Waiting to Deliver: from greenhorn to skipper... an Alaskan commercial fishing memoir
– an excerpt –
Chapter Three: The Six-Foot Journey, 1978
The rain is a kaleidoscope of white lines in the headlights. On high, the wipers hammer at it, tossing spray sideways with each frantic sweep across the windshield. The torrent pounds at the glass between strokes. Even at only 25 miles an hour, it’s hard to see through the deluge, and my Fleetwood Mac cassette is barely audible through the drumming on the roof. I splash through pothole after pothole in the gravel of the cannery yard. A paper bag of groceries shifts in the seat next to me as I swerve to avoid a particularly large puddle. I slow and park in a sparse row of muddy trucks and beater cars facing the boardwalk. Even stopped, the wipers can’t keep up with the downpour. It’s two in the morning. I squint out at the river. Not one of the silhouettes of commercial fishing boats tied to the dock has a light on. I’m early. We are fishing today, but nobody is ready to leave in this storm. I scan the yard and boardwalk. Normally two or three people can be seen at this time of night making their way to their boats with groceries, duffels or other gear. Tonight, the yard is empty. The wind sprays rain on my side window. I’m not eager to go out there. I light a smoke, turn off the engine and crack the window while I consider whether or not to wait until the rain eases.
My cigarette is almost done when another gust whips cold water onto my cheek and neck. Jesus, I breathe. I lift the collar of my cannery jacket and zip it all the way up. I take a last drag before shoving the cigarette butt out the crack. It’s soaked and sputtering before I let go, and the wind pins it to the window. I watch the last of the smoke die as it slides halfway down and stops. I roll up the window, grab my bag of groceries and open the door. After four fishing periods with my skipper, I have finally decided to bring my own food to the boat. His menu of bologna, ketchup and butter on white bread, along with bitter black instant coffee is all we eat when fishing, and I can’t stand it anymore. I need better fare, so earlier this afternoon I loaded the shopping cart with Oreos, deli chicken, chips, peanut butter, jelly, a six-pack of soda, peanut butter crackers, gum, a giant bag of peanut M & M’s and a healthy handful of Snickers. From now on I eat well while we fish! I smile at the thought as the checker stuffs the bag.
I pull my ball cap tight and look down as I walk to the lower float – the floating dock that the fleet uses when there isn’t room at the more convenient upper float. The float itself is tethered to pilings stuck in the riverbed and is in good repair. Several boats tie off here between fishing periods, but where the upper float has a ladder on wheels that raises and lowers with the huge Cook Inlet tides, the lower float is only accessible by a ramshackle floating walkway from the riverbank to the float. Made of planks, sheets of plywood and waterlogged pieces of 2x12’s, all lashed with makeshift lines and cables holding it together. I look up as I reach the walkway – or what’s left of it. The enormous high tide that we’ve had in the night is racing out to sea, and the 4x8 piece of plywood I am supposed to walk across is tilted at a steep angle with a foot of water pouring over it like a half-exposed rock in the middle of a white-water rapids. A taut wire cable rises from deep below the surface of the river and stretches to a piling sunk in the muddy bank next to me. There’s a gap in the ramp at least eight feet long, not counting the half-submerged plywood. The cable vibrates from the force of the torrent rushing past. Halfway along its length a piece of kelp bounces and sways. There’s no getting across this mess.
Standing in the downpour, I can see our boat tied to the outside of the float. My skipper is on board, asleep. I’d rather spend the night in my own bed and get up a little early before a fish day. I’m sure he would too, but he lives twenty-five miles out of town, so for him the boat is a better option. This is my first season, but in the past few weeks I’ve learned how every minute of sleep is to be savored during fishing. I’m not about to yell for help and wake everyone up. I look down the boardwalk toward the upper float and the cannery yard. Still no one in sight.
I put the groceries on the ground under the eave of the nearby gear shed and walk to the edge of the ramp. If I pull the line stretched between the 2x12 plank laying in the mud and the submerged plywood, I think, I might be able to lift the plywood back to the surface. At the edge of the river, the plank rests on the muddy bank at a 30-degree angle. I step onto it and ease my way to the water. The end of the plank is awash, and the eyebolt the line is tied to is barely above the surface. I lean out, grab the line and pull. It doesn’t budge. Cold water surges up my arm and soaks my sleeve. I squat and pull hard using my legs, but the line doesn’t move. My tennis shoes begin to slip on the wet wood, so I let go and step back. Raindrops, lit by the safety lights of the cannery, dance circles of colored light on the dark water. I consider going back to the truck to wait until the fleet wakes up, but Jim counts on me arriving early to wake him. He won’t be happy if I don’t show. I’m new at this, but I’ve already heard stories about skippers who go fishing without their crew if they’re late.
I watch as rivulets of water pour from the brim of my cap. I’m staring at the inside of the float, where it’s too shallow to tie up a 32-foot fishing boat like the North Sea. I’m looking at two dories tied off to it. Wait a second. I turn back to the gear shack. I’d set my groceries down ten feet from where someone leaned a new, ten-foot flat-bottomed skiff made of plywood. I tip the skiff over expecting to see oars inside, but they aren’t there. I look from the skiff to the float. It’s only thirty feet, but the current would sweep me downriver if I tried to push myself across from shore. The Kenai River is cold and tonight, swollen and angry – not a place to make a mistake. I step back under the eave and clean the rain off my glasses with the bandana from my pocket.
I give it a think. I can almost get to the float in the skiff if I pull hand-over-hand using the cable that’s stretched between the piling and whatever it’s tied to under the water. That will get me close enough that I should be able to push off and grab the float from there. I drag the skiff to the edge of the water on the downstream side of the walkway. I put the groceries in the bottom, push the little boat out until it floats, and holding its small bow line with one hand and the line coming off the piling with the other, I step in.
The skiff reacts to my weight like a skateboard on ice, tipping and bucking left and right. I sit quickly on the stern, which is still firm in the mud. Squatting to keep my center of gravity low, I duck-walk to the middle seat while holding the cable. I try not to think about what will happen if I end up in the river. I drop the bow line and straddle the seat, facing upriver. Pulling on the cable coming out of the water and using my weight, I scoot the skiff out into the current. Immediately the little boat tries to shoot downriver. My fingers are white as I clench the cable. The upriver side of the skiff dips low toward the water. Keeping a grip on the line, I stretch my arms and slide back on the seat toward the other side of the skiff, righting it. I slide my hands along the cable as it angles downward until my wrists are against the transom, my fingertips screaming with the strain. I have no more line and six feet to go. Breathing fast, I gain a little leverage by raising myself to a squat. I rock the skiff back, then pull hard and launch it toward the float and let go.
§
There are moments in life when your decisions couple with events and conspire to place you within the short reach of disaster. At those times – when the car rolls off the edge of the road, or your foot slips from the rung of the ladder and you begin the plunge – time slows and the seconds present themselves in brilliant slivers. Each detail – sunglasses sliding across the dash, a branch brushing against your cheek – is painted in front of you and stretched with a clarity and sharpness that commands your detached attention as if you were only an observer and not participating in the affair itself. Until a resolution for better or worse is reached, and then time regains its normal progression and you either move on from there or you don’t. The six-foot journey that the skiff travels with me straddling the seat but twisted, facing forward, arms spread and hands gripping both sides of the little boat, moves in time like a slide show – click: pouring rain lit by the arc lights of the cannery and boats anchored in the river, streaked by the rain on my glasses; click: the blur of silent black hulls of boats looming closer; click: the dirty cream and green stripes on the side of the floating dock growing larger as they near, almost within reach; click: the sensation of the river’s surge underfoot as it pulls at the boat – all slide by in slow-motion until the bow of the skiff smacks the float, bounces off and swings back into the current. The skiff slips sideways, turns downstream, and as time regains its normal pace, I am caught in the flow, the float out of reach.
The rain is a kaleidoscope of white lines in the headlights. On high, the wipers hammer at it, tossing spray sideways with each frantic sweep across the windshield. The torrent pounds at the glass between strokes. Even at only 25 miles an hour, it’s hard to see through the deluge, and my Fleetwood Mac cassette is barely audible through the drumming on the roof. I splash through pothole after pothole in the gravel of the cannery yard. A paper bag of groceries shifts in the seat next to me as I swerve to avoid a particularly large puddle. I slow and park in a sparse row of muddy trucks and beater cars facing the boardwalk. Even stopped, the wipers can’t keep up with the downpour. It’s two in the morning. I squint out at the river. Not one of the silhouettes of commercial fishing boats tied to the dock has a light on. I’m early. We are fishing today, but nobody is ready to leave in this storm. I scan the yard and boardwalk. Normally two or three people can be seen at this time of night making their way to their boats with groceries, duffels or other gear. Tonight, the yard is empty. The wind sprays rain on my side window. I’m not eager to go out there. I light a smoke, turn off the engine and crack the window while I consider whether or not to wait until the rain eases.
My cigarette is almost done when another gust whips cold water onto my cheek and neck. Jesus, I breathe. I lift the collar of my cannery jacket and zip it all the way up. I take a last drag before shoving the cigarette butt out the crack. It’s soaked and sputtering before I let go, and the wind pins it to the window. I watch the last of the smoke die as it slides halfway down and stops. I roll up the window, grab my bag of groceries and open the door. After four fishing periods with my skipper, I have finally decided to bring my own food to the boat. His menu of bologna, ketchup and butter on white bread, along with bitter black instant coffee is all we eat when fishing, and I can’t stand it anymore. I need better fare, so earlier this afternoon I loaded the shopping cart with Oreos, deli chicken, chips, peanut butter, jelly, a six-pack of soda, peanut butter crackers, gum, a giant bag of peanut M & M’s and a healthy handful of Snickers. From now on I eat well while we fish! I smile at the thought as the checker stuffs the bag.
I pull my ball cap tight and look down as I walk to the lower float – the floating dock that the fleet uses when there isn’t room at the more convenient upper float. The float itself is tethered to pilings stuck in the riverbed and is in good repair. Several boats tie off here between fishing periods, but where the upper float has a ladder on wheels that raises and lowers with the huge Cook Inlet tides, the lower float is only accessible by a ramshackle floating walkway from the riverbank to the float. Made of planks, sheets of plywood and waterlogged pieces of 2x12’s, all lashed with makeshift lines and cables holding it together. I look up as I reach the walkway – or what’s left of it. The enormous high tide that we’ve had in the night is racing out to sea, and the 4x8 piece of plywood I am supposed to walk across is tilted at a steep angle with a foot of water pouring over it like a half-exposed rock in the middle of a white-water rapids. A taut wire cable rises from deep below the surface of the river and stretches to a piling sunk in the muddy bank next to me. There’s a gap in the ramp at least eight feet long, not counting the half-submerged plywood. The cable vibrates from the force of the torrent rushing past. Halfway along its length a piece of kelp bounces and sways. There’s no getting across this mess.
Standing in the downpour, I can see our boat tied to the outside of the float. My skipper is on board, asleep. I’d rather spend the night in my own bed and get up a little early before a fish day. I’m sure he would too, but he lives twenty-five miles out of town, so for him the boat is a better option. This is my first season, but in the past few weeks I’ve learned how every minute of sleep is to be savored during fishing. I’m not about to yell for help and wake everyone up. I look down the boardwalk toward the upper float and the cannery yard. Still no one in sight.
I put the groceries on the ground under the eave of the nearby gear shed and walk to the edge of the ramp. If I pull the line stretched between the 2x12 plank laying in the mud and the submerged plywood, I think, I might be able to lift the plywood back to the surface. At the edge of the river, the plank rests on the muddy bank at a 30-degree angle. I step onto it and ease my way to the water. The end of the plank is awash, and the eyebolt the line is tied to is barely above the surface. I lean out, grab the line and pull. It doesn’t budge. Cold water surges up my arm and soaks my sleeve. I squat and pull hard using my legs, but the line doesn’t move. My tennis shoes begin to slip on the wet wood, so I let go and step back. Raindrops, lit by the safety lights of the cannery, dance circles of colored light on the dark water. I consider going back to the truck to wait until the fleet wakes up, but Jim counts on me arriving early to wake him. He won’t be happy if I don’t show. I’m new at this, but I’ve already heard stories about skippers who go fishing without their crew if they’re late.
I watch as rivulets of water pour from the brim of my cap. I’m staring at the inside of the float, where it’s too shallow to tie up a 32-foot fishing boat like the North Sea. I’m looking at two dories tied off to it. Wait a second. I turn back to the gear shack. I’d set my groceries down ten feet from where someone leaned a new, ten-foot flat-bottomed skiff made of plywood. I tip the skiff over expecting to see oars inside, but they aren’t there. I look from the skiff to the float. It’s only thirty feet, but the current would sweep me downriver if I tried to push myself across from shore. The Kenai River is cold and tonight, swollen and angry – not a place to make a mistake. I step back under the eave and clean the rain off my glasses with the bandana from my pocket.
I give it a think. I can almost get to the float in the skiff if I pull hand-over-hand using the cable that’s stretched between the piling and whatever it’s tied to under the water. That will get me close enough that I should be able to push off and grab the float from there. I drag the skiff to the edge of the water on the downstream side of the walkway. I put the groceries in the bottom, push the little boat out until it floats, and holding its small bow line with one hand and the line coming off the piling with the other, I step in.
The skiff reacts to my weight like a skateboard on ice, tipping and bucking left and right. I sit quickly on the stern, which is still firm in the mud. Squatting to keep my center of gravity low, I duck-walk to the middle seat while holding the cable. I try not to think about what will happen if I end up in the river. I drop the bow line and straddle the seat, facing upriver. Pulling on the cable coming out of the water and using my weight, I scoot the skiff out into the current. Immediately the little boat tries to shoot downriver. My fingers are white as I clench the cable. The upriver side of the skiff dips low toward the water. Keeping a grip on the line, I stretch my arms and slide back on the seat toward the other side of the skiff, righting it. I slide my hands along the cable as it angles downward until my wrists are against the transom, my fingertips screaming with the strain. I have no more line and six feet to go. Breathing fast, I gain a little leverage by raising myself to a squat. I rock the skiff back, then pull hard and launch it toward the float and let go.
§
There are moments in life when your decisions couple with events and conspire to place you within the short reach of disaster. At those times – when the car rolls off the edge of the road, or your foot slips from the rung of the ladder and you begin the plunge – time slows and the seconds present themselves in brilliant slivers. Each detail – sunglasses sliding across the dash, a branch brushing against your cheek – is painted in front of you and stretched with a clarity and sharpness that commands your detached attention as if you were only an observer and not participating in the affair itself. Until a resolution for better or worse is reached, and then time regains its normal progression and you either move on from there or you don’t. The six-foot journey that the skiff travels with me straddling the seat but twisted, facing forward, arms spread and hands gripping both sides of the little boat, moves in time like a slide show – click: pouring rain lit by the arc lights of the cannery and boats anchored in the river, streaked by the rain on my glasses; click: the blur of silent black hulls of boats looming closer; click: the dirty cream and green stripes on the side of the floating dock growing larger as they near, almost within reach; click: the sensation of the river’s surge underfoot as it pulls at the boat – all slide by in slow-motion until the bow of the skiff smacks the float, bounces off and swings back into the current. The skiff slips sideways, turns downstream, and as time regains its normal pace, I am caught in the flow, the float out of reach.