Reluctant fisherman or just reluctant to write

Until today, I have been a reluctant fisherman, or at least a reluctant writer.  As you may or may not have noticed, my blog has been nothing but photos the past few weeks.  This started out innocently enough, lack of sleep or time to write due to copious amounts of fishing time, cool photos seemed the perfect solution.  But, now that I am back on land and the storm of the season is over, I am still tempted to just post photos, again.  Then I decided to roll my sleeves up and try to figure out why.

I can’t deny there have been some rogue waves the past few months.  As some of you may know, my mom past away back in April after a yearlong battle with cancer.  Two days after the funeral, I hauled my ass cross country from Ohio to Alaska, some 4000 miles, driving 14 hours a day for 7 days straight to make the 1^st fishing opener in Cordova.

Fishing took off like gangbusters and it was full fart from the get-go with 48-hour openers and shitty weather to boot, kicking all of our asses the whole time.  (There were some fish caught, though.) This was about the time my now ex but then current boyfriend check out of my life so fast he left skid marks.  After getting our asses kicked on the Flats for a month, we heading to the Sound where we proceeded to put in 20-hour days, fishing over 500 hours in 32 days.  It takes you normal folks about 4 months to put in 500 hours of work; we did it in a month!  Again, we caught some fish and made some money but I won’t say it weren’t hard earned cake.   That last week I tweaked my low back the day before our biggest. Set. Of. The. Season!   Honestly, our net was sinking.  I took near fatal doses of Vitamin I (Ibuprofen) and moved around like Mr. Roboto to get through the pain.  I had to dose myself at each change of time to get through.  High tide, take two.  Low tide, take two more. 

But, now I’m back in town, my back is on the mend, and I’m back to mending gear.  Having weathered those storms, the forecast is looking good.  V10.  After 2 days of sunshine and 4 trips up the ski-hill, the tide has finally turned! I met self discipline (SD meet Jen, "nice to meet you" Jen meet SD, "grumble, grumble")  but I lost 5 pounds, I’m going to a Poetry Workshop in a few weeks held in my most favorite place in the whole wide world, McCarthy Alaska.  (Gearing up for Fisher Poets early this year!) I’m having fun flirting with a hot man from Anchorage, I’m applying for Writer’s Residencies and looking into going to Bali then hiking in Nepal and inquiring to be on some T.V. program I know nothing about (wish me luck!)  So, finally, I have something to write to all you about.  I couldn’t quite make myself do it until the tide had turned.

But hey, when a fisherman gets a water haul, she just turns around and sets the net out again. 

Boats of the Fleet

The North line

Tender extraordinaire, Aquanator

James Baby on the Exodus

Curly and the Savonia

Guido on the Night Owl

Old WW II powerbarge turned tender the Robert S

Peter Pan tender the Victory.  Ain't she a beaut?  From 1942

Erosion AKA Ketchup

 Roulette It's a Russian boat. Get it? 

Russian Fleet waiting for a turn at the North line

I'm taking a poll.  The past few weeks I've only posted photos and not much story.  What do we think?  More photos or more writing?  Put a comment in box and let me know what you think!

Faces of the fleet

Leo & Curly

the Blackster aka Bill Black

Fishing is still in full swing here on the Copper and Prince William Sound.  We start fishing Thursday morning and fish until Sunday morning.  Then we fish Monday morning and fish until Wednesday morning.  Then we start all over again Thursday morning.  But its been fun and I'm having a blast taking photos.  This week I wanted to feature some of the faces of the fleet.  There are more for sure but this is a taste.  Hope you enjoy!

Fisher Poet Buck

Vince on the Pasak

Ian, pickin' up a frenzy

Bill loading up

Phil & his fish pickin' daughter Marina

Salmon Slayer Dan

Skipper Danny

Thea sunning herself on the North Line

Crew Quicksilver, Danny & Me

setnetters snoozing waiting to deliver

beach crew

JP, setnetter extraordinaire

What fishermen do in their spare time...

pick shrimp pots in PWS

take photos of cool boats

or funny boats

or funny names of boats

they take pictures of starfish

weigh really big red salmon

have sourdough pancakes with fishin' buddies  Leo & Curly

catch some zzz's in public places like park benches in Whittier

make cajun shrimp boil

eat shrimp fajitas with Danny &  Dan

watch other fishermen catch fish

take 4 AM photos of sunrises

document celebrity sitings, the Northwestern from Deadliest Catch

talk on their cell phones

SUP setnet sites

lug toys around

bullshit with each other

get dumped off on rocks to stretch the legs during sets after days on the boat

All fisherman are liars

East coast fisherman Linda Greenlaw had it right when she stated, “All fisherman are liars.“  I tell you, fishermen are physically incapable of telling the truth, the whole truth and nothin’ but the truth, so help us cod. It’s in our DNA. Fisherman does two things.   We lie about the amount of fish we catch, the amount of fish we don’t catch.  We lie about where we caught them and when and how we caught them. We lie about how big it was…or wasn’t. We catch fish and we lie. 

So when asked if this blog is true, true to form, I answered, “as true as any fisherman can tell a tale.”  I stick to that.  Having said that, some names that I use in my blogs have been changed in order to protect the innocent, or the guilty, whichever the case may be.   Being that I’m talking about fisherman, the latter is probably more often the case.  Having said that, I want to revisit my disclaimer, which I wrote when I started this blog a few years ago, which is, as follows.  Here goes: NOT ALL THIS IS TRUE!  In fact, none of it may be true at all.  Or, a little may be true or true-ish. Or, it may have actually happened, but years ago.  You decide.  So, when I poke fun at the skipper or tell a story about a trip, or whatever, I may not be talking about the current trip, or even the current season.  You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?  This blog is for entertainment purposes only and the scuttlebutt is all in good fun.  OK, just needed to clarify since I live in a small town and rumors fly and someone just gave me a pillow that said, “Be nice to me or you’ll end up in my novel”. 

Having said that, I do really fish.  Honest.

In fact, fishing has been pretty good this year on the Copper River so far.  Near record runs have the counter going like crazy.   The count to date is 306,816 fish up the river verses and anticipated 129,500. The next opener is for 48 hours on Thursday, May 31.

The last opener, which was Monday, though a bit slower than the rest, was still pretty good, even if the weather did turn to shit.  East 35.  Rain. .  “A hair parter” according to my buddy Philbert.  The forecast isn’t any nicer for this next one, either.  E 45 seas 13 feet. I ran into my other buddy Lyle and said, “Yeah, did you hear the forecast?  45.”  “45 degrees?”  Asked Lyle.   Valid question being that is been hovering around the mid- 40s for the past few days. “Both.”  I said,  “It is 45 out right now but its supposed to blow 45”.  That’s not going to be much fun.  Its never a good time when the temperature is the same as the wind speed.  A good diet plan though.  It will be too sloppy to cook, might be too sloppy to eat and what you do eat might re-visit ya anyhow.  That South Beach diets got nothing on the Copper River Flats diet.  Between that and the cold weather, the pounds should fall right off.  I know I’ve been freezing my butt off lately, though more figuratively than literally.  45 degrees is colder than I experienced all winter!  I’m not acclimatized being that I spent my winter sailing in Florida.  As a matter of fact it’s colder in this house than it was all winter in Florida.   My emergency Patagonia order arrived just in time.  I had to order a warm vest, ski socks and fleece hoody, then I trotted down to Copper River Fleece (http://www.copperriverfleece.com/hoodiefemale.html) and picked up another spare fleece hoody just in case to go with my long johns, hat, multiple jackets and liners for my gloves.  I think I’ll get some of those hand warmers, too.   Yes, it is that cold out there.  Between the wind and the rain and the cold fish and the cold ocean. Brrr.  I know it’s been hot around the country and has been in the 90s in Ohio so it probably hard to imagine that we still have snow and did I mention cold? There’s nothing too much worse than picking cold fish with ice-cold hands.  Kind of makes the process a bit more unpleasant.  Honestly.

Superstitions

            The almost only safe assumption that one could make about fishermen is that they are all superstitious.  At least, I’ve never met one who wasn’t.  There is a slough of superstitions out there, almost as many as fishermen.  Some are more commonly known than and abided by than others.  The number one cardinal sin on a boat is to whistle, alas, one will whistle up a storm.  I almost got fired once from accidentally whistling.   I was clear out in Togiak, too and would have been screwed to find my own transportation home. 

Leaving the hatch covers upside down is another big one.  I’m not real sure what will happen but I just know I’ve never done it to find out.  Saying the word “horse” on a boat is bad luck in some circles.  I think this one came from back in the day of wooden boats that used to transport horses.  In bad weather horses scare, kick, and damage the boat.    You are supposed to replace the word “horse” with draft-animal as in “I have a 200 draft-animal power Volvo diesel engine…”

Of course, bananas are bad luck on a boat.  Everyone knows that.  This is because putting bananas next to other fruit makes them turn rotten faster.   Some folks tweak this one a little bit and say that bananas are only bad luck in the wheelhouse.  But what if you have a bowpicker and don’t have a wheelhouse?  I don’t know, but I wouldn’t chance it.

Another is not leaving the deck bucket right side up, it simulates the boat filling with water and sinking.  Coffee mugs need to all hang the same direction, though I don’t remember the direction or the reason for this one.  OMG!  I almost forgot a HUGE one; never ever leave port on Friday.  This is a biggie and I can’t believe it almost escaped me.  One other boat made this mistake and was never heard from again.  Want to know which one?  The Titanic.  Yup, left port on a Friday and look what happened to them. 

A lesser-known superstition is having someone of the opposite sex pee on your net for good luck.  I’m not going to really go into detail on this one.

Another superstition, one that came around to bite me in the ass once, a little bit, is throwing all your spare change overboard to appease the fish gods.   I only worked on one boat that abided to this one and have never heard of it since.  Makes me wonder about that skipper.

Anyhow, me wanting to be a good deckhand, I reached into my pocket as requested and sent my coins into the drink.  It was a donation to the herring gods, or so I was told, as we steamed west to seine Kodiak and Togiak. All was fine and dandy until the day I got smacked in the face with one of the metal rings on the bottom of the seine.  It gave me a big fat bloody lip and put 3 cracks in my front tooth.

The next day was a day off and our spotter pilot offered to fly me into Kodiak to have it looked at by a dentist since we were about to head out further towards the end of the earth, Togiak.

I hopped in the plane with the plan to look up a dentist in the phone book and give them a shout in Kodiak.  But, when I arrived, I had no quarters for the payphone (this was way before the day of cell phones.) In addition to bumming a ride from the pilot I had to bum a quarter, too.   Though, it was mostly all for naught anyhow.  The dentist told me there I had a 50/50 that my tooth was going to break in two.  Thanks, but I could have guessed that on my own.  Oh well, it was a pretty day for a flight and I got to get off the boat for an afternoon.  Though I did spend the next month drinking tons of milk and not biting into apples.   Fast-forward 14 years later, my front tooth still has 3 cracks in it, but is holding up just fine. 

Knock on wood. 

The first time I ran over my net, Part I.

I ran over my net the first time on a nice sunny blue bird day.  There was not a puff of wind or a cloud in the sky.  The visibility was perfect, the water crystal clear. 

I was gillnetting for salmon on my 28’ bowpicker, the King-N-I, over in Main Bay in the Prince William Sound.  Its truly beautiful there with blue water enveloped green old growth evergreen trees and glaciers.  Marine mammals play in the water below while Bald eagles play in the sky above.  Fisherman look down into the water at their nets  and see the whole thing almost all 30 feet, all the way to the leadline at the bottom.   Fisherman can also see each gorgeous shiny salmon that is caught in the net.  It looks like a glowing flash of silver suspended in the water.  Its one of the reasons I love fishing in the Sound.  I love to run my net and look down at all the pretty salmon. 

I like to count them as I go.  Gillnetters always count salmon as they get caught in the net.   Each set, one, two, three………..one hundred and forty five.  One hundred and forty……..where was I?  One hundred and sixty?  That sounds good.  One hundred and sixty one……See, we don’t mean to exaggerate every catch, it just happens. 

Anyhow, I like to count the salmon I catch.  Then I run inside and grab my calculator.  I take the average weight of the species of salmon I’m catching (reds = 6lbs, chums = 8 lbs, silvers = 10-12 lbs, etc)  Today, I’m catching reds.  So I take the six pound average, multiply by how many I caught and multiply that number by the price I am getting.  The price varies throughout the season and sometimes, isn’t even known.   It can go up during a fishing period.  Sometimes it isn’t even announced until well into the period.  But, I make a guess.  I like the instant gratification of knowing how much money I’m making.

I was running my net and looking at all the pretty fish in it.  All the sudden, my boat stopped.  Engine died.  “What the hell!?” I wondered aloud.  I ran inside and heaved up my engine hatch to look at my engine.  I think funny that I do this because even if something is broken, everything usually looks fine in the engine room.  But, it’s my reaction non the less.  I try to start my boat, nothing.  My gauges work, so I know it’s not the alternator, but, at this point, it's all I know.   I’m dead in the water.  And, of course, I start drifting over my gear.  

I call Lenny on the radio.  “My boat just stopped” I explain.  “It won’t start”.  He starts with a list of questions  “Do you have fuel?” “I should, let me check”, I retort.  At this time I have to open my drawer and scrounge around for my fuel key.  I find it and flip up my rug.  Dried fish scales scatter like confetti.   I insert the brass key, greenish with age and give it a twist.  I then grab my yard stick  I use as a fuel gauge since mine doesn’t work.  It has old magic marker marks marking various stages of fuel.  Top on is full, but I never fill it up.  Why push around all that diesel?  Then there are two or three that measure empty.  I pull out the homemade dipstick and the wet diesel line is about 5 inches above empty, which means I don’t know how much fuel I have but I know I have enough. So a task that should take .2 seconds takes me several minutes.  And after all that, I still don’t know exactly how much fuel I have, I just know I have enough.  Nevertheless, that’s not the issue.  I have fuel.

Lenny calls me back on the radio to ask what I was doing when the engine stopped.  I reply “I was running my net and it just stopped.  There are a few fish in there, too.”   He then asks the next reasonable question “Did you run your net over?” “NO! Of course not! I was a good five feet away from the cork line.”  “Well………..your net bellows out under the water depending on current and if it’s touching bottom or not.  It sounds like you ran over your net.”  My buddy suggests.  “Shit” I retort to myself, no need to push the mike and announce that on the radio, I’m content just swear to myself.

That’s all the time we have for today, folks.  Tune in next week for the rest of the story.

I’m out.  

Watch that tow line!

“Watch that tow line!” shouted Bill, trying to stop me from running across the deck. But, it was too late, I was already in motion.
Bill used to crab and as a result, has perfect teeth. He got them by leaning over the rail at the wrong time, just as a crab pot appeared, smacking him in the face and shattering all his teeth. Now they are all flawless and false.

We were seining herring up in Togiak, Alaska back in the late ‘90’s. I had a few seasons fishing under my belt, but was still pretty green when it came to seining, unlike Bill who had been crewing for about 20 odd years. Bill was stacking corks and I was stacking leads, the top and the bottom of the seine net, as the net came in. When it went out, it was my job to make sure the net didn’t get hung up.

The opener was only 10 minutes long, which is an amazingly short time to set a seine net. Hell, even coffee breaks are longer than that. Anyway, we were setting the net at 16 knots, full fart. I could see that it was going to get hung up going over the stern so I darted across the deck to throw the end over. I took two steps when I heard Bill, who was standing right beside me, scream “NO!! Watch that tow line!” But it was too late.

So instead of watching the tow line, I watch my feet sail up above my eyes as I sailed across the deck, perfectly horizontal, six feet in the air. I thought for sure I was going over. All I could think is how cold that water is and how badly that will sting like pins and needles all over. Then I thought of how fast we are going and wondered if I would get run over by the boat. Or sucked under. Or caught up in the net. Or run over by someone else’s boat. Togiak herring is like a demolition derby on water, not a good place to take a swim.

Before I really knew what even happened, I landed flat on my back about eight feet from where I started and about a foot away from the rail. Turns out, on my dash to clear the net, I stepped on the tow line at the exact same moment it went taut, catapulting myself across the deck. Still stunned when Bill asked me if I was Okay, I nodded that I was. “What the hell were you thinking?” was his second question. “The net was going to get hung up” I said, as meek as a mouse and he grabbed my hand, bringing me to my feet. “Forget the net” he snorted. “But, skipper said….” “Forget the skipper, watch out for yourself first. You know how close you just came to getting slashed in two? Or launched overboard?”

I didn’t and there was no time to reflect. I was no more back on my feet when the skiff came ‘round with the other end of the net, it was time to stack leads.

Later, when we were with our partner boat, who saw the whole thing. We weren’t even tied up to them yet when I heard “Holy shit! I thought for sure you were going in the drink!” “Are you OK?” “What happened?” “Are you hurt?” They all asked at the same time. “I’m fine, I’m fine” I assured them. It took seeing all those guys concerned about me to realize that maybe I did get pretty close to getting hurt. But, I tell you what, that was good advice and from that day on, I always kept one eye on the tow line.

Lucky Fishing Hat

I heard once that baseball players don’t change their socks during a series as its bad luck. Fishermen are the same way with their hats.  At first, like any greenhorn, I didn’t know this.  I would simply fish in any old hat until someone pointed out to me that I had a lot of audacity just changing hats like that and tempting fate.  Clearly, I needed a fishing hat.  You had to put some thought into the hat that would be the only hat on your head the next few months so obviously, not any old hat would do.

I racked my brain, almost to the point of losing sleep, in order of selecting the perfect hat.  Okay, actually it wasn’t that hard of a choice.  I only had one hat with me.  It was a blue ball cap that had “24/7/365” on the front.  Being that that is pretty much every fisherman’s work schedule, I thought it was fitting. Problem solved, I had the perfect fishing hat.  Until.

That next spring when I returned to Alaska at the start of the season, I searched high and low but to no avail.  I had lost my fishing hat.  Back to square one.  I think I had a few interim hats until I again, found the perfect fishing hat. 

Granted, finding the perfect hat is probably not such a feat for other fisherman as it is for me. But, I have a pin head and most hats are too big, thus narrowing the selection of cool hats down to only a few.  However, fishermen have perseverance and I continued my search as if my life depended on it.  And who knows, maybe it did. 

Alas, I knew it as soon as I laid my eyes on it.  Ah, yes, I still remember it today.  I walked into Lee’s Clothing store in Petersburg and it was love at first sight.  There was my fishing hat and it was just right.  It was a tannish beige color with three brown letters on the front.  Very elegant.  And like the other hat, it made you stop and think for a second.  Only one step better, with this hat you had to be in the know to know that those letters meant. The three letters were “PSG”, the indentifying city code for Petersburg, not only used at the airport but also used on the Alaska Marine Highway, the ferry system.  

I was in heaven, in love with my new hat for the reason that, one, it fit, and two, local pride.  Fishermen take pride in where they hail from.  It can almost be like a school rivalry, Petersburg, Wrangell, Sitka, Ketchikan.  And I was labeled PSG.

I wore my colors proudly for years.  I would tuck my pony tail though the back of my hat, anchoring it onto my head.  If the wind caught the bill and blew it off, as happened often enough, my hair would catch it long enough for me to put it back on my head. 

Later, when I expanded my fishing routine and started going up to Bristol Bay, Kodiak and Cordova, the hat became a bit of an icebreaker.  “What is PSG?” they would ask.  “Petersburg” I’d reply with pride.  It’s a status quo, really. Then the other fishermen would know that I have fished other fisheries and I was not a greenhorn, a status that I felt I had to constantly reestablish.  But, that’s a story in itself and one for another time. 

Anyway, I must have had that old hat for about 5 years or so, well until I had my own boat and it had served me well.  I was bummed when I lost it I never thought I would see it again.  Until one day, a year later, I was fishing around under the seat of my car when lo and behold.  There it was!  Tune in next week and I’ll tell you about the luck that hat brought me.

Until then, eat fish!

My first day as a commercial fisherman

This was the day I had been waiting years for.  Finally, I was a commercial fisherman.  A Copper River fisherman, no less.  And it was opening day of the Copper River Gill net fishery 2000.  Gale warnings be damned. 

I had just taken the plunge and bought in.    At last, I was a permit holder for Area E, the Prince William Sound and the Copper River Delta drift salmon fishery.  I had a new (to me) boat, new (to me) net, old raingear (I had visions of starting off my new career as a skipper with new raingear) and a new $90,000 state loan.  In a matter of a few months I had managed to: get a state loan, find a boat, find a permit, nets, get everything in working order, launch the boat, drum the net aboard, find my way to Egg Island without going dry, and get up and over the bar without too much demise.  And now, the moment I had been dreaming about for years; making my first set as skipper of my very own fishing boat.

However.  It didn’t quite go as I envisioned it.  In my vision, I make this stellar set and am the envy of the fleet.  I load up on glorious, famous Copper River Reds my first try and make $10,000 my first day.   In reality, I found myself on my hands and knees, puking on my fish, my glorious fish,  wondering what the hell I had just gotten myself into. 

May 15, 2000, the first day of the season brought 30 knot winds, 8-10 foot seas with cold rain.  Gale warnings were in the forecast and the weather was already snotty.  My steering was on the fritz, but I could still limp around and try to fish.   

The romantic notion of owing my own commercial fishing boat was taking a beating.   And so was I.  After eight years of crewing on boats I decided it was time to buy in and buy my own fishing boat and permit, the license needed to fish.  I was 28 years old wanted to figure out what I was going to do with my life.  I needed a true course in my life, opposed to the magnetic course of wandering of being a deckhand. Buying in seemed to make the most sense.  No doubt, I had other options.  I had two years of college under my belt but school wasn’t capturing my interests.  Besides, in order to go back to school, I would have to do the unthinkable, move to a city where there was a school.  My other option was to carry on my budding flying career by getting my commercial pilot’s license.  Since I already had a private pilot’s license, the state of Alaska would loan me the money to continue on.  But, that didn’t fully suit me either as I didn’t think I would like sitting still in a tiny cockpit all day long.  So, with those two other possibilities eliminated, that left only one choice, to buy in. 

I got all my duckys in a row and dove right in.  I figured if I ended up flat on my face financially, then at least I was young enough to recover. That is, if I survived.  Commercial fishing in Alaska has a fatality rate that is 36 times higher than the national average for other occupations.  But, when you are 28 you think you’ll live forever.  So who cares about national averages?

Besides, I was single, no kids and no one else I was responsible for, financially or otherwise.  It was scary though, I had never had a loan before.  Shoots, I had never even had debt before.  But, here I was plunging head first into a $90,000 debt to the State of Alaska.  To me, the loan was the scariest part.  Until I got out there, that is.

So, there I was.  I ran out the Egg island bar without too much mishap.  The whole fleet ran east, I headed west.  I was scared to death that I would crash into someone out there.  The fishery opened at 7 AM and I made my first set in the Mousetrap.  I could steer, more or less, well enough to make a set but as the day went on my steering problem got worse.  Dale, a guy in my radio group offered to give me a few pints of steering fluid.  I just had to come get it. I got as close to him as I dared in rough seas and defunct steering and he threw me the first quart of steering fluid.  Of course, he missed and it went in the drink, but I got the second one.  The steering fluid should done something but now my problem was I didn’t have a funnel.  As it turned out, it didn’t do much for my steering system but my teak did look real good.

After about 8 hours of battling the weather, being seasick and lack of steering I decided I had just about enough fun for one day.  Besides, the weather was already bad enough to make a tow impossible if my steering went completely out and it was picking up.

I limped into Egg island and headed for the tender.  I shouted to the tendermen that my steering was going out and that I’d have to make a crash landing.  I got close as I could without crashing into him and took her out of gear as they lassoed me in.  I delivered my 64 fish, tucked my tail between my legs and limped back into town. 

Turned out that the previous owner accidentally put the vent cap for the steering system on the outside helm, which is lower than the inside helm.  So, not only was steering fluid leaking out but salt water was also getting in.  I had to flush and bleed my whole steering system, which was quite a task.  Funny though that one teeny tiny little hole on one teeny tiny little cap could cost so much time and money.  Could have been worse though, I suppose.  But, I got ‘er all fixed up and went back out and caught some fish the next opener.

And that was my first day as a commercial fisherman. 

Why?

A reader recently asked me that if the weather is always bad and if I’m always miserable and in peril, why do I fish?  Well, good question.  For starters, I’m not always in peril.  But, who wants to read about the boring moments?

Truth is fishing is often tedious and boring.  Mind numbing boredom. You set your net and watch it fish. 900 feet of cork line bobbing lacklusterly in the ocean.  Hours and hours of sheer boredom, only punctuated occasionally with moments of sheer terror.  

If everything goes right and the weather is more less decent, things are boring.  This though, is a good thing.  You can just drift around, feeling mother ocean slowly rock you back and forth into a soft lullaby with each swell.  You witness the most amazing skies: sunsets, sunrises, moonrises, shooting stars, Northern lights, all while smelling the crisp salty ocean air.  Marine mammals play in the surf.   Otters float around the net with their little paws sticking out of the water, as if waving “hello”.  Birds follow the corks, thinking they are part of the flock.  Arctic turns dive for little fishes.  Seagulls squawk.  Puffins accent the sky with their little orange beaks.  Whales spout in the distance making impromptu “Old Faithful”.  Porpoise play in the waves.  Fish jump.   Seals smile at you with their eyes.  Sea lions nibble.  It’s a wildlife viewing extravaganza.

You can feel the warm sun on your face as you sit, lazily, in the skipper’s seat, feet propped up, watching your net.    The sun’s heat accentuated as it comes in through the window combined with the heat of the diesel stove. Water rhythmically lapping against the hull.   You daydream about all the things you’ll do with the money you are making.  Vacations, new truck, new nets, that upgrade on your boat.  Splash!  You see another fish hit the net.  One more 20 dollar bill slipped into your pocket. Strike-O!  Fish clatter.  Another 100 bucks.  And you haven’t even finished your first cup of coffee!!  Isn’t this just a dream come true? 

Here you are, on your very own commercial fishing boat, in Alaska.  Your own business.  You you’re your boat whatever you want, paint it the color you want.  In some cases, design and build it however you want.

Your boat is not just a way to make money, but your own little home away from home.  You cook on your boat, sleep on your boat, change your clothes on your boat, feed yourself from your boat.  Make a living from your boat. It keeps you safe and warm, protects you from the elements and makes you money.

You are your own boss, make your own hours, fish where you want, when you want, and how you want.  You call the shots.  Answer to no one.   You work your ass off half the year and can take the rest of the time off, if you wish. You take pride in your profession.  You are an Alaskan Fisherman.   The world is your oyster.

And that is why I fish.