During the televising of the opening ceremonies for the Indianapolis 500 today ABC seemingly focused more on the military aspect of the ceremonies than past years. The producer responsible should be applauded as it is, after all, an observance of Memorial Day. The ceremony was concluded with the playing of “TAPS” by a solo trumpet player. The stillness of thousands of race fans was deafening as the notes carried to the far reaches of the Brickyard. I am sure this somber moment stirred emotions of all kinds in those present as well as the millions watching around the world, each one with their own thoughts. These are mine.
Unlike the military conflicts that followed, World War II sparked an across-the-board patriotism that united everyone in the war effort. Each wanted to do their part. This included my cousin Art Jr. He followed the newspaper and radio reports of the progress on the battlefront and was well aware the war was winding down. At this time in history he was desperate to serve his country. He had one big stumbling block. He was under the minimum age required to enlist in the Army. Worse yet, to him, he would not reach the required age until past the projected end to the war. He had a solution.
He would talk his mother into signing a document testifying to a false birth date that would allow him to meet the minimum age requirement. For weeks he begged her to sign. She was steadfast in not doing so. With the fighting near its end, she relented. It was the proudest day of his life as he left the recruitment office as a member of the United States Army.
He participated in an accelerated boot camp and boarded a ship bound for the European theater. Somewhere in Germany, while protecting a tank crossing a clearing, he was shot and killed. A few short weeks later the war ended.
As one can imagine, life for his mother Francis and his father Art, would never be the same. A post war military ceremony presenting them with their son’s medal for bravery in combat, while a proud moment, did little to stem their unimaginable grief.
We must never forget.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
IT'S A FISH
Have you ever watched “Shark Week” or any of the many scientific shows about sharks? Some overly tanned guy or girl decked out from A to Z in Patagonia type wear is reverentially talking about sharks as “magnificent animals” while making every effort to convince you that sharks are equivalent to a cuddly pussycat. That kind of talk may fly in academia nerd land but not out here amongst real people.
As to the assertion that sharks are magnificent animals I have two thoughts. First, I have no quarrel with magnificent. They are indeed. If you have ever witnessed one of the more manly sharks, such as a great white, hammerhead or mako, in full flight doing what they do best, it is magnificent indeed. Their creator gave them all the tools to both talk the talk and walk the walk. They are at the top of the shark food chain. Numerous other sharks fill in below them and each in their own way is equally magnificent. There is also no doubt as to their vital role in the marine eco-system.
Where they lose me is with the assertion that sharks are animals. Again, maybe that is academia talking but let me give you my side. They are not animals, they are fish. Animals have hair. Animals can walk on land. Animals do not spend their entire life submerged in water and they do not have gills. While some are great swimmers they must come up for air or die. At great depths sharks are laid-back comfortable while an animal would burst like a balloon. Sharks, animals, I think not. Let’s just call a fish a fish.
As to them being cuddly pussycats, ahhhhh, no. Those tanned, Patagonia clad people can stand there all they want in that knee deep water surrounded by circling sharks, I’m not buying it. They’ve been trained like Pavlov’s dog to expect a feeding at that time everyday. What do you think they are going to do, bite the hand that feeds them? As for the guy suspended in mid-ocean while sharks meander by to check him out, he just happened to catch them on a good day. A word of warning, don’t piss them off. Show any signs of weakness or, God forbid, drop a thimble full of blood in the water and he will be lucky to make it to the surface in one piece. It’s a good bet several limbs will be missing. When on their turf they make horrible enemies. Do no try to be their friend. I wish them no harm but I will observe from a boat or a beach, thank you.
And don’t get me started on these same people referring to a porpoise as a dolphin. Maybe in some scientific journal with a long Latin description the name “dolphin” might be used to describe a porpoise but in the real world a dolphin is a fish. It is brightly colored, favors warm water and has a normal fish tail, not a sideways tail like a porpoise. They are called dorado in Mexico and mahi-mahi in Hawaii. Flipper was a porpoise, not a dolphin.
As to the assertion that sharks are magnificent animals I have two thoughts. First, I have no quarrel with magnificent. They are indeed. If you have ever witnessed one of the more manly sharks, such as a great white, hammerhead or mako, in full flight doing what they do best, it is magnificent indeed. Their creator gave them all the tools to both talk the talk and walk the walk. They are at the top of the shark food chain. Numerous other sharks fill in below them and each in their own way is equally magnificent. There is also no doubt as to their vital role in the marine eco-system.
Where they lose me is with the assertion that sharks are animals. Again, maybe that is academia talking but let me give you my side. They are not animals, they are fish. Animals have hair. Animals can walk on land. Animals do not spend their entire life submerged in water and they do not have gills. While some are great swimmers they must come up for air or die. At great depths sharks are laid-back comfortable while an animal would burst like a balloon. Sharks, animals, I think not. Let’s just call a fish a fish.
As to them being cuddly pussycats, ahhhhh, no. Those tanned, Patagonia clad people can stand there all they want in that knee deep water surrounded by circling sharks, I’m not buying it. They’ve been trained like Pavlov’s dog to expect a feeding at that time everyday. What do you think they are going to do, bite the hand that feeds them? As for the guy suspended in mid-ocean while sharks meander by to check him out, he just happened to catch them on a good day. A word of warning, don’t piss them off. Show any signs of weakness or, God forbid, drop a thimble full of blood in the water and he will be lucky to make it to the surface in one piece. It’s a good bet several limbs will be missing. When on their turf they make horrible enemies. Do no try to be their friend. I wish them no harm but I will observe from a boat or a beach, thank you.
And don’t get me started on these same people referring to a porpoise as a dolphin. Maybe in some scientific journal with a long Latin description the name “dolphin” might be used to describe a porpoise but in the real world a dolphin is a fish. It is brightly colored, favors warm water and has a normal fish tail, not a sideways tail like a porpoise. They are called dorado in Mexico and mahi-mahi in Hawaii. Flipper was a porpoise, not a dolphin.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
FISHING
This blog could be about anything a man or woman enjoys doing when given the time and freedom to do whatever they choose. With some that could be camping, sailing or skiing. In my case that’s fishing. More specifically, salt water fishing in southern California. I grew up in a seaside town in the years before over fishing took its toll. Newport Beach had a thriving fishing fleet consisting of commercial fishermen, private boats and several charter boat landings that operated around the clock. There was even a working cannery that processed mackerel, sardines, tuna and albacore. The summer months were rocking as the waterfront bustled with fuel docks, tackle stores, bait shops and everything maritime. I was in paradise.
My earliest memories of fishing always involved my Dad. We were fortunate in that we had a fishing boat and every week end from June to October was spent on the water. The early part of the season was spent fishing albacore. If there were lulls in the albacore action we would fish the kelp beds for yellowtail, white sea bass, barracuda and other near shore fish. Later in the summer, as the water warmed, marlin were the target and we were always, always, on the look out for the ultimate prize, broadbill swordfish.
Occasional late summer weekends were spent on a mooring in Avalon on Catalina Island. A scant 26 miles from Newport Beach yet a world apart. Days were spent laying in the sun or languishing in crystal clear water. At night everyone would take a water taxi ashore for dinner, a movie or listening to bands in jammed packed night clubs.
My Dad taught me how to bait a hook, handle a rod and reel and to be patient when there was a strike. There were lessons in courtesy to other fishermen, laws of the sea and respect for the ocean. All night runs to offshore fishing grounds and endless hours of searching for fish provided priceless opportunity for my Dad to impart to me his thoughts on how life should be lived, integrity and honesty.
All those years I thought it was about the fishing. It wasn’t until I became a father myself and began the same journey with my kids that I realized it is not about catching fish. It is about coming to the realization that sharing something you love with someone you love is right up there with the most important things you will do in your life. My Dad and I established closeness beyond words.
I went down the same path with my kids. There were some differences, for example, yielding to their wishes all fish are now released if at all possible. But I tried hard to pass on to them those lessons that my Dad had indelibly stamped in my mind. The intent was there, you would have to ask them if I was successful.
My earliest memories of fishing always involved my Dad. We were fortunate in that we had a fishing boat and every week end from June to October was spent on the water. The early part of the season was spent fishing albacore. If there were lulls in the albacore action we would fish the kelp beds for yellowtail, white sea bass, barracuda and other near shore fish. Later in the summer, as the water warmed, marlin were the target and we were always, always, on the look out for the ultimate prize, broadbill swordfish.
Occasional late summer weekends were spent on a mooring in Avalon on Catalina Island. A scant 26 miles from Newport Beach yet a world apart. Days were spent laying in the sun or languishing in crystal clear water. At night everyone would take a water taxi ashore for dinner, a movie or listening to bands in jammed packed night clubs.
My Dad taught me how to bait a hook, handle a rod and reel and to be patient when there was a strike. There were lessons in courtesy to other fishermen, laws of the sea and respect for the ocean. All night runs to offshore fishing grounds and endless hours of searching for fish provided priceless opportunity for my Dad to impart to me his thoughts on how life should be lived, integrity and honesty.
All those years I thought it was about the fishing. It wasn’t until I became a father myself and began the same journey with my kids that I realized it is not about catching fish. It is about coming to the realization that sharing something you love with someone you love is right up there with the most important things you will do in your life. My Dad and I established closeness beyond words.
I went down the same path with my kids. There were some differences, for example, yielding to their wishes all fish are now released if at all possible. But I tried hard to pass on to them those lessons that my Dad had indelibly stamped in my mind. The intent was there, you would have to ask them if I was successful.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
THE GREATEST COMPUTER EVER MADE
I am not a computer geek. If I have to use one I get on, do what I have to do, then get off. About as close as I come to goofing off on my computer is when I am researching something and I follow links off into nowhere. But even with my rather novice level of knowledge I am blown away but what computers are capable of doing. And what they are capable of doing, as experts often remind us, increases exponentially every year. Civilization has never seen anything like it. Oh but we have.
It has been around as long as there have been human beings on earth. It is the human mind. Webster defines a computer as “programmable usually electronic device that can store, retrieve, and process data”. Stating that a computer is usually an electronic device means it can be other than electronic. The human mind is definitely programmable and it can most certainly store, retrieve, and process data. Thus, the human mind qualifies. I contend the human mind is the greatest computer ever made.
Take my brain for example. I have no idea how many gigs of memory I have. For the sake of this blog I will assume I am about average. We will leave people like Einstein out of this as I am sure he would have been off the chart with gigs. My brain has been programmed through my parent’s upbringing, my education, religion and many other factors. I have stored a lifetime worth of data which I retrieve and process as needed in order to function as a normal human being. Somewhere along the way my brain picked up its sense of morals and ethics. I am pretty sure a PC does not have morals or ethics. I am two up right there.
Where I start to kick ass is with the intangibles. I once heard a certifiable genius say when trying to recall something “I know it’s in there (my mind), I just have to find it”. Somewhere in my mind is everything I ever experienced. That includes every word I’ve ever learned, every song I know, books I’ve read and on and on. Where I really trump the PC is that with a good many of my experiences there is passion, love, sorrow and a bushel full of other emotions. The PC is heartless. The photos downloaded to her invoke no feelings. The images I have in my brain bring forth everything from sweet memories to those I would like to erase. Then there is the added bonus that I have the ability to reason. Given options, I can analyze them and their consequences and make a decision.
I often have to think hard to recall things that have happened throughout my life and yet sometimes I have total recall in vivid color of my childhood many gigs ago. All of this by simply letting my mind wander. No need to enter a code or a password. It’s all there. I am logged on 24/7.
Maybe I could participate in a pay-per-view event, me against a PC. It could be staged in enemy territory, say, Silicon Valley. The eyes of the world would be on us as we take our positions on stage, one of us on each side of a moderator. Someone would have to feed the questions to my opponent. I, of course, would need no such help. There is no doubt the PC would jump off to an early lead with its blinding speed. I would be the proverbial tortoise. But over time it would become clear to the world that this is a mismatch. The PC may have more bits of memory and no doubt quicker recall but that is where the superiority ends. Throw it a curve ball and you will get a blank stare.
Think of how much data is gathered and how quickly it is processed when the human brain is forced to make a split second decision? In addition, there is often a judgment call to make in that split second. In that instant the brain must assess the situation, tap into its knowledge of all the elements involved, evaluate the options and their consequences, decide what action to take and then send a message to all the nerves and muscles involved to execute that action.
Can the PC do this? I think not.
I rest my case.
It has been around as long as there have been human beings on earth. It is the human mind. Webster defines a computer as “programmable usually electronic device that can store, retrieve, and process data”. Stating that a computer is usually an electronic device means it can be other than electronic. The human mind is definitely programmable and it can most certainly store, retrieve, and process data. Thus, the human mind qualifies. I contend the human mind is the greatest computer ever made.
Take my brain for example. I have no idea how many gigs of memory I have. For the sake of this blog I will assume I am about average. We will leave people like Einstein out of this as I am sure he would have been off the chart with gigs. My brain has been programmed through my parent’s upbringing, my education, religion and many other factors. I have stored a lifetime worth of data which I retrieve and process as needed in order to function as a normal human being. Somewhere along the way my brain picked up its sense of morals and ethics. I am pretty sure a PC does not have morals or ethics. I am two up right there.
Where I start to kick ass is with the intangibles. I once heard a certifiable genius say when trying to recall something “I know it’s in there (my mind), I just have to find it”. Somewhere in my mind is everything I ever experienced. That includes every word I’ve ever learned, every song I know, books I’ve read and on and on. Where I really trump the PC is that with a good many of my experiences there is passion, love, sorrow and a bushel full of other emotions. The PC is heartless. The photos downloaded to her invoke no feelings. The images I have in my brain bring forth everything from sweet memories to those I would like to erase. Then there is the added bonus that I have the ability to reason. Given options, I can analyze them and their consequences and make a decision.
I often have to think hard to recall things that have happened throughout my life and yet sometimes I have total recall in vivid color of my childhood many gigs ago. All of this by simply letting my mind wander. No need to enter a code or a password. It’s all there. I am logged on 24/7.
Maybe I could participate in a pay-per-view event, me against a PC. It could be staged in enemy territory, say, Silicon Valley. The eyes of the world would be on us as we take our positions on stage, one of us on each side of a moderator. Someone would have to feed the questions to my opponent. I, of course, would need no such help. There is no doubt the PC would jump off to an early lead with its blinding speed. I would be the proverbial tortoise. But over time it would become clear to the world that this is a mismatch. The PC may have more bits of memory and no doubt quicker recall but that is where the superiority ends. Throw it a curve ball and you will get a blank stare.
Think of how much data is gathered and how quickly it is processed when the human brain is forced to make a split second decision? In addition, there is often a judgment call to make in that split second. In that instant the brain must assess the situation, tap into its knowledge of all the elements involved, evaluate the options and their consequences, decide what action to take and then send a message to all the nerves and muscles involved to execute that action.
Can the PC do this? I think not.
I rest my case.
Monday, May 10, 2010
NORTH TO ALASKA / FINAL CHAPTER / GOING HOME
The sound of the engine’s slowing woke me the next morning at daylight. I glanced out the porthole to see that we were entering the harbor at Kodiak. Even though we were now inside the harbor and in the lee of the island the wind was still howling. I joined the others in the wheelhouse as we approached the dock. Jim was bleary eyed from being up the day before and all last night. He told me that the wind had held steady at 60 knots all night.
As we moved slowly through the harbor the resident seals and enormous sea lion’s, trailed along in our wake, knowing full well that we were returning with a load of fish. Hopeful of being cast a morsel they looked up at us with their big brown eyes while pleading with their baleful bark. The more aggressive ones would jump up onto the ramp.
Because of the high winds my job was to get a stern line tied to a cleat on the dock as quickly as possible to act as a spring line in pulling the boat to the dock. This was when I fully realized the extent of my fatigue. I could not tie the line. Even though it was frozen, I normally would have been able to bend it enough to take a couple of turns around the cleat. But the muscles in my arms and hands were so depleted from bleeding thousands of fish and shoveling ice that I was helpless. The others watched as I fumbled around to no avail while the wind blew us away from the dock, forcing us to go around again for a second attempt. This time, with help from Jimmy, we were successful.
Climbing up the ladder and onto the dock, I looked down on the boat. The Collier Brothers was a sight to behold. There was not an inch of the boat, from the deck up that was not covered with ice. Even the radio antenna’s high atop the mast. And all of this whiteness was not from snow but flash-frozen salt water spray. Jim phoned the fish plant to find out when we could unload. We would have to wait a couple of hours while they finished another boat, so we took advantage of the wait to take our first shower in six days. The hot shower felt great but any thought of feeling clean is overridden by the ever present smell of fish.
I thought the smell could not get any more pervasive until we tied up at the fish plant. Now it was magnified many times over. Every commercially caught fish within miles goes through this plant on their journey by air freight or container ship to table tops all over the world. The cod from our trip would be processed as filets and then shipped to the Orient. During the various seasons the processing goes on 24hours a day.
The offloading of the fish is done by the plant workers. A man with a large tube that acts as a vacuum cleaner, descends into the fish holds, and by moving the tube back and forth, sucks the fish up the tube and onto conveyor belts on the dock. These conveyor belts then move the fish inside the plant for processing. It is gruesome work. As if it is not cold enough to begin with, he is standing in and sloshing through iced down fish for hours. Occasionally I would glance down into the hold to check his progress. There he would be, dressed like an Eskimo, hunched over, every breath a cloud of frost, while moving from side to side. The pile of fish seemingly scant inches shorter than it was the last time I looked. When you think about it, 200,000 pounds of fish is a lot of fish to be sucked into a tube.
Once inside the plant rows and rows of men and women dressed in what look like surgical gowns and hunched over the conveyor belts, each do their part to process tons of fish that only hours earlier were swimming some 300 plus feet below the surface of the Gulf of Alaska, to a packaged, finished product, ready to be shipped.
Jimmy and Ray headed into town for a little R & R. It is a hazard of the trade that fishermen often get carried away with their R & R and don’t return in time for their boat’s scheduled departure. The lucrative pay and temptations ashore prove too irresistible for some, leaving skippers scrambling to find replacements at the last minute. Because of uncertainty of the openings and their duration, the boats cannot afford to wait. Many a crewman has returned to the dock only to find his boat has left without him.
While we were waiting, Jim took me with him to the plant office to take care of some business. Accounts must be settled and like any business there is give and take. Fishermen may ask for advances against future catches to meet pressing fuel bills. Fish plants may ask fishermen to be patient during slow times.
As they were talking, I noticed a public phone down the hall. I decided to call Terry to tell her we were back safe from our first trip. Ever since the end of the first days fishing my right brain had been asking my left brain “What in the hell were you thinking when you decided to do this? It was a noble thought and all to satisfy a boyhood dream but isn’t this a bit much? You’re not a kid anymore”. My left brain would answer “It’s something I’ve wanted to do my entire life, I just have to suck it up and work my way into shape”. With the sound of Terry’s voice I knew in an instant that the right brain was the voice of reason if not sanity. When she talks, she radiates sunshine. I knew what I had to do.
I sat on a bench outside the office waiting for Jim, struggling with what I would say. There were many reasons for deciding not to make another trip but two in particular. While I had some idea, I grossly underestimated the physical demands of the job. It truly is a young man’s game. The exhaustive physical efforts with minimal sleep for days, and often weeks on end, are very taxing. It is possible with the added experience and toughening up that would come with additional trips, I would eventually become a half decent crewman. But that leads me to my second reason. I do not like being away from home. Somehow, the fishermen doing this for a living have come to grips with that aspect of their life’s work. Their wives and families do the best they can to compensate for their extended absence. As difficult as it is for all involved, it is what they have chosen to do for a living. As much as I love the ocean, I do not depend on it to sustain my family. To me, to be away from my wife and kids for any length of time, merely to indulge a fantasy of mine, is rather selfish at best.
Jim emerged from the office, seemingly pleased with himself. As we walked back to the boat I told him of my decision to abbreviate my commercial fishing career. As much as he tried to act surprised, he failed miserably. I got the feeling he knew from the moment I asked to fish with him that it would be short and not so sweet. He had been doing this since he fished with his Dad, brailing mackerel at Catalina Island in southern California in the winter and fishing albacore in the summer. He knew full well the rigors of the job and that my age was against me. But he was also a very good friend. I had made an albacore trip with him in high school and we had endless conversations over the years about fishing, so he knew this was important to me. As predictable as the outcome was, he was willing to give me a taste of what fishing in Alaska was like.
I had an open ended return airline ticket because I was unsure of when I would return home. Fortunately, I was able to book a flight out the next morning. After dinner aboard the boat, I watched the ongoing unloading process for a while, then fell asleep in my bunk, content in the knowledge that I was going home.
The next morning, after the last of the fish had been unloaded and the boat de-iced with high pressure steam hoses, we moved the Collier Brothers to its home dock, so waiting boats could unload their catch. I stuffed my clothes into a duffel bag, said good by to Jimmy and Ray and then rode to the airport with Jim in his pickup truck. As my plane took off and banked left toward Anchorage, I got a brief look at Kodiak before ascending into the low, thick cloud cover. The ocean and sky were still slate gray, the wind was still howling and there were white caps everywhere. I thought about Jim, who would be heading back out into the Gulf about the same time I would be changing planes in Anchorage.
I arrived in Orange County at 10:40 that night in a driving rain storm. Walking through the terminal I felt like Charlie Browns friend Pigpen as a cloud of fish smell moved with me. Terry, my kids and my brother Mike were there to greet me. I felt a bit sheepish at the thought that a scant week ago they were here to see me off on my great adventure, not knowing when I would return. Terry still jokes that the dishes were still in the sink from my going away party. She discreetly placed my duffel bag outside the house. Even though I was unshaven, had bloodshot eyes’ and a gash over my right eye, I was one happy guy.
As we moved slowly through the harbor the resident seals and enormous sea lion’s, trailed along in our wake, knowing full well that we were returning with a load of fish. Hopeful of being cast a morsel they looked up at us with their big brown eyes while pleading with their baleful bark. The more aggressive ones would jump up onto the ramp.
Because of the high winds my job was to get a stern line tied to a cleat on the dock as quickly as possible to act as a spring line in pulling the boat to the dock. This was when I fully realized the extent of my fatigue. I could not tie the line. Even though it was frozen, I normally would have been able to bend it enough to take a couple of turns around the cleat. But the muscles in my arms and hands were so depleted from bleeding thousands of fish and shoveling ice that I was helpless. The others watched as I fumbled around to no avail while the wind blew us away from the dock, forcing us to go around again for a second attempt. This time, with help from Jimmy, we were successful.
Climbing up the ladder and onto the dock, I looked down on the boat. The Collier Brothers was a sight to behold. There was not an inch of the boat, from the deck up that was not covered with ice. Even the radio antenna’s high atop the mast. And all of this whiteness was not from snow but flash-frozen salt water spray. Jim phoned the fish plant to find out when we could unload. We would have to wait a couple of hours while they finished another boat, so we took advantage of the wait to take our first shower in six days. The hot shower felt great but any thought of feeling clean is overridden by the ever present smell of fish.
I thought the smell could not get any more pervasive until we tied up at the fish plant. Now it was magnified many times over. Every commercially caught fish within miles goes through this plant on their journey by air freight or container ship to table tops all over the world. The cod from our trip would be processed as filets and then shipped to the Orient. During the various seasons the processing goes on 24hours a day.
The offloading of the fish is done by the plant workers. A man with a large tube that acts as a vacuum cleaner, descends into the fish holds, and by moving the tube back and forth, sucks the fish up the tube and onto conveyor belts on the dock. These conveyor belts then move the fish inside the plant for processing. It is gruesome work. As if it is not cold enough to begin with, he is standing in and sloshing through iced down fish for hours. Occasionally I would glance down into the hold to check his progress. There he would be, dressed like an Eskimo, hunched over, every breath a cloud of frost, while moving from side to side. The pile of fish seemingly scant inches shorter than it was the last time I looked. When you think about it, 200,000 pounds of fish is a lot of fish to be sucked into a tube.
Once inside the plant rows and rows of men and women dressed in what look like surgical gowns and hunched over the conveyor belts, each do their part to process tons of fish that only hours earlier were swimming some 300 plus feet below the surface of the Gulf of Alaska, to a packaged, finished product, ready to be shipped.
Jimmy and Ray headed into town for a little R & R. It is a hazard of the trade that fishermen often get carried away with their R & R and don’t return in time for their boat’s scheduled departure. The lucrative pay and temptations ashore prove too irresistible for some, leaving skippers scrambling to find replacements at the last minute. Because of uncertainty of the openings and their duration, the boats cannot afford to wait. Many a crewman has returned to the dock only to find his boat has left without him.
While we were waiting, Jim took me with him to the plant office to take care of some business. Accounts must be settled and like any business there is give and take. Fishermen may ask for advances against future catches to meet pressing fuel bills. Fish plants may ask fishermen to be patient during slow times.
As they were talking, I noticed a public phone down the hall. I decided to call Terry to tell her we were back safe from our first trip. Ever since the end of the first days fishing my right brain had been asking my left brain “What in the hell were you thinking when you decided to do this? It was a noble thought and all to satisfy a boyhood dream but isn’t this a bit much? You’re not a kid anymore”. My left brain would answer “It’s something I’ve wanted to do my entire life, I just have to suck it up and work my way into shape”. With the sound of Terry’s voice I knew in an instant that the right brain was the voice of reason if not sanity. When she talks, she radiates sunshine. I knew what I had to do.
I sat on a bench outside the office waiting for Jim, struggling with what I would say. There were many reasons for deciding not to make another trip but two in particular. While I had some idea, I grossly underestimated the physical demands of the job. It truly is a young man’s game. The exhaustive physical efforts with minimal sleep for days, and often weeks on end, are very taxing. It is possible with the added experience and toughening up that would come with additional trips, I would eventually become a half decent crewman. But that leads me to my second reason. I do not like being away from home. Somehow, the fishermen doing this for a living have come to grips with that aspect of their life’s work. Their wives and families do the best they can to compensate for their extended absence. As difficult as it is for all involved, it is what they have chosen to do for a living. As much as I love the ocean, I do not depend on it to sustain my family. To me, to be away from my wife and kids for any length of time, merely to indulge a fantasy of mine, is rather selfish at best.
Jim emerged from the office, seemingly pleased with himself. As we walked back to the boat I told him of my decision to abbreviate my commercial fishing career. As much as he tried to act surprised, he failed miserably. I got the feeling he knew from the moment I asked to fish with him that it would be short and not so sweet. He had been doing this since he fished with his Dad, brailing mackerel at Catalina Island in southern California in the winter and fishing albacore in the summer. He knew full well the rigors of the job and that my age was against me. But he was also a very good friend. I had made an albacore trip with him in high school and we had endless conversations over the years about fishing, so he knew this was important to me. As predictable as the outcome was, he was willing to give me a taste of what fishing in Alaska was like.
I had an open ended return airline ticket because I was unsure of when I would return home. Fortunately, I was able to book a flight out the next morning. After dinner aboard the boat, I watched the ongoing unloading process for a while, then fell asleep in my bunk, content in the knowledge that I was going home.
The next morning, after the last of the fish had been unloaded and the boat de-iced with high pressure steam hoses, we moved the Collier Brothers to its home dock, so waiting boats could unload their catch. I stuffed my clothes into a duffel bag, said good by to Jimmy and Ray and then rode to the airport with Jim in his pickup truck. As my plane took off and banked left toward Anchorage, I got a brief look at Kodiak before ascending into the low, thick cloud cover. The ocean and sky were still slate gray, the wind was still howling and there were white caps everywhere. I thought about Jim, who would be heading back out into the Gulf about the same time I would be changing planes in Anchorage.
I arrived in Orange County at 10:40 that night in a driving rain storm. Walking through the terminal I felt like Charlie Browns friend Pigpen as a cloud of fish smell moved with me. Terry, my kids and my brother Mike were there to greet me. I felt a bit sheepish at the thought that a scant week ago they were here to see me off on my great adventure, not knowing when I would return. Terry still jokes that the dishes were still in the sink from my going away party. She discreetly placed my duffel bag outside the house. Even though I was unshaven, had bloodshot eyes’ and a gash over my right eye, I was one happy guy.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
NORTH TO ALASKA / PART 6
The mood was good that afternoon as Jim contemplated making one more drag before heading back to Kodiak. We had topped off the holds but, with the sub-freezing temperatures, we could accommodate more fish on deck long enough to reach the fish plant by morning. The wind was approaching 40 knots now, which is getting marginal for this type of fishing. Greed is not good.
Jim had been keeping an eye on the barometer and noticed it falling rapidly. He decided a few more fish were not worth the risk. He set a course for Kodiak, some 90miles away as we iced the last of the fish and hosed down the decks. He had made a wise decision. The wind, coming over the top of Kodiak Island and blowing out into the Gulf of Alaska, reached a steady 60 knots. The ocean seemed a mass of white water as the waves became very steep with little distance between them. I learned why the high bow and the small, thick windows.
I witnessed something I had heard about but found impossible to believe. When the bow buries itself into a wave the water that comes over the bow and engulfs the boat is called “green water”, as opposed to spray. In other words, it is a solid wall of water. The combination of 60 knot winds and 10 degrees temperature would flash freeze the water to ice before it could run off the windows. Heavy duty windshield wipers fought hard to provide some visibility.
The course back to Kodiak led us almost directly into the wind. Oncoming waves hit us just to the port side of the bow. The onset of darkness created a very spooky feeling as you could not see the monstrous waves coming. Even with the steady onslaught there was always the thought that there was a real brute lurking out there. The only warning we had was when the bow began to rise, at which time Jim would pull the throttle back to slow the climb. The unknown was how high it was going to rise and how steep the drop on the other side. The larger waves would leave a good portion of the Collier Brothers suspended in mid-air for what seemed like an eternity before crashing downward and burying itself in the next wave. Every inch of the boat would shudder with the impact and then shake as it fought to lift, not only its own weight, but that of tons of sea water. It was a time when you thank God for every rivet and weld in the 90 feet of steel hull.
I put on my slickers and walked out on deck to take it all in. Because we were now loaded with 100 tons of fish, the boat was riding very low in the water. As a result the deck was awash. I held tightly to a stair railing as sloshing water made footing unstable. It was an eerie scene. It was at one magnificent and terrifying. The high winds had blown all cloud cover away. I looked up to see an explosion of stars. The combination of clear skies, northern latitude and being miles from any lights made for an unequaled display of the heavens. I saw more shooting stars in ten minutes than I had in my entire life. The Northern Lights, a celestial grouping near the geomagnetic North Pole, left little wonder of a higher power. At the same time, nature was giving us a beating. The brunt force of the waves striking the hull was sending spray as high as the tip of the mast, some 40 feet above deck. As spray turns to ice, it begins to build up and can become a major hazard. Many boats have capsized and sunk, over the years, due to the weight that builds up on the weather side of the boat. As I returned to the warmth of the cabin, the entire port side of the boat was covered with ice.
When conditions are such as these, the captain rarely, if ever, sleeps. Jim would be at the helm all night. He assigned shifts for Jimmy, Ray and me during the night. I was not sure why Jim had given me the first shift until he explained the tasks that had to be done during the night. To combat the ice build up, Jimmy and Ray were to pull on survival suits and, using baseball bats, break the ice along the port side, thus minimizing the weight build-up on that side of the boat. Survival suits are bright orange, rubberized, water tight, head-to-toe suits, designed to keep you alive in the frigid waters, should you fall overboard. They are also designed to emit a beacon so you can be found. While desirous of doing my part, I did not quibble with the decision to opt for Jimmy and Ray and not me.
In the darkness of the wheelhouse, illuminated only by the red compass light and sweeping arc of the radar, Jim and I discussed our lives and world affairs. He called his wife Sandy, who was in a warm bed at home in Newport, Oregon, over the marine radio, informing her of a successful trip. I went below, shook Jimmy out of a deep sleep, waited to make sure he got up, and then went to my own bunk and fell asleep.
Jim had been keeping an eye on the barometer and noticed it falling rapidly. He decided a few more fish were not worth the risk. He set a course for Kodiak, some 90miles away as we iced the last of the fish and hosed down the decks. He had made a wise decision. The wind, coming over the top of Kodiak Island and blowing out into the Gulf of Alaska, reached a steady 60 knots. The ocean seemed a mass of white water as the waves became very steep with little distance between them. I learned why the high bow and the small, thick windows.
I witnessed something I had heard about but found impossible to believe. When the bow buries itself into a wave the water that comes over the bow and engulfs the boat is called “green water”, as opposed to spray. In other words, it is a solid wall of water. The combination of 60 knot winds and 10 degrees temperature would flash freeze the water to ice before it could run off the windows. Heavy duty windshield wipers fought hard to provide some visibility.
The course back to Kodiak led us almost directly into the wind. Oncoming waves hit us just to the port side of the bow. The onset of darkness created a very spooky feeling as you could not see the monstrous waves coming. Even with the steady onslaught there was always the thought that there was a real brute lurking out there. The only warning we had was when the bow began to rise, at which time Jim would pull the throttle back to slow the climb. The unknown was how high it was going to rise and how steep the drop on the other side. The larger waves would leave a good portion of the Collier Brothers suspended in mid-air for what seemed like an eternity before crashing downward and burying itself in the next wave. Every inch of the boat would shudder with the impact and then shake as it fought to lift, not only its own weight, but that of tons of sea water. It was a time when you thank God for every rivet and weld in the 90 feet of steel hull.
I put on my slickers and walked out on deck to take it all in. Because we were now loaded with 100 tons of fish, the boat was riding very low in the water. As a result the deck was awash. I held tightly to a stair railing as sloshing water made footing unstable. It was an eerie scene. It was at one magnificent and terrifying. The high winds had blown all cloud cover away. I looked up to see an explosion of stars. The combination of clear skies, northern latitude and being miles from any lights made for an unequaled display of the heavens. I saw more shooting stars in ten minutes than I had in my entire life. The Northern Lights, a celestial grouping near the geomagnetic North Pole, left little wonder of a higher power. At the same time, nature was giving us a beating. The brunt force of the waves striking the hull was sending spray as high as the tip of the mast, some 40 feet above deck. As spray turns to ice, it begins to build up and can become a major hazard. Many boats have capsized and sunk, over the years, due to the weight that builds up on the weather side of the boat. As I returned to the warmth of the cabin, the entire port side of the boat was covered with ice.
When conditions are such as these, the captain rarely, if ever, sleeps. Jim would be at the helm all night. He assigned shifts for Jimmy, Ray and me during the night. I was not sure why Jim had given me the first shift until he explained the tasks that had to be done during the night. To combat the ice build up, Jimmy and Ray were to pull on survival suits and, using baseball bats, break the ice along the port side, thus minimizing the weight build-up on that side of the boat. Survival suits are bright orange, rubberized, water tight, head-to-toe suits, designed to keep you alive in the frigid waters, should you fall overboard. They are also designed to emit a beacon so you can be found. While desirous of doing my part, I did not quibble with the decision to opt for Jimmy and Ray and not me.
In the darkness of the wheelhouse, illuminated only by the red compass light and sweeping arc of the radar, Jim and I discussed our lives and world affairs. He called his wife Sandy, who was in a warm bed at home in Newport, Oregon, over the marine radio, informing her of a successful trip. I went below, shook Jimmy out of a deep sleep, waited to make sure he got up, and then went to my own bunk and fell asleep.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
VIRUS WARNING
Sorry for the hiccup. I know all my ardent followers are waiting with bated breath for my next chapter of North to Alaska and I have been trying valiantly to maintain some consistency to my posting but I have a good excuse for the delay. I was attacked by a virus called "Personal Security". I don't mean me personally, I mean my computer. I'll explain.
A small group, of which I am a member, has been brainstorming idea's that we hope will someday find us up to our you-know-what in tall cotton. I can't divulge classified secrets here but one idea was related to the business of tattoo's. In researching the project I Googled "tattoo magazine advertising" in the hopes of learnng what the rates are for various size ads in tattoo magazines. I clicked on one purporting to be the oldest magazine in the industry. The name of the magazine was "Prick". I am not an expert on the subject but I believe needles are involved in the tattoo process so I felt the name was appropriate.
Somewhere during the clicking around the site, all hell broke lose. Warning lights started flashing and messages appeared on my screen warning of impending doom if I did not act immediately. There were drives and programs being affected at an alarming rate and unless I followed the on-screen instruction my computer would be reduced to a pile of ashes. These instructions were my first clue that something was amiss. No where on any of them was there a recognizable logo, such as Windows, Microsoft or any of the well know anti-virus programs. Only the name "Personal Security".
After going through various stages of the trap calling for the need for a new authorization code and other information, there was the telltale call for my credit card number so that, for $69 for the basic cure or $79 for the super cure, my computer would be virus free in minutes. Now I'm not the tallest corn in the field but I know this is not good. In one of my smarter moves, I ignore the warnings and shut her down.
The next night my daughter comes by after work to bail me out. I don't want to say she is as knowledgeable as Bill Gates when it comes to computers but she's close. She works well into the night to no avail. It is almost as if the virus anticipates every move.
The following night she brings by this super duper Webroot software that's supposed to be the cats meow. Another late nighter utilizing all her wits gets us within one click of victory, but no cigar. She tells me that, against her better judgement at the time, she had purchased a service contract with the Webroot software purchase. There is still some hope. We agree that I will get them on the phone the next day and walk through a cure.
An hour and a half phone call ends with them telling me that they will e-mail me detailed instructions on what to do in an attempt to fix it myself. If not, the next step is for $120 they can fix it remotely. The other thing the gentleman told me was that if I had paid the $69 to Personal Security the $69 would be the least of my worries. They would have every credit card number, password, social security number and ID's I had. Yikes!!!
I painstakingly went through every step of their instructions, starting my computer in the Safe Mode, running the sweep, etc., etc.. Per their instructions, I repeated the entire process. It appeared as though we were making progress. Each sweep resulted in quaranteening more viruses. The finish line was within my grasp. Then my screen goes blank. Whether it was a result of the virus or not I don't know but the timing is certainly suspicious.
A half a day later much fruitless analysis and repair ends with a phone call to tech support at Dell who informs me my monitor is shot. But if I act now I can have a new $189 monitor for the one time only price of $149, overnighted to my door step. I tell them I appreciate the offer but I will think about it as I am considering getting a lap top.
A small group, of which I am a member, has been brainstorming idea's that we hope will someday find us up to our you-know-what in tall cotton. I can't divulge classified secrets here but one idea was related to the business of tattoo's. In researching the project I Googled "tattoo magazine advertising" in the hopes of learnng what the rates are for various size ads in tattoo magazines. I clicked on one purporting to be the oldest magazine in the industry. The name of the magazine was "Prick". I am not an expert on the subject but I believe needles are involved in the tattoo process so I felt the name was appropriate.
Somewhere during the clicking around the site, all hell broke lose. Warning lights started flashing and messages appeared on my screen warning of impending doom if I did not act immediately. There were drives and programs being affected at an alarming rate and unless I followed the on-screen instruction my computer would be reduced to a pile of ashes. These instructions were my first clue that something was amiss. No where on any of them was there a recognizable logo, such as Windows, Microsoft or any of the well know anti-virus programs. Only the name "Personal Security".
After going through various stages of the trap calling for the need for a new authorization code and other information, there was the telltale call for my credit card number so that, for $69 for the basic cure or $79 for the super cure, my computer would be virus free in minutes. Now I'm not the tallest corn in the field but I know this is not good. In one of my smarter moves, I ignore the warnings and shut her down.
The next night my daughter comes by after work to bail me out. I don't want to say she is as knowledgeable as Bill Gates when it comes to computers but she's close. She works well into the night to no avail. It is almost as if the virus anticipates every move.
The following night she brings by this super duper Webroot software that's supposed to be the cats meow. Another late nighter utilizing all her wits gets us within one click of victory, but no cigar. She tells me that, against her better judgement at the time, she had purchased a service contract with the Webroot software purchase. There is still some hope. We agree that I will get them on the phone the next day and walk through a cure.
An hour and a half phone call ends with them telling me that they will e-mail me detailed instructions on what to do in an attempt to fix it myself. If not, the next step is for $120 they can fix it remotely. The other thing the gentleman told me was that if I had paid the $69 to Personal Security the $69 would be the least of my worries. They would have every credit card number, password, social security number and ID's I had. Yikes!!!
I painstakingly went through every step of their instructions, starting my computer in the Safe Mode, running the sweep, etc., etc.. Per their instructions, I repeated the entire process. It appeared as though we were making progress. Each sweep resulted in quaranteening more viruses. The finish line was within my grasp. Then my screen goes blank. Whether it was a result of the virus or not I don't know but the timing is certainly suspicious.
A half a day later much fruitless analysis and repair ends with a phone call to tech support at Dell who informs me my monitor is shot. But if I act now I can have a new $189 monitor for the one time only price of $149, overnighted to my door step. I tell them I appreciate the offer but I will think about it as I am considering getting a lap top.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
