Blast from the past

Its that time of year again where the aches and pains from fishing have finally vanished and nostalgia for the season starts to set in.  Ah, selective memory....a fishermen's best friend.  In my mood of reverie for fishing, I scrapped up an old article I wrote for The Cordova Times, (Prince William Sounds oldest newspaper, established in 1914),  a few years ago and wanted to share it with you.  Apologies if the format is a little funky, its taken right from the paper.  Added bonus is a salmon recipe at the end!  I hope you enjoy.

 

 

CORDOVA LIFE

Custom Built

 

originally from the Czech republic, Vince Beran has been fishing in Prince William Sound since 1978.

 

  DOCKLINES
Scuttlebutt and boats 
of the harbor

JEN PICKETT / For The Cordova Times

The Cordova Times | Friday, June 15, 2012 | www.thecordovatimes.com

F/V Pasak, original and one of a kind
By Jen Pickett 

For The Cordova Times 
 
Vince Beran doesn’t like to brag, “Its really nothing special, you have to just keep fixing it.”
In most cases, saying something is original and one of a kind is a bit redundant, but not in this case. The Pasak, Vince’s gillnetter is original and one of a kind. 

Originally from Czech Republic, Beran fished for 2 years in Puget Sound before bringing his boat up here and fishing the Copper River in 1978. He fell in love with the fishing exclaiming “It’s an easy live right, you give them fish, they give you money, right?” 

His boat, the Pasak is a 28’ bowpicker built by Vince in 1975. He bought a Uniflight hull then took it from there. He did the deck and cabin himself. He installed a Chevy 454 engine, Mercruiser Outboard Outdrive, and made a stainless steel reel stands. And all three are still the original today. But that’s not all. 

Beran made pretty much everything else, his entire interior of the boat, from the helm station, to his bunk to his oil stove. Yup, made the oil stove out of stainless steel, complete with two carburetors, two separate air intakes (one for when he is running) and a fan to circulate the heat. Most guys buy pre-fabricated boat furniture but not Vince. He even made a crafty little table that folds up out of the way when not in use, a cook station, his bunk, and shelves. He made a shock absorbing helm’s chair out of stainless steel and a big spring.

Pretty much everything onboard the Pasak was built by it’s captain, Vince Beran from fabricating steel parts to it’s custom interior.

“Hours? 

I don’t know how many hours I have on the engine,” said Pasak. “You don’t ask me how many hours. I don’t dare to think. I can tell you how many years. Thirty-seven.” 
 
That’s right, his 37-year-old engine are still buddies with his 37 year old outdrive and 37-year-old reel. 

“For the engine, I try to get the premium parts, especially for the amount of work you spend on it, it pays to get quality.”
But that is not all, he has fabricated a stainless steel heat exchanger, exhaust manifolds, additional air filters and countless gadgets in addition to wiring. And he isn’t afraid to experiment with things like dry exhaust. He figured cars

have it, why not boats? “Dry exhaust, improves it (engine performance) makes it even better but nobody told me the vapor get so hot, you can’t imagine how hot vapor gets from a gas engine.” 
 
Turns out, the reason boats don’t have dry exhaust is because they don’t go fast enough for the air to cool the engine. You have to give him kudos for trying. But he didn’t let that set back of nearly catching the whole boat and himself on fire stop him, he simply plugged the holes in the stern from the failed experiment with those infamous Wilson tennis balls and moved on. When I asked him if he’s had to replace those he answered, laughing, “not yet, not yet.” I should have known those were still the original ones. 
 

“I have 1975 outdrive but you do not let mechanic fiddle with it. You set the gears correct, how they are designed. You have to be patient when set the bearings, its really not difficult you just have to be patient.”
Vince took the time to call the manufacturers of the bearings and got the correct spacing for each bearing for his outdrive. 

“You change the oil, maybe take out a seal here or there, and it works. You put oil on everything and zincs on everything,” advises Vince. “And try to make everything easy to repair.” 

Out on deck, he made his reel stand out of, you guessed it, stainless steel. “That’s the original chain from 1975, I put a big chain and large gear and it lasts.” But that’s not all. He fabricated an additional fuel tank one the bow that also aids in dealing with sharks when they get caught up. He mounted a pulley system that is driven by a mini winch mounted on the cabin. He can haul the shark aboard, cut it out of the net, then, the front of the fuel tank, which is angled, acts as a ramp and he can set the net back out, discarding the shark. How many gillnetters can say they can be self- sufficient when it comes to dealing with sharks? I know I wasn’t.
 

I haven’t even gotten to his truck yet. It’s a 1963 International pick-up truck that he has driven up the ALCAN every year from Washington State for the past 37 years!

“The truck is a masterpiece, I had it since ‘78. I used to tow the boat back and forth, I was dumb, ya know? It has about 700,000 miles on it. Rebuilt only once. The seal of the camshaft went out but the engine by itself never wear out.”
Vince’s equipment has outlasted his fishing career. He sold out last year but the boat, is still for sale. He admits it isn’t beautiful but I think it’s a work of art, for the right person. 

“You have to have personality that likes to fix things,” says Vince Beran, That and “you need constant protection from heaven, nobody is that good.” 

Jen Pickett is a freelance writer and fisherman in Cordova, alaska who also blogs about her fishing adventures at: www.pickfishtales.com. she can be reached at pickfish@gmail.com. 

RECIPE oF THE WEEK

alaska salmon Ciabatta sandwiches

PreP Time: 10 min Cook Time: 15 min Serves: 4
iNGreDieNts

• 1/2 cup low-fat mayonnaise
  
• 1 Tablespoon fresh lime juice
  
• 1/2 teaspoon celery salt
  
• 4 ciabatta or hard sandwich rolls
  
• 4 Alaska Salmon fillets (4 to 6 oz.
  each), fresh, thawed or frozen
  
• 1 Tablespoon olive, canola, peanut
  or grapeseed oil
  
• Salt and pepper, to taste
  
• 1 cup chopped green onions
  
• 4 leaves butter or curly leaf lettuce
  DirectioNs
  

1. In small bowl, blend mayonnaise, lime juice, and celery salt; set aside. Slice sandwich rolls in half; toast or grill and keep warm.
   
2. Rinse any ice glaze from frozen Alaska Salmon under cold water; pat dry with paper towel. Heat a heavy nonstick skillet over medium- high heat. Brush both sides of salmon with oil. Place salmon in heated skillet and cook, uncovered, about 3 to 4 minutes, until browned. Shake pan occasionally to keep fish from sticking.
   
3. Turn salmon over and season with salt and pepper. Add green onions to bottom of pan. Cover pan tightly and reduce heat to medium. Cook an additional 6 to 8 minutes for frozen salmon OR 3 to 4 minutes for fresh/thawed fish. Cook just until fish is opaque throughout.
   
4. Blend cooked onions into mayonnaise mixture; thinly spread mayonnaise onto each cut side of roll. To serve, place a salmon fillet onto each roll bottom. Top salmon with dollop of mayonnaise; add a lettuce leaf and roll top.
   

Nutrients per serving: 521 calories, 23g total fat, 5g saturated fat, 40% calories from fat, 115mg cholesterol, 37g protein, 41g carbohydrate, 3g fiber, 846mg sodium, 115mg calcium and 1000mg omega-3 fatty acids.
Courtesy: Alaska Seafood Marketing Institute

Get with the times. The Cordova Times. www.thecordovatimes.com

Pickett in the Press

While I am on this academic hiatus, you can still keep up with me! Below is a collection of press coverage I have received in the past few years plus links to articles I have written. As you know, I've been bucking tide - known as earning a PhD. Of course, with most challenges I've taken on in my life, I couldn't just do a normal PhD. Oh no! I am doing a double PhD abroad, in two different countries - Finland and Belgium. (Insert face palm or eye roll emoji here.) (Why do I do these things to myself?) Anyway, this is a 5-year journey  but good news, I am in my final year!! !  !! The count down has begun. Ten more months to go.  Yippee. 

What am I studying? Right, I forgot to mention that part. I am in the field of work and organizational psychology. What am I studying? Right, in English. I look at the wellbeing of employees. In a nut shell. What area of expertise am I inching towards? Maritime Psychology. What is that? The study of human behavior at sea. In yet another nut shell. I've submitted an article on that topic for peer-review in a scientific journal in August. Am waiting (ever so patiently) to see if it gets accepted for publication. As you can see, it's pretty slow going, academia is an unhurried machine. I'll keep you updated with my research. Until now, there really hasn't been anything to report other than conference presentations and rejections. Though now with the end of the PhD season in sight, I'll be checking in a bit more often with interesting developments that are tied to fishing. 

Until then, 

Best fishes! 

Jen

MEDIA COVERAGE

National Fishermen (Feb. 14, 2019). Fishermen's Flock

Flipboard (March 20, 2018). Fisherpoets Gathering: 21 years of great story telling

National Fisherman (June 28, 2018). Language alive: Fisherpoets celebrates 21 years storytelling.

BBC Cornwall Radio (Aug. 28, 2017). Interviewed for digital Documentary. Fisherwomen. The lives of women who go to sea and consider themselves to be ‘all in the same boat’.

Copper River Prince William Sound Marketing Association (June 21, 2017). Interviewed for promotional video for Copper River and Prince William Sound Salmon.

Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. (June, 2016). Value. Poem featured in exhibit titled Our Oceanin Turbine Hall, Portland (USA).

The Daily Astorian (March 2, 2015). Packed to the gills with poets: Salty wordsmiths wash up in Astoria for Fisherpoets. 

In the Tote (present). Blog featuring Fisherpoets

Oregon Live (June 18, 2014). Jenn Pickett of Cordova, Alaska: Astoria Fisher Poets flashback.

Oregon Live (Feb 16, 2013). Fisher Poets Gathering in Astoria features these six salty poets of the sea.

Riverfront times (June 21, 2012). Rock Bottom Copper River Sockeye Salmon Prices Put Gut Check in the Red.

PBS-Food (April 23, 2012). Interview for Kitchen Careers: Jen Pickett, Commercial Fisherman.

Oregon Artswatch (March 12, 2012). Celebrating Work: The Astoria Fisher Poets Gathering.

Alaska Job Finder (2012). Fishing the Copper River Flats Interview.

Alaska Journal of Commerce (Sept. 19^th, 2011). Fishermen gather to share poems, inspiration.

The Newsminer (Sept. 18, 2011). Alaska fishermen gather to share poems, inspiration.

National Fisherman (May, 2011). Winter’s chill can’t keep Fisher Poet fans away.

PUBLICATIONS written by Jen

National Fisherman (July, 2018). Fisherpoets at a glance.

Anchored in Deep Water: The Fisherpoet Anthology (2014). A fisherman’s commute; Waiting

Copper River Dock Talk: News from the Fishery (June 5, 2013). Crazy Season Start

Alaska Waypoints (May 16, 2013) Tailor made forecast for the first Copper River opener

Copper River Dock Talk: News from the Fishery (May 15, 2013). Tailor made forecast for the first Copper River opener

Copper River Dock Talk: News from the Fishery (May 14, 2013). Cordova’s Sometimes Annual Fisher Poets

Copper River Dock Talk: News from the Fishery (May 6, 2013). ‘Twas the week before fishing

Alaska Waypoints  (2012). The Pic & The Pen. ALCAN 2012

The Cordova Times (June 15, 2012) Docklines Scuttlebutt and boats of the harbor. F/V Pasak, original and one of a kind

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Anchored Down in Anchorage

After spending the last five months or so in Cordova, I'm back in the big city.  It's quite a transition to be back.  Driving here is the hardest to get used to.  Compared to other cities, Anchorage is relatively mild to drive around, we don't even have any freeways.  However, compared to Cordova, where there isn't even one traffic light, Anchorage might as well be the moon.  I feel like I'm racing around like Mario Andretti, yet cars are passing me like I'm standing still.  And I miss the beauty of Cordova.  But, I don't miss the rain.  Don't get me wrong, it is good to be back, it's just taking some getting used to.

And I have been writing more.  Writing lots, actually.  And reading and writing and  rewriting and rewriting and rewriting.  I'm also pleasantly neurotic now, so I must be making headway as a writer.  I keep thinking "who would ever want to read this shit?"  So, from what I understand from other writers, I'm right on track.  Unless, I am actually right and every word that I have ever uttered is all garbage, then what?  Well, this is when I lie to myself and say it's not that bad and keep writing anyway.  I try to ignore the little voice in my head that tells me, with every letter that I type, that its all horse shit. I continue to ignore that little voice that gets louder, also with every letter I type, until it sounds like Tom Waits is singing with a megaphone and I hope the neighbors don't call the cops on me as I'm sure this voice is real and making quite a ruckus.    But then I think if the cops did come and arrest me, that would be a welcome distraction from this cycle of nonsense I am engaged in.  Oh sure, there are times when I am at peace with all of this, like the other night when I got so drunk I couldn't remember my own name.  I was quite pleasantly oblivious of that little voice then. :)  Anyway, I'll keep typing and keep yelling "Shut-up!" until they come to take me away.

Good news!  I found a mentor.  Though, he doesn't know he is my mentor, unless he reads my blog.  He is an old boss, well, I only worked for him for about 4 days.  It was back in about '94 or '95 when Prince William Sound opened up for herring for the first time since the 1989 Exxon Valdez Oil Spill.  Everyone was all excited and everyone showed up.  Everyone, except, unfortunately, the herring.  It was a total bust and the Alaska Department of Fish and Game shut it down and has not reopened it since.

The boat I worked on was the Quinn Delta and the skipper's name is Mark.  As fate would have it, I bumped into Mark this summer while in Cordova.  I think it was the first time I'd seen him since that dismal herring opener.  We visited and caught up with each other.  Turns out, Mark and his wife Nancy have been sailing all over the place for the past ten years or so and writing about it.  They even sailed around Antarctica. You can check out their blog for yourself at: http://www.krillroye.blogspot.com/.  Its good stuff.  Anyway, I told Mark what I was up to, writing and what not.  Since then he's been kind enough to give me advice on writing, trying to point me in the right direction and the like.  He even did some editing for me!  Check it out.

A FISHERMAN’S COMMUTE

It’s obscenely early on a Monday morning, what’s likely to be a typical fishing day.  My alarm sounds-off at 4:00 am, but it barely gets in a single ring before I bound from the bed, my feet landing on the cold wooden floor of my tiny rented room at the old abandoned cannery now known as Fisherman’s Camp.  Stumbling around as quietly as possible so as not to disturb my neighbors on the other sides of the paper-thin walls, I gather up the clothes I’d laid out the night before: a blood stained sweatshirt and course brown-duck Carhart jeans, oil stained and rent with holes from battery acid, a product of the endless maintenance that is much of a fisherman’s daily work.  Cold as I pull them on, my simple raiment puts me in the fishing mood as I tip-toe down the dark oiled wood hallway, willing my footsteps to be silent.  Silent not in consideration of my neighbors, but of stealth.  Just as one pulls up the anchor as quietly as possible to steal away from the anchorage, I slip out the door, hoping to leave unnoticed in order to get a head start.

My car, a well traveled ‘82 Subaru with faux zebra-skin seat covers and luminescent stars pasted on the headliner that I’d bought from a sixteen year old girl whose dreams of luxury could never be satisfied by such conveyance, starts instantly with the push of a button.  The faulty ignition switch had long since been replaced by fisherman’s ingenuity.  But my concerted efforts at stealth prove futile.  The engine roars to life, greeting the day’s work through an exhaust system nearly as full of holes as my jeans. I put it in reverse and hear the rumble of the wooden planks of the pier on which the old cannery has stood for decades.  Fearing I’d just awakened the entire camp, I finally turn on to the paved road and head for the harbor in the pitch dark, a full constellation of paste-on stars glowing above my head.  This is the time I love the best because of the stillness. I find it  consuming and comforting.  I pause and savor the tranquil moment, knowing that all too well my world will soon be in constant motion from the instant I step onto my boat until I tie up again secure in my slip.    But for now the succlent moss and trees of the dense forest of Prince William Sound are an eerie, unnaturally dark green.    The town remains still and quiet.  Mount Eccles stands above me on the left, the ocean lies beside me to my right.............

Prince William Sound Spill Drill: That'll do 'er

NOFI Current Buster, f/v Morning Thunder with a skimmer and a mini barge along side.  We tow the orange boom around scooping up oil.  The Morning Thunder skims it out of the water and pumps in into the mini barge. 

The state of Alaska mandated a law that oil companies  put on regular oil spill response training after the Exxon Valdez oil spill in 1989.  Several times a year there are on water drills in addition to training, which consists of classroom lectures, hands on equipment trials, and on water drills.

This past week was a surprise drill.   A surprise that even I knew about 3 weeks ago.  Anywho, about 100 or so boats of all shapes and sizes came from all over the sound from Cordova, Valdez, Tatitlik, and Whittier.  We all enjoyed the beautiful weather, total blue birds (and a few icebergs) as we convened at Naked and Story Island for a 3 day on water drill.

What, one might ask, are the qualifications needed to participate in such drills.  I was told that a crewman is qualified if s/he can fog a mirror.  I said sign me up.  I have done these in the past, it's good money but mind-numbingly boring.  This time, I tried to be prepared.

Required gear list: PPE (personal protection equipment) life jackets,  safety glasses, and hard hats are to be worn on deck at all times.  Period.  This means, if you go outside to take a leak, you have to wear a hard hat. Even to ride a bucket. (That reminds me a a poem I recently heard "Those rodeo cowboys got nothin' on me.  I can ride a 5 gallon bucket in 40 foot seas"!)  I find that none of this stuff usually fits me and I keep getting caught up  in it.  I walked to the stern to tie up a line, my jacket got hung up on something on the way back there.  Then I bent over to reach for the cleat and almost fell in trying to keep my hard hat on.  Finally, I squatted down towards the cleat in an effort to keep my hat on, then my jacket road up in front of my face so I had to work blind and one handed to tie a line on the cleat.  All in the name of safety.

The other gear lists consists of magazines to read, music to listen to, cribbage board, noise reduction headphones (with ipod attachment) and my new favorite toy, a kindle.  Skipper and I got into a serious match of scrabble.  I totally got my ass kicked the first few times (clearly, he is not a novice at scrabble like I am) but our last match ended as we were pulling back into the slip in the harbor.  I had one letter left, a V and was down by 5 points.  Wanting to take a shower after 3 days on the water superseded the need to win at scrabble and I took the loss.  But, secretly congratulated myself for having come so far in just three days.

All in all these drills are almost comical.  SERVS (not sure what that stands for) is the company that puts it all on.  They cross all their T's and dot all the I's.  They are all PC and say "over and out".  Then they work with us fishermen who only cross T's when we feel like it and say things like "I'll snuggle up to your apex and hang tough".  Yes, honestly, I did actually hear that on the radio.  I even just ran out in my PJ to my truck in the wind and rain (its blowing about 20 here today, forecast is for 40) just to get that quote out of my truck.)

Here are some pics:

f/v Controller Bay, the boat I was on

Towing just the Current Buster which we towed about 12 hours going .5 knots

The state ferry as is cruised by

That's the haps this week.  Catch ya on the flip side.  Eat fish!!

14th Annual Fisher Poets Gathering, Astoria OR

14th Annual Fisher Poets Gathering, Astoria, OR 2011

"Pull hard and she comes easy." 

Fisher Poets is here!  Today and tomorrow, Feb 25 &26 is the 14th annual Fisher Poets Gathering in beautiful, sunny, downtown Astoria Oregon.  And so am I.  This is my first year at the FPG and I'm a greenhorn.  But, no worries.  I didn't even have my bags out of my rental car at the hotel yet when I ran into someone I know, Steve, a fellow gillnetter in Cordova.  He's an old salt at reciting his poems here and is showing me the ropes. 

Last night, we checked out the Voodoo Room, one of the 8 venues where the performances are held this year,   http://www.columbianvoodoo.com/.  I'll be there tomorrow night at 7 PM.  Then, it was over to Clemente's for a dinner, meet and greet and open mike.  Appetizers  included Carpaccio, a thinly pounded local Albacore tuna with olive oil, shallots, black pepper and a touch of lemon and garlic, served on warm bread.  For dinner, I had the Oysters Casino.  Fresh Willipa Oysters broiled with bacon, chives, bread crumbs, Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, and a cream sauce. Yum.

FPG is part of an Astoria tradition, bringing men and women tied to the commercial fishing industy together to share stories, poems, memoirs, essays in celebration of the industry and it's people.  It's people, the community of fishermen.  Birds of a feather flock together.  That's it.  That's one of the things that has kept me fishing all these years.  I started fishing for the adventure of it, some 18 years ago, but the reason I keep coming back to it is the people. 

At last night's dinner, there were folks there I knew from fishing in Cordova, AK.  Like Buck, Lloyd, Phil, Dennis and Patty.  Then there was Rich and his wife, Marsha, whom I met in Hawaii a few years back.  And there's Pat and Jon,  who I'd emailed when arranging to come to this and finally met last night, face to face.  Then there's guys like Dave, who I sat next to last night.  Turns out, he and I both worked for the same family but at different times.  He worked for Gene Sheldon back in the '70's when kids two boys, Brian and Dave were still kids.  In the mid 90's I worked for Dave.  Small world.  But that's what I love about it, you just start talking and before you know it, there's a connection. 

As I mentioned in last week's blog, the performanced will be live on the radio.  Community radio station KMUN-FM broadcasts the Friday and Saturday evening program from the Astoria Event Center. This includes "streaming live" over the web at http://www.coastradio.org/. Simply go to their website and on the left click the button "Listen now on Demand".  I'll be on between 7 and 8 PM Pacific Time Friday night!  I'll be doing a shorten version of a story from my book, which will, hopefully, be out later this year.  I can give you a sneak peek of a poem that I'll be reading, too.  Just don't tell anyone.

I wrote this poem a few years ago, before I fell of the wagon on quiting fishing. It's call Fishin' Again.



Fishin’ Again

The seas were high

Yet there was I

Standing upon my boat

Whilst the waves were mean,

Gruff and green

I manage to stay afloat.

Though thoughts turn

Towards headin’ back to town

Where it is safe and warm.

But them salmon keep a runnin’!

And them bills keep a comin’!

So out my net does go.

These waves come a crashin’

O’er my bow

And slap me in my face

I taste the salt

Upon my lips

And ponder ‘bout my fate.

But “keep fishin!” says I!

It’s do or die

Its now, I must keep my faith

And low and behold

What the sea does unfold

A king as big as I!

So I set out again!

And fight with the wind

This struggle to keep alive.

And the riggin’ is singin’

Yet in my head is a ringin’

“Something here just don’t jive.”

But if this day looks bleak

By the end of the week

This tide is sure to change.

I’ll stick n I’ll stay!

And I’ll make ‘er pay!

The hour be not too late.

So keep fishin’ I must!

Or this season, a bust!

Then I’d be the one

To pay.

Cuz’ the ocean, you see,

Is intertwined with me

As the same salt runs through our veins.

And I need her

As she needs me

And so I go out

Fishin’ again.

I don't remember all the poems done last night, but I"ll share what I can.  Rob's was about riding a 5 gallon bucket: Those rodeo guys got nothin' on me, I"ve rode a 5 gallon bucket in 40 foot seas! And when the boat rocks port to starboard you get a bit drenched, just like those toilets, designed by the French. 

If you want to take a gander at other performers and what they are up to, there is an anthology of FPG songs, poems and stories called "In the Tote" put together by Pat Dixon, http://web.me.com/dixonphoto/Fisher_Poets_-_In_the_Tote/Welcome.html.  Or, click here to check out last year's venue http://www.clatsopcc.edu/fisherpoets_archive/.  A lot of the perfomers have Cd's and books out, these will be for sale during the weekend.  My buddy Steve, has some great poems on his CD titled Give a Dollar to the Sea: Poetry and Songs of Alaskan Fisherpoet Steve M Schoonmaker and can be reached at saulteur@hotmail.com.

Next week, I'll be able to post some of the high lights, and maybe the low lights of the weekend.  And, will also resume work on the Egg.  Catch ya on the flip side!ea through vivid and powerful poetry. Discover what truly inspires this colorful community on the brink of extinction

End of the Season Highlights

The Copper River Salmon Fishery 2010 has finally come to an end.  It finished up a few weeks ago.  After our grueling 60 hour openers, we finally got a break.  There is usually a break between the end of the reds run and silvers showing up and this year was no different.  I had time to catch up on life things and mend nets.  Then silver season hit full swing.  Though it wasn't as grand as we had hoped.  I kept hearing rumors that there was a flood during the parent year of this run and it washed out many of the eggs.  Silvers was pretty good if you went to the east end of the Flats.  We did OK.  We stayed on the west side but managed to scratch a season out of it.  And, the weather was nice. Nicest silver season ever, I reckoned. Cordova even set a record for the most sunny days in a row.  15!  Beat the previous record by 1 day. (In case the reader is curious, it is not currently sunny in Cordova right now.  Matter of fact, its a down right snot storm.  48F, blowing about 25K gusting 35K and of course, rain.  It's the kind of day where it will rain in your ear.  The marine forecast = East 50 and 32' seas.)

The season is over but the memory of the season is still lingering. I want to share some of the highlights that I jotted down.  Most of the following are either bits of conversation from the boat or what we heard on the radio or the docks.  Enjoy!



Skipper: "Hey, there is your buddy, corking us.  I want you to curse at her and I mean curse.  And I get to choose your words."

"I wonder if its too late to get a seine job?" One gill net skipper to another, referring to the epic pink run in Prince William  Sound.

After we take off and start running east.  Then we do a 180 and head west.  I ask Skipper "What's up?"  "My plotter's tellin' me I'm going the wrong way."

"Skipper, you used to crab.  What was it like?"  Skipper: "... just set me down in a chair and beat me with a club."

Native elder to Skipper years ago.  Skipper: "Do you have a tide book?"  Native elder: "Tide book?  Tide comes in, tide goes out.  You don't need no book to tell you that."

"Yeah, he sounds like a pro but has a rookie hair cut."

"We only have 55 fish, but at least I don't have a pipe pole sticking out of my head."  Skipper after I accidentally hit him in the head with the pipe pole about 5 times before I realized what was happening.

"Well, looky there.  It's almost working."

"What about that fish?  You gonna call that a humpy?"

Fisherman who just returned fishing 64 and 80 hour openers in Prince William Sound: "I had to stick my whole head in the pencil sharpener.  I had hair and whiskers out to here. My girlfriend came up to me and asked "is that you?"

Same fisherman referring to getting jelly fish in the eye: "The dull pain of soap in the eyes is refreshing compared to the searing ice pick pain of jellies."


"The same could be said about all of us, but he's worse."

"Don't tell him what we caught, I don't want to make him feel bad."

"What's he doing runnin' from the fish?  Well, good luck.  Hope you get some."

"Look at this f#@kin' net.  I can't even believe it." Referring to crazy top current that kept collapsing the net despite our best towing efforts.

Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) when asked what being on a boat was like: "It's like prison, with a chance of drowning."

"It was the damndest thing I've ever seen.  And this is a true story........."

"It's lookin' pretty dead.  I hope they're hittin' deep.  They like to tickle their backs as they go under."

"Them coke years was a mother-f*#ker.  Ain't nobody can survive that shit..........again."

"He went dry, dumb son of a bitch."

"We ain't got no water. The only pace we could go dry, we did."

"Don't ever ask if it can get worse.  The answer is always yes."

"When fishin' you hit that stage of exhaustion that you can't imagine, unless you've been there."

"Me?  I hide my weed in my Froot Loops."

"And we didn't even have to call for help.........like a baby."

"We're gonna f*$k him.  He's been there long enough."

"I gotta get the combine out I got so much grass in my net."  "Yeah,....  There's so much of it, it looks like a freakin' blanket.  Ain't no way I could go outside."

"I was broke down. No heat.  No way to cook.  I ate canned salmon and cold corn.  It sucked."

"Cut him some slack.  He went swimmin' in the Bering Sea in the winter.  In his underwear."

Sometimes She Blows

You can hear it coming.  Off in the distance the growl starts, getting louder as it get closer.  Then, when it doesn’t seem to get any louder, it hits, making every creak and shake. Things rattle. Make strange noises.  Before I freak out because think stuff is falling apart, I remember what Vince told me.  Those things are made to go down the road at 65 MPH.  I hear his voice in my head and that makes me feel better.  But, then I think if that is the case, I wonder what kind of blow she can take.  I’m afraid before too long, I’ll find out. Granted, it was made to go down the road at 65 MPH but what if it blows 100?  Anyone want to take any guess as to what will go first?  I’ve heard of them flipping before.  It’s not skirted yet, but will be soon.  I do, however, have about 500 lbs of cement anchored to the hitch.  Hopefully, that will help. I close the vents.  I try not to think of my neighbor who lost his roof a few years ago.

The forecast for the Flats recently was storm warnings, winds to 70 MPH.  The forecast for Prince William Sound was gale warning, winds to 45 MPH.  The fast ferry was cancelled due to high winds and sea conditions.

I hear a thud!  Thud!  Another.  And another.  The cat looks at me as if to say “What the hell was that?”  “I don’t know” I reply out loud.  (What, you don’t talk to your pets?)  It’s not even blowing 60 so this thing shouldn’t be falling apart…….yet.

I crack the window and hear the lapping of the waves hitting the shore in the midst of the wind. I squint out between the rain drops and see white caps on top of one foot chop.  I see spruce cones go flying through the air.  Ah, that’s the thuds.  Spruce cones getting launched and landing on the roof.

It started blowing Saturday night.  It blew solid for the next 96 hours.  And I’m not shitting you.  I don’t mean it came down to 10 with an occasional gust I mean it blew at least a solid 30+.  Where does this wind come from anyhow?  How far has it traveled?  I wonder if it is French wind.  Tibet?  Japan?  No, I bet its Cordova wind.  I expect Cordova wind can travel ‘round the globe in four days.

I listened to the announcement.  25 deliveries and 1000 reds caught.  That’s 40 fish a boat.  That’s about 240 lbs and I think the price is $1.60/lb makes a $384 opener.  That won’t even cover fuel costs.  Glad I wasn’t out there.

Nope, I’m taking a break.  Well, not just me, Skipper is too.  And the rest of the fleet, minus 20 poor suckers who went out on Monday. Most guys do this time of year as there is a historical loll between the reds petering out and the silvers showing up.

Finally, this morning, I can walk around to assess the damage. Not too bad but my flowers are ripped to shreds. I mean each of their precious petals are tattered to pieces. Poor things.  I have to deadhead practically all of them.

John, a fisherman who has been here at least since the ‘60’s was telling me he would go to the lake to determine the forecast.  If it’s blowing on the Flats, it’s blowing on the lake, he stated.  Great.  That is exactly where my camper is. Right on the edge of the lake.  The Heney Range is on one side with the Mnt. Eyak on the other.  Lake Eyak is in the middle turning it into a wind tunnel.

I love this view of Lake Eyak and the mountains but I don’t get to see it much from my camper.  I would have to be broadside to the wind in order to take full advantage of it.  Then again, I think my pretty vista would be short lived if I did that. It would be replaced by a clear view of the sky on one side and the ground on the other.  I chose to nose into it.

Lake Eyak right outside my camper (though not today)

I got lucky this spring given that the weather was pretty decent.  It did blow a few times.  When I told my neighbor that I survived my first blow after a night of 65 MPH wind she retorted Oh honey, that wasn’t a blow.  I know she is right.  It can easily gust 100 here and often does in the winter. 

John was telling me about fishing onetime in Egg Island, inside the barrier islands on the Copper River Flats.   A wind came up that wasn’t predicted.  He said there were about four of them anchored up.  “Man, did that make my antennas sing” he said.  “My anchor line was so tight, you could play it. And I had it all the way out.  I finally picked up and ran up towards the markers about as shallow as I could, three feet.  Another boat was out fishing and they got flipped.  I think it clocked 96 that day”.

96.  That’s only 31 MPH more that what my camper was made to go down the road at.  Think it will make a difference?

I hate catching fish one at a time

 “I hate catching fish one at a time” says Fisher Poet Dave Densmore casually last winter at a dinner party following the Astoria’s Fisher Poets Gathering in Astoria, Oregon. 

Dave (www.davedensmorefishermanpoet.com) is one of the highliners at the event and has been commercial fishing and performing at Fisher Poets for years. I was pretty intimidated by him, with his larger than life stories, poems, persona and eyebrows.   Every time he would come up to me during the weekend to say “Nice poem” I would shoot off my quickest “Thanks” and scamper away.  That is, until we bonded over our mutual hate of catching fish one at a time.

I had once, mistakenly, stated that I hated catching fish one at a time to a guy who evidently enjoyed sport fishing.  He acted as if I had just defaced not only his very existence, but also everything he had ever held sacred, ever.  I was vilified from that moment on.   And, kind of started to feel bad about it.  That is, until I heard Dave Densmore, commercial fisherman and fisher poet extraordinaire,  make the same declaration.  The moment I heard it, he was my new hero and best friend. I slapped him on the knee, much to both of our surprise and shouted “Thank you!” I gave him a quick rendition of my vilification which vanished at that very  moment.  I all but swooned and cooed as his words of detests for catching fish one at a time washed over me and I felt like I had been saved!  Here, I thought it was just me.

I mean, I love being out on the water, be it a river, creek or the big open blue.  I love being on a boat or skiff.  The cold slimy bait isn’t my favorite, but I can handle that,  (however wiggly worms are right out). Its just, I cast, I wait, then nothing.  I reel it in.  Cast, wait, nothing.  Reel it in.  I cast, wait, oh, this time I have a bobble, no, it was just the bottom.  I reel it in.  I cast, again.  Wait, again.  Nothing.  I reel it in, again.  Sigh.  By now, I’m bored, cold, and half pissed off.  I have plans for this fish I haven’t even caught yet.  There is this scrumptious top secret recipe I’m privy to that I’m dying to try.  I have all the ingredients, I have it all mapped out in my head, I can even taste it.  I’ve told all my friends about this great dish I want to make, I’ve all but planned a party.  But the main guest, the only guests that matters,  is a no show.

So, I replenish my egg bait, cast again and wait.  Oh, tug, tug.  “Fish on!” I cry.  That’s right bitches, stand aside.

I’ve been out here on the Eyak River casting away for about 15-20 minutes or so, wishing I had a gillnet.  Granted, its fall time in Cordova and a nice fall day, overcast and in the low 50’s.  We are in a nice 20-foot drift boat just outside of town. The scenery is quite pretty with the trees and mountains.  The day is pleasant. There are tons of other drift boats around all full of sport-fishermen all drinking beer before noon.   Folks are lined up on the beach in chest waders, standing in cold fast moving water for their chance at a fish.  They look cold and miserable through my eyes.  I feel sorry for them.  Poor bastards.  At least I’m in a boat. I shiver for them.

As I pull up on my rod with my left hand and start to reel it in with my right, I am reminded of all the aches and pains I’ve accrued this season commercial fishing.  My left hand cramps up under with weight of the rod.  My right elbow screams in protest as I reel in this fish.  My left shoulder joins in on the protest, seemingly, just because it doesn’t want to be left out. 

As the fish gets closer, our guide grabs the cutest little dip net that you ever did see.  It's so small, it can be handled with one hand, unlike the 2 foot in diameter dip net we have on the gillnetter attached to a 10 foot pole. 

With all his grace of a guide he swoops his cute net into the water and scoops up my catch.  A Dolly. Varden.  A little 2 pound Dolly, which, though I hear they are good eatin’, I’ve never actually met anyone who has sunk their teeth into this little trout type fish. I think great, now I have bigger bait to catch a coho with.  But no, the guide says we don't do that and let it go. That doesn't even compute.  All that waiting and pain just to let it go.  Poor thing still had the hook in.

I go through these motions a good 20 or 30 more times.  My wrists is killing me, my elbow is about to disown me.  And in the matter of a few hours I manage to catch that exact same damn Dolly another seven times before it was finally time to go back to town and put me out of my misery. 

For 3 hours on the water, I had nothing to show but my own pain, which wasn’t even visible.  And the whole time I was thinking, ya know, if I had a gillnet, I’d be eating by now!

A Fisherman's Commute

The following is an excerpt from the book I'm writing about my adventures fishing. It will be out next spring.  I hope you enjoy.

Morning comes early for fishermen, mine starts at 4 A.M.  The alarm barely gets in a ring before my feet hit cold the wooden floor of my tiny rented room, at Fisherman’s Camp, which was once an old abandoned cannery.  Stumbling around, I gather up the clothes I’ve laid out the night before: a blood stained sweatshirt, and a pair of Carharts, oil stained and dotted with holes from battery acid.  Cold as I pull them on, my garb puts me in the fishing mode as I tip-toe down the dark hallway, and I slip out the door.

My car, a well traveled ‘82 Subaru station wagon, has zebra striped seat covers and luminescent stars pasted on the ceiling, and it starts with the push of a button.  The faulty ignition switch had long since been replaced by fisherman’s creativity.   The engine roars to life, since the exhaust system has as many holes as my jeans. I put it in reverse and hear the rumble of the wooden planks of the pier on which the old cannery has stood for decades.  I turn on to the paved road and head for the harbor in the pitch dark, a full constellation of paste-on stars glowing above my head.  Most nights, these are the only stars I see in Cordova, Alaska whose annual rainfall 180 inches a year.   This is the time I love the best because of the stillness. I find it consuming and comforting.  I pause and savor the tranquil moment, knowing that soon enough my world will be in constant motion from the instant I step onto my boat until I tie up again, secured in my slip.    But for now, I find comfort in the succulent green of the dense Prince William Sound forest, the colors so vibrant, it’s almost eerie.     I have Mount Eccles standing above me to the left and Orca Inlet lies beside me to my right.

 Driving down the dark quiet street, I pass a row of old wooden houses long beaten by the harsh weather of the maritime climate.  The blackness of the night has made a mirror of every window, and I can see my reflection as I drive by.   For a moment, I’m envious of these people, still warm in their beds.  I’ll already be out fishing when they awake.  I think about them going off to work, putting in an8 hour day, coming home to have dinner with their families, and then snuggle with their loved ones.  My thoughts turn to my own day; All the while, I’ll still out fishing, bobbing up and down on each swell, tossed around at whim of Mother Ocean. However, this is a life I chose; to leave  loved ones behind, while I put out to sea alone, not knowing if the weather will allow me  to cook a hot meal, to get a few restful hours of sleep, or even to return safely to port.

Hitting a pothole snaps me back to reality and in just a few minutes I’m at the harbor.  It’s a good thing too--who knows where these thoughts of mine would go if I let them.  But I’m no greenhorn.  Every fisherman knows the risks; we’ve all weighed the stakes and yet, still choose to roll the dice.  We’re all gamblers, each and every one of us.

            Parking next to a log in the harbor, I grab my bags and head to my boat. In the stillness of the early morning, the air smells of the salty ocean.  It’s sweet, somehow fertile, and productive.  The dawn is crisp, cold, and damp with dew.  I mosey down the ramp, trying not to find myself surfing on the wet wooden surface.  About half way down the dock, I finally see my boat. I sigh a sigh of relief that she didn’t somehow sink during the night.  Boats are always trying to sink, you know.  Their natural state is to be on the bottom.

 I climb aboard, and feel the boat move from my weight and it slowly rocks back and forth a few times. I cross over my fish hold and the hollow thud of its emptiness reminds me of my mission to go catch fish.   Morning dew beads on my white fiberglass deck and I leave little foot prints in it with my Xtra-Tuffs.   I un-dog the door and head in.  As I duck inside my little cabin 8 foot square cabin, I am greeted by the familiar smell of boat:  foul weather gear, fish and diesel finished off with the faint musk of mildew.  With a quick glance, I look over my honey-toned teak cabin, to make sure everything is where I left it and that nothing out of the ordinary happened, like a Raven breaking in and eating my butter, again. Tossing my grocery bags down erases my counter space.  My survey starts with my tiny sink, to my left, followed by my Dickson oil stove, which has my orange gloves hanging above it, all turned inside out to dry.  To the aft is my bunk, which is a foam pad, a sleeping bag that is in desperate need of being laundered and an equally grubby pillow.   Coming around to the port side is the sole reason I bought this boat, the head.  No five gallon bucket for this gal!  In front of that is the helm, and my steering station.  Next, I check the engine.

            Lifting the hatch under my bunk to access the engine room, I tie it up while I’m checking things.  I double check that it is secure, as I hate it when my hatch comes crashing down on my head.  Checking the oil, making sure there is coolant, I look for anything out of the ordinary and then turn on the battery switch.  Closing the hatch, I go to the helm.  A turn of the key and the engine roars to life.  The low oil pressure alarm rudely interrupts my peaceful morning. Oh how I hate this alarm, not only its ear piercing, head splitting noise, but also what it represents, a blown engine and a 20 thousand dollar venture. However, it’s a necessary evil and I’m told by other fishermen that I can’t get into heaven without it.  After a few moments, (and I always seem to hold my breath until this moment), oil pressure builds and the alarm turns off.  Now the only sound is the roar of my 200 horsepower, turbocharged Volvo marine diesel.   Like its sound, its exhaust is the only scent in the air.  So much for romance, the silence is over.  

            I turn on my radio, my GPS and my fathometer.  Though old, at least it has the decency to remain silent.  Feeling the boat rock side to side from the wake of others leaving the harbor I am suddenly feeling antsy for this 7 am opener. I fidget and make myself wait for the engine warms up, before I go outside, leap overboard and untie the lines from the dock.  Hopping back aboard and I slip out of my stall while at the forward helm.  The crisp morning air slices through my jacket and threatens to chill me to my bones.  I turn to head back into the cabin.

Like a dance, with movement perfected by repetition, I move about the boat in the same manner every time.  It’s not just efficiency of motion, but prudence dictated by safety and by the confined space.  When scurrying from the bow to my cabin, if I get too excited and muff the dance step, forgetting to turn, I’m reminded this boat was built for a man.   My hips get jammed in the bottle-neck between steering wheel and net reel.  Then I’m condemned to running in place, like a cartoon character from Looney Tunes. 

Heading back to the cabin, ducking through my aluminum door I pivot on one foot, grab my wheel and flip myself into my skipper’s chair.  By reflex, I dog the door tight with my foot.   

Nestled into my chair and I head toward the grey, stone breakwater and out of the harbor where there is an ever present convention of seagulls.  I drive through them and watch them scatter as I check the tide book to see if I can take the short-cut. I think I have enough water and go for it which is not only saving time, but also just kind of fun, if I can get away with it.   This can be a bit dodgy on a falling tide because, as the saying goes ‘the tide waits for no man, and very few women.’

Putting out at a slow pace, with my left hand on the throttle, I rev ‘er up.  As I do so, I feel the bow rise and the stern squat down.  Another moment and a little more speed and I’m up on step and the whole boat rises a bit.  While I am running, I use my trim tabs to even her out.  I bring the port bow down a bit and starboard stern up in order to compensate for my ever present list.  My boat evens out, which is more comfortable and efficient. And I can now sit straight up.    With that, I am on my way. 

            I follow my track line on my GPS and look back to see who is around me.  I can see through my salt crusted window the harbor and the town of Cordova shrinking.  Soon, both will be out of sight. The sun is starting to present itself though I am in the green shade of the mountain.  It’s a rare calm morning.  

            I get to the shallow part of the flats and keep an eye on the fathometer.  My boat draws 2 ½ feet of water, and I’m in 3 feet.  I keep on hand on the throttle and one foot on the door, bracing myself for impact. But I secretly rejoice taking shortcuts, like I am cheating fate or something.   It was close, but I made it through, this time.  No goin’ dry runnin’ to the grounds for me today. I rock in the wake of other boats passing me as my boat is slow.  My thoughts then turn to what it would be like to have a faster boat and not get waked so much. 

             Just past the corner at Big Point is an old house and gear shed which is off to the east, and I day dream about what it would be like to live there.  It has been deserted for years and the windows are all gone.  Some mornings there are bear or moose on the beach. I follow the shore line, pass Shag Rock to the stick channel and head east toward Egg Island.  I’m out of the shadows now and fell the warm sun on my face. The sun is rising and the colors are magnificent, orange, yellow, and reds.   On a clear day like this, the views are magnificent. The mountains stand beside me to my left and the ocean is on my right.  Mount Saint Elias is off in the distance in front of me.  I look at the majestic beauty around me and think of my morning commute and how lucky I am that this is what my commute is like. 

The water is calm here since I am still inside the barrier islands, which stops the swell of the ocean.  I run past some otters lazily drifting around. They float around on their backs and keep their paws out of the water, in efforts to keep them warm.  They look like they are waving at me as I go by.  They bounce up and down on my wake and I wonder if they like that. 

            I’ve been running about an hour when I approach Egg Island, where all the tenders are anchored waiting for boats like mine to deliver their catch.  I turn right at the tenders and I head south to go out of the Egg bar, which is the nicest of the bars and is relatively calm day like today. There are only a handful of 10 foot waves to climb up and over but nothing that will rearrange my cabin.  After that I am into the open ocean.  Heading out that bar is like walking into work.   My focus shifts, as if I had just punched a time card.  And my ever present companion joins me, that old knot of angst in my stomach. Like the hollowness of my fish hold, I now have it to remind me of my mission to go catch fish and to pay off my boat and permit, one fish at a time.  With that, I head east and start looking for jumpers and other boats.  The stillness of my morning is over.