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.
Monday, April 19, 2010
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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