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.