned me a bunk. After meeting Jim’s crew, Ray and Jim’s son-in-law Jimmy, we cast away the lines and the Collier Brothers pulled away from the docks. After a brief stop to take on a load of ice we headed out of St. Paul Harbor across Chiniak Bay and into the Gulf of Alaska just as darkness fell.
All commercial fishing in Alaska is closely regulated. The fishermen will tell you it is overregulated. Cod fishing is no exception. In order to protect and preserve various species of fish, the National Marine Fisheries Service sets quotas for the limited number of boats that have paid handsomely for permits that allow them to fish. Be it halibut, salmon, crab, herring or cod, there is an annual allowable tonnage for the fleet of boats targeting those species. When that tonnage is reached no more fishing is allowed. The NMFS will open and close “seasons” as they see fit to prevent over fishing of fish stocks. Thus, when seasons are open, every minute counts. Boats leave port, locate and catch fish, return to port for unloading and head back to sea. Captain and crew get little or no sleep as they try to squeeze as many trips as possible into these “openings”.
The most critical element to being a successful fisherman is having the instincts to find fish. It is a quality that would seemingly be spread evenly among the skippers. They have all spent years traversing the same expanse of ocean. When they first began fishing these waters and were the new kid on the block, they were on their own. Requests for help in finding fish via marine radio were met with deafening silence. They learned by studying marine charts and by trial and error. Favored spots of veteran skippers were closely guarded secrets. Yet year after year, at the end of each season, the same skippers seem to lead the fleet in fish caught. There is no doubt they possess a sixth sense that puts them in the right place at the right time more often than others. Maybe it’s experience. Maybe it’s the ability to read the birds, the water currents and temperatures and the weather. It is surely a combination of all of these.
When a boat leaves port a decision must be made on where to go. At this time the skipper taps into all his experience and instincts. With the time available severely limited, the decision to fish in one area when the fish are in another, can cost the boat and crew thousands of dollars. Jim was among the best at this and he set a course for an area some 90 miles to the southwest.
The four of us chatted for a while then Jim assigned us each a 3-hour shift during the night when it would be our turn on watch while the others slept. Jimmy and Ray went to their bunks. Jim gave me a quick once over on all the equipment, told me what to watch for and then, as he headed below to his bunk, said “If anything happens, come and get me.” As the newcomer on the boat and while we were still in the lee of the island, I had the first watch.
While standing watch at night on fishing boats the main enemy is sleep. You must stay awake at all cost. Many boats have run aground while a helmsman dozed. Even though the boat is on automatic pilot too many things can go wrong. To a certain extent you are trusting in blind faith as you plow along in total darkness but you can’t complicate things by dozing off. Due to my state of excitement, that was not a concern of mine. I busied myself by keeping an eye on the radar to make sure there were no other vessels in our line of travel and the fathometer to monitor depths while listening to the endless banter on the marine radio among other boats at sea. Some talk merely to stay awake. Others talk in code of the days fishing and their location. At the end of my watch I go below and roust Jimmy out of his bunk. I give him a status report then crawl into my bunk for a few hours sleep.
As we near the targeted fishing grounds just before dawn, Jim’s eyes are fixed on the fathometer. Its screen not only tells him the depth to the oceans floor it also shows everything in between. Fish show up as colored blips. The brightness of certain colors speaks of the volume of fish. Particularly large schools of fish will appear as a constant stream of vivid color, usually orange or yellow, as the boat moves along. Just before daylight a solid stream of yellows and oranges worked their way across the screen. The gamble paid off as now Jim was metering huge schools of cod some 53 to 55 fathoms beneath the surface. It was time to go to work.
The first thing I noticed, when I stepped off the plane in Kodiak, was the overwhelming smell of fish. The nearby fish processing plants which, during the season operate 24 hours a day, and fishing boats of all types that fill the piers and docks, all make their contribution to the smell that hangs over the waterfront. As I was to learn it becomes a part of everything you touch and breathe until you leave the island.
I had not seen Jim for a while. The years of fishing had changed him from the youthful athlete he was in high school to what central casting would send if you asked for a skipper of a fishing boat. He is a little over six feet, blue eyes, with a heavy salt and pepper beard born out of not having the need nor the desire to shave. From years of doing the work fishermen do he had thick shoulders and huge forearms. If he chose to his grip could take you to your knees. I threw my duffle bag into the back of his pickup truck and we headed into town. He told me the boat was fueled, loaded with groceries and ready to leave as soon as we arrived. We made a stop at a fishing supply outfitter to get my slickers, heavy socks, knee high boots and an Alaska commercial fishermans's license, then drove to the docks.
The tides in this area can be extreme. As we approached the Collier Brothers, the tide was so low that we could not see her. It was well below the level of the dock. My first look at her was while leaning over the railing and looking down. Access was by a steep, rickety, wooden ladder that had been nailed to the dock. I climbed a ‘board, Jim threw my gear down to me, and then assigned me a bunk. After meeting Jim’s crew, Ray and Jim’s son-in-law Jimmy, we cast away the lines and the Collier Brothers pulled away from the docks. After a brief stop to take on a load of ice we headed out of St. Paul Harbor across Chiniak Bay and into the Gulf of Alaska just as darkness fell.
All commercial fishing in Alaska is closely regulated. The fishermen will tell you it is overregulated. Cod fishing is no exception. In order to protect and preserve various species of fish, the National Marine Fisheries Service sets quotas for the limited number of boats that have paid handsomely for permits that allow them to fish. Be it halibut, salmon, crab, herring or cod, there is an annual allowable tonnage for the fleet of boats targeting those species. When that tonnage is reached no more fishing is allowed. The NMFS will open and close “seasons” as they see fit to prevent over fishing of fish stocks. Thus, when seasons are open, every minute counts. Boats leave port, locate and catch fish, return to port for unloading and head back to sea. Captain and crew get little or no sleep as they try to squeeze as many trips as possible into these “openings”.
The most critical element to being a successful fisherman is having the instincts to find fish. It is a quality that would seemingly be spread evenly among the skippers. They have all spent years traversing the same expanse of ocean. When they first began fishing these waters and were the new kid on the block, they were on their own. Requests for help in finding fish via marine radio were met with deafening silence. They learned by studying marine charts and by trial and error. Favored spots of veteran skippers were closely guarded secrets. Yet year after year, at the end of each season, the same skippers seem to lead the fleet in fish caught. There is no doubt they possess a sixth sense that puts them in the right place at the right time more often than others. Maybe it’s experience. Maybe it’s the ability to read the birds, the water currents and temperatures and the weather. It is surely a combination of all of these.
When a boat leaves port a decision must be made on where to go. At this time the skipper taps into all his experience and instincts. With the time available severely limited, the decision to fish in one area when the fish are in another, can cost the boat and crew thousands of dollars. Jim was among the best at this and he set a course for an area some 90 miles to the southwest.
The four of us chatted for a while then Jim assigned us each a 3-hour shift during the night when it would be our turn on watch while the others slept. Jimmy and Ray went to their bunks. Jim gave me a quick once over on all the equipment, told me what to watch for and then, as he headed below to his bunk, said “If anything happens, come and get me.” As the newcomer on the boat and while we were still in the lee of the island, I had the first watch.
While standing watch at night on fishing boats the main enemy is sleep. You must stay awake at all cost. Many boats have run aground while a helmsman dozed. Even though the boat is on automatic pilot too many things can go wrong. To a certain extent you are trusting in blind faith as you plow along in total darkness but you can’t complicate things by dozing off. Due to my state of excitement, that was not a concern of mine. I busied myself by keeping an eye on the radar to make sure there were no other vessels in our line of travel and the fathometer to monitor depths while listening to the endless banter on the marine radio among other boats at sea. Some talk merely to stay awake. Others talk in code of the days fishing and their location. At the end of my watch I go below and roust Jimmy out of his bunk. I give him a status report then crawl into my bunk for a few hours sleep.
As we near the targeted fishing grounds just before dawn, Jim’s eyes are fixed on the fathometer. Its screen not only tells him the depth to the oceans floor it also shows everything in between. Fish show up as colored blips. The brightness of certain colors speaks of the volume of fish. Particularly large schools of fish will appear as a constant stream of vivid color, usually orange or yellow, as the boat moves along. Just before daylight a solid stream of yellows and oranges worked their way across the screen. The gamble paid off as now Jim was metering huge schools of cod some 53 to 55 fathoms beneath the surface. It was time to go to work.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
NORTH TO ALASKA / PART 1
As a new season begins for my favorite TV show, "Deadliest Catch", I am reminded again of my own adventures in Alaska. I recently commited my memories to print. Here is Part 1 of North to Alaska.
Like all young kids I had dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up and fantasy’s I hoped to live out at some point in my life. Most boys dream of being firemen or policemen. I dreamed of being a commercial fisherman. Growing up in Newport Beach, California I loved being on, in, under or around the ocean. Gliding over the ocean’s surface I would peer down into the purple blue offshore waters and wonder what strange creatures were between me and the ocean floor. The smell of salty ocean air made me feel as though all was right with the world. And nothing fired my imagination more than watching fishing boats’ return to port.
My grandfather once kidded me for seeing beauty in fishing boats. But to me the sight of a fishing boat plying the ocean in search of fish is as beautiful as a late summer sunset. It represents a way of life. A life, despite its hardships, most fishermen would not trade for a desk job at any price. To most, it is their home for a large part of their lives. The only communication with their families is by way of marine radio or satellite phone. Often it is the choice of several generations as the way to provide for those families. Yes, I see beauty in fishing boats.
As I grew older, it became apparent that there would be those things I dreamed about doing and there would be the real world. I married my best friend and together we devoted the middle part of our lives to giving our four kids a good head start in life. Through those years I occasionally added new dreams to what was now a mental file labeled “Things I Will Do Someday.” With our kids now in pursuit of their own goals and having just sold a family business the “Things I Will Do Someday” file was beginning to work its way from the moth balls of my mind to the forefront of my consciousness.
Being able at the time and in the search mode meant I might pounce if the stars aligned properly.
They did. Jim, a high school buddy and long time fisherman that I had kept in touch with over the years, called. He was part of a fishing family that had been making their living from the sea for three generations. After getting married he chose to raise his family in Newport, Oregon but based his boat, a 90-foot trawler named “Collier Brothers” in Kodiak, Alaska. After going through the obligatory “How are the wife and kids?” phase of the conversation he asked “Why don’t you come up and make a few trips with us?” Mind you, this is February. My geography tells me that Kodiak is well north of the equator and in the Gulf of Alaska. That translates to cold, ice, mountainous seas and more cold. Before I could press the pause button on my brain my mouth blurted out, “I’d love to.” Being too macho to backpedal now I listened as Jim read off a list of things to fill my duffel bag with. All were in some way or other related to cold. We arranged a time to meet a few days hence and I hung up.
I broke the news to my wife and kids that I would be leaving for an undetermined amount of time to go fishing in Alaska. Not the fly casting from the sunny banks of a lovely stream kind of fishing they envisioned, but something their husband/dad always wanted to do. I explained I would be fishing for cod on a trawler. I left out the part about the weather conditions being similar to those seen on the Deadliest Catch TV show. I hit all the Eddie Bauer type stores in town acquiring my list of supplies and I was ready to go. The night before leaving my wife had a bon voyage party for me. Friends and family wished me well. My guy friends told me privately they wished they were going with me. I placed a call to Jim’s wife Sandy to confirm my arrival time. She said Jim would be there to pick me up at the airport and “Oh by the way, it snowed 22 inches in Kodiak yesterday.”
To be continued...
Like all young kids I had dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up and fantasy’s I hoped to live out at some point in my life. Most boys dream of being firemen or policemen. I dreamed of being a commercial fisherman. Growing up in Newport Beach, California I loved being on, in, under or around the ocean. Gliding over the ocean’s surface I would peer down into the purple blue offshore waters and wonder what strange creatures were between me and the ocean floor. The smell of salty ocean air made me feel as though all was right with the world. And nothing fired my imagination more than watching fishing boats’ return to port.
My grandfather once kidded me for seeing beauty in fishing boats. But to me the sight of a fishing boat plying the ocean in search of fish is as beautiful as a late summer sunset. It represents a way of life. A life, despite its hardships, most fishermen would not trade for a desk job at any price. To most, it is their home for a large part of their lives. The only communication with their families is by way of marine radio or satellite phone. Often it is the choice of several generations as the way to provide for those families. Yes, I see beauty in fishing boats.
As I grew older, it became apparent that there would be those things I dreamed about doing and there would be the real world. I married my best friend and together we devoted the middle part of our lives to giving our four kids a good head start in life. Through those years I occasionally added new dreams to what was now a mental file labeled “Things I Will Do Someday.” With our kids now in pursuit of their own goals and having just sold a family business the “Things I Will Do Someday” file was beginning to work its way from the moth balls of my mind to the forefront of my consciousness.
Being able at the time and in the search mode meant I might pounce if the stars aligned properly.
They did. Jim, a high school buddy and long time fisherman that I had kept in touch with over the years, called. He was part of a fishing family that had been making their living from the sea for three generations. After getting married he chose to raise his family in Newport, Oregon but based his boat, a 90-foot trawler named “Collier Brothers” in Kodiak, Alaska. After going through the obligatory “How are the wife and kids?” phase of the conversation he asked “Why don’t you come up and make a few trips with us?” Mind you, this is February. My geography tells me that Kodiak is well north of the equator and in the Gulf of Alaska. That translates to cold, ice, mountainous seas and more cold. Before I could press the pause button on my brain my mouth blurted out, “I’d love to.” Being too macho to backpedal now I listened as Jim read off a list of things to fill my duffel bag with. All were in some way or other related to cold. We arranged a time to meet a few days hence and I hung up.
I broke the news to my wife and kids that I would be leaving for an undetermined amount of time to go fishing in Alaska. Not the fly casting from the sunny banks of a lovely stream kind of fishing they envisioned, but something their husband/dad always wanted to do. I explained I would be fishing for cod on a trawler. I left out the part about the weather conditions being similar to those seen on the Deadliest Catch TV show. I hit all the Eddie Bauer type stores in town acquiring my list of supplies and I was ready to go. The night before leaving my wife had a bon voyage party for me. Friends and family wished me well. My guy friends told me privately they wished they were going with me. I placed a call to Jim’s wife Sandy to confirm my arrival time. She said Jim would be there to pick me up at the airport and “Oh by the way, it snowed 22 inches in Kodiak yesterday.”
To be continued...
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
THE BEACH
My good friend Dave called me. He, his sister Anna and his son Kellen, visiting from Wales, were down at the beach and asked me to join them. For those of you who may not know, I am fortunate enough to live about a drive and a 4 iron from the beach. Except for leisurely strolls or sessions spent sitting on the sand and staring out to sea while pondering the true meaning of life, I don’t visit the beach too often this time of year. Contrary to the perception that because we have a few palm trees in southern California and therefore it is always warm, there are some cold stretches, at least cold by our standards.
This day was not one of them. It was near 80 degrees, nary a breath of wind, clear enough that Catalina Island, some 26 miles away, appeared reach-out-and-touch close, and San Clemente Island, some 50 miles distant was easily visible, even for old eyes. A few sail boats were searching for ripples indicating wind, a fishing boat or two, families enjoying the best of their Easter week vacation, warm sand, the smell of salt air and a good beach chair. Ahhhh the beach. It is good at any time of year in any kind of weather but today she was at her best.
We just soaked up the sun and chatted. Kellen talked of his school life in Wales, his love of soccer and his favorite team, Chelsea. Anna spoke of her upcoming “Bucket List” trip to the Masters golf tournament with her family. Dave told of his planned business trip to the panhandle of Florida, but mostly beamed with pride of his son Kellen, treasuring every minute of their time together.
Because we could not persuade the local pizza place to deliver to us on the beach, Dave left briefly and returned with piping hot Canadian bacon and pineapple, my favorite. We frittered away the afternoon. Another day in paradise.
This day was not one of them. It was near 80 degrees, nary a breath of wind, clear enough that Catalina Island, some 26 miles away, appeared reach-out-and-touch close, and San Clemente Island, some 50 miles distant was easily visible, even for old eyes. A few sail boats were searching for ripples indicating wind, a fishing boat or two, families enjoying the best of their Easter week vacation, warm sand, the smell of salt air and a good beach chair. Ahhhh the beach. It is good at any time of year in any kind of weather but today she was at her best.
We just soaked up the sun and chatted. Kellen talked of his school life in Wales, his love of soccer and his favorite team, Chelsea. Anna spoke of her upcoming “Bucket List” trip to the Masters golf tournament with her family. Dave told of his planned business trip to the panhandle of Florida, but mostly beamed with pride of his son Kellen, treasuring every minute of their time together.
Because we could not persuade the local pizza place to deliver to us on the beach, Dave left briefly and returned with piping hot Canadian bacon and pineapple, my favorite. We frittered away the afternoon. Another day in paradise.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
THANK GOD FOR TEXAS
On a recent trip to Texas something struck me. Being from southern California and an ardent sports fan I am always observing athletic fields, parks and other exercise venues as I cruise the southland. And being someone who feels strongly that our nation’s human inhabitants need to get off their duff and do something, I have noticed one disturbing trend that has gotten progressively worse, and it bothers me no end. You never see any goal posts anymore. You see soccer goals galore, but no goal posts.
The trip to the aforementioned land of Friday Night Lights did much to restore my faith in our country. Maybe I had been leading a sheltered life here in southern California. Maybe I just needed to venture east of the state line to realize there is still hope. Texas has goal posts galore. Not just on high school and college football fields but parks have them too. Lots and lots of goal posts. And their football fields make a man proud. Well manicured with substantial bleachers that are packed on game days and nights. As you drive through the cities and small towns you are left with the distinct feeling that football matters here. It is still an important part of their sports fabric.
Now I have nothing against soccer. Not everyone can play football and it is good there are other options for those who, because of size, culture, or whatever, chose not to play football. I am all for anything, ANYTHING, that gets our kids off the couch, out from behind the computer and out of the house, running and jumping in gymnasiums, on courts and fields until they are plumb tuckered out.
All I am saying is more power to all sports, it’s all good. Just be sure one of those sports we preserve is football. I was beginning to doubt our countries desire to do so. My trip to Texas provided me the reassurance I needed.
The trip to the aforementioned land of Friday Night Lights did much to restore my faith in our country. Maybe I had been leading a sheltered life here in southern California. Maybe I just needed to venture east of the state line to realize there is still hope. Texas has goal posts galore. Not just on high school and college football fields but parks have them too. Lots and lots of goal posts. And their football fields make a man proud. Well manicured with substantial bleachers that are packed on game days and nights. As you drive through the cities and small towns you are left with the distinct feeling that football matters here. It is still an important part of their sports fabric.
Now I have nothing against soccer. Not everyone can play football and it is good there are other options for those who, because of size, culture, or whatever, chose not to play football. I am all for anything, ANYTHING, that gets our kids off the couch, out from behind the computer and out of the house, running and jumping in gymnasiums, on courts and fields until they are plumb tuckered out.
All I am saying is more power to all sports, it’s all good. Just be sure one of those sports we preserve is football. I was beginning to doubt our countries desire to do so. My trip to Texas provided me the reassurance I needed.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
GANJA, WHATEVER THAT IS
We were contemplating what to do. A tough decision when you are lounging under a thatched roof umbrella in the hot June sun on the beautiful island of St. Lucia. While contemplating, we would take a few steps across the hot sand to cool off in crystal clear water. The decision we were wrestling with was whether to hire one of the brightly colored skiffs frequenting our beach, to take us up the island for a visit to Castries, the island capital, some snorkeling and lunch. These skiffs would cruise slowly back and forth along the beach seeking a fare. We decided we would chat with one of the “captains” to assess our options.
From my lounge chair I motioned to one of them that we would like to talk. He pulled his bow up to the shore and jumped off while his crewman held the skiff in the calm waters. I mentioned that we would like to make a trip up to Castries, where all the cruise ships stop, to do some shopping. On the way back maybe stop for lunch at a waterfront restaurant and then some snorkeling. We settled on a price and agreed to meet on the beach the next morning at ten.
As he was about to leave, he says “Hey Mon, would you like me to bring some Ganja.” I said “What?” He repeated “Would you like me to bring some Ganja?” With a puzzled look on my face I looked at my wife “What did he say?” With a lot better hearing than I have and much more street smarts, she said “He wants to know if you want some drugs?” Not really knowing what to say I blurted out “No thank you.” He said “That’s OK, we can still be friends.” I know I have to get out more but I was caught off guard. I had no idea what he was talking about. That night I relayed the experience by phone to my daughter back in California. I asked her if she had ever heard of Ganja. She said she had. Am I the only one who hasn’t?
We had a wonderful trip the next day with no further mention of Ganja. Several times after that, while lounging on the beach, I did notice our skiff would pull up to the shore, the crewman would jump off, walk into the palm trees, exchange something with someone, then return to the skiff and away they would go.
Shortly after returning home I watched the movie Ganja Queen. It is the true story of an Australian woman sentenced to 20 years in an Indonesian prison for allegedly trying to smuggle Ganja into the country. I broke into a cold sweat as I thought back to that day on the beach. But for the grace of God I could be in the big house on a sultry Caribbean island.
From my lounge chair I motioned to one of them that we would like to talk. He pulled his bow up to the shore and jumped off while his crewman held the skiff in the calm waters. I mentioned that we would like to make a trip up to Castries, where all the cruise ships stop, to do some shopping. On the way back maybe stop for lunch at a waterfront restaurant and then some snorkeling. We settled on a price and agreed to meet on the beach the next morning at ten.
As he was about to leave, he says “Hey Mon, would you like me to bring some Ganja.” I said “What?” He repeated “Would you like me to bring some Ganja?” With a puzzled look on my face I looked at my wife “What did he say?” With a lot better hearing than I have and much more street smarts, she said “He wants to know if you want some drugs?” Not really knowing what to say I blurted out “No thank you.” He said “That’s OK, we can still be friends.” I know I have to get out more but I was caught off guard. I had no idea what he was talking about. That night I relayed the experience by phone to my daughter back in California. I asked her if she had ever heard of Ganja. She said she had. Am I the only one who hasn’t?
We had a wonderful trip the next day with no further mention of Ganja. Several times after that, while lounging on the beach, I did notice our skiff would pull up to the shore, the crewman would jump off, walk into the palm trees, exchange something with someone, then return to the skiff and away they would go.
Shortly after returning home I watched the movie Ganja Queen. It is the true story of an Australian woman sentenced to 20 years in an Indonesian prison for allegedly trying to smuggle Ganja into the country. I broke into a cold sweat as I thought back to that day on the beach. But for the grace of God I could be in the big house on a sultry Caribbean island.
Monday, April 5, 2010
HOLIDAYS
Holidays are important to our family. Since I was a child our family has made every effort to make holiday’s special occasions. Thank God they did and still do. The opportunity to see those I might not have seen for some time, to catch up on what they are doing, how many kids they have, who’s married to who, all provide me with mental snapshots of years gone by. Seemingly trivial stuff, yet oh so important in keeping families ties at full strength. Most of which I would not have without holidays.
Fortunately the trend continues. As always, Easter is special. Being Catholic, maybe it’s the religious aspect to the day but Easter has a way of reinforcing thoughts of what is really important in life. Unlike most holidays, everyone dresses up in a variety of pressed pants, dresses and pastels. The kids are scrubbed with slicked back hair. Everyone mingles.
Yesterday it was our son who hosted everyone. As usual, all were assigned a task. In our case we were to bring a salad and bake a cake. Terry specializes in cakes. She leans heavily toward pleasing the kids with a 3 layer blood sugar time bomb adorned with Sponge Bob, Wall-E, little cars and trucks and jelly beans. After a spirited Easter egg hunt, during which miraculously all the kids came up with about the same number of eggs, dinner, preceded by grace, was served.
As we drove home last night I had a warm feeling. Thankfully we all live close enough to have these gatherings and thankfully we have families that make the effort to continue them.
Fortunately the trend continues. As always, Easter is special. Being Catholic, maybe it’s the religious aspect to the day but Easter has a way of reinforcing thoughts of what is really important in life. Unlike most holidays, everyone dresses up in a variety of pressed pants, dresses and pastels. The kids are scrubbed with slicked back hair. Everyone mingles.
Yesterday it was our son who hosted everyone. As usual, all were assigned a task. In our case we were to bring a salad and bake a cake. Terry specializes in cakes. She leans heavily toward pleasing the kids with a 3 layer blood sugar time bomb adorned with Sponge Bob, Wall-E, little cars and trucks and jelly beans. After a spirited Easter egg hunt, during which miraculously all the kids came up with about the same number of eggs, dinner, preceded by grace, was served.
As we drove home last night I had a warm feeling. Thankfully we all live close enough to have these gatherings and thankfully we have families that make the effort to continue them.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
MIRACLE
After some earlier problems a good friend and his wife were blessed today with the birth a healthy baby. It reminded me of that time in my life. Like anyone else I have memories of very profound moments. Things that I experienced that were so moving that their impact remains with me, in vivid detail, to this day. The arrival of your baby is most certainly one of those moments, but that is not what I am referring to here. It is what happens several days later.
Our kids are old enough that their mother was not subject to the in today, out tomorrow, delivery routine that is standard for today’s mothers. My wife stayed for several days, as was the custom at the time. So Dad, being me, was allowed to see Mom and the new addition to the family during brief visiting hours until they were released to go home.
I arrived at the hospital on the designated day at the designated time to bring them home. After going home to an empty house each night, I was more than ready. After making a trip to my car with a cart full of flowers from their room, I returned to find my wife waiting for me in a wheel chair with a tightly wrapped baby in her arms. One of the nurses went with us as we went down the elevator and out a long hall way to our parked car.
The nurse helped us into the car, we thanked her and as I turned to close the car door the enormity of everything flooded over me. My wife and I had created this living breathing soul, which had entered this world in this hospital. We were now leaving the safety and security of this place to venture forth. The journey of this soul would largely be determined by us. Certain things would be left to genes but most would be shaped by us as mother and father. What an enormous, enormous responsibility.
We have had this experience four times, each one no less profound than the other.
Our kids are old enough that their mother was not subject to the in today, out tomorrow, delivery routine that is standard for today’s mothers. My wife stayed for several days, as was the custom at the time. So Dad, being me, was allowed to see Mom and the new addition to the family during brief visiting hours until they were released to go home.
I arrived at the hospital on the designated day at the designated time to bring them home. After going home to an empty house each night, I was more than ready. After making a trip to my car with a cart full of flowers from their room, I returned to find my wife waiting for me in a wheel chair with a tightly wrapped baby in her arms. One of the nurses went with us as we went down the elevator and out a long hall way to our parked car.
The nurse helped us into the car, we thanked her and as I turned to close the car door the enormity of everything flooded over me. My wife and I had created this living breathing soul, which had entered this world in this hospital. We were now leaving the safety and security of this place to venture forth. The journey of this soul would largely be determined by us. Certain things would be left to genes but most would be shaped by us as mother and father. What an enormous, enormous responsibility.
We have had this experience four times, each one no less profound than the other.
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