W E L C O M E
This is the website for Patrick Dixon, writer. That would be me. If you're here, I appreciate your visit, and encourage you to explore. I am a retired educator, a former commercial fisherman, and an ex-Alaskan who now lives in Olympia, Washington. These days I spend most of my time writing, photographing or editing photos (you can see samples of my work on my photography website, Patrick Dixon, Fine Art Photography).
I write essays, creative nonfiction and poetry. Mostly I love writing of any kind, and have had pieces published by FISH Publishing in Ireland, the Cirque Literary Journal, Raven Chronicles and Oberon Poetry magazine, as well as by several commercial fishing trade magazines. I was the editor of the seven-volume set of Anchored in Deep Water: The FisherPoets Anthology, published in 2014. In the summer of 2015 I won the Alabama State Poetry Society Morris Memorial chapbook competition.
You may also want to check out my blog, Gillet Dreams, where I have recently been posting a fair amount of written work about commercial fishing, as well as other, more personal poems.
I write essays, creative nonfiction and poetry. Mostly I love writing of any kind, and have had pieces published by FISH Publishing in Ireland, the Cirque Literary Journal, Raven Chronicles and Oberon Poetry magazine, as well as by several commercial fishing trade magazines. I was the editor of the seven-volume set of Anchored in Deep Water: The FisherPoets Anthology, published in 2014. In the summer of 2015 I won the Alabama State Poetry Society Morris Memorial chapbook competition.
You may also want to check out my blog, Gillet Dreams, where I have recently been posting a fair amount of written work about commercial fishing, as well as other, more personal poems.
ORDER AN AUTOGRAPHED COPY OF 'WAITING TO DELIVER' HERE
Using poetry, prose and photography, Waiting to Deliver tells the story of a young man’s journey into the world of commercial fishing for salmon on the waters of Cook Inlet, Alaska. Starting as a 27-year old greenhorn schoolteacher from Indiana, Patrick Dixon works as a deckhand for two seasons before buying his own boat and permit. Through a series of missteps inspired by ignorance, inexperience and bad luck, he stumbles through twenty years of learning how to survive the dangers inherent in working on the water, nursing a perpetual sinking boat, staying afloat financially and becoming a member of a fishing community
Dixon encounters a diverse group of cannery workers and seasoned fishermen who help him develop into an accomplished skipper. He is mentored by two brothers who realize how much he doesn’t know, take him on as a project, and teach him to deal with the endless list of unexpected events and circumstances that fishing throws at him. As his knowledge, expertise and confidence grow, Dixon continues to encounter personal and professional challenges that test his ability, judgement, and patience as a skipper, friend, husband and father.
– excerpts –
|
Chapter Fifteen:
Alone on the Fish excerpt ( from National Fisherman magazine) 
| ||||
Waiting to Deliver
(Title Poem)
(Title Poem)
|
On the good day
when boats return home low in the water, holds full, nets wrapped around salmon rolled on the reel, after picking half the net, and laying it back out while the fish keep hitting, then running to the other end and doing it again, all day long– no time for breaks, a sandwich or even water, your face, beard and glasses streaked black by gurry, dotted white with scales, back aching, fingers and wrists sore, you find energy reserves – threads of adrenaline buried deep sustain you ‘til you’ve made the run home and toss a line to the boat you tie behind, the last of a dozen hanging off the port stern, fifteen feet from a matching group tied to the starboard side of the tender taking fish anchored in the middle of the river. This day of donkeywork, this day of absolution isn’t over, won’t be for hours. At the back of the queue, you know you’ll be here past dinner, past dark, maybe past dawn. You’ll eat a baked potato and a red salmon garnished with lemon, onion and butter less than two hours from the time you plucked it alive from the sea. You’ll wash it down with a cold beer from the cooler, watch the sunset and think how this is the best, most complete life you can imagine. Salt air cools as shadows lengthen and the water changes from blue to black. You trade bunk time with your deckhand and fall asleep before your head hits the pillow. The smack of a boathook on the bow wakes you both as the next boat in line cuts you all loose to go deliver and those of you still tethered together like a serpent in the glare of arc lights work to move up– fighting the current, pulled and yanked off-course by boats fore and aft, bumping throttles forward, neutral, reverse, trying not to ram the one ahead of you, hoping the one behind you does the same. Your deckhand fends off as you swing too close to the vessels sleeping to starboard, until the lead boat tosses a line around the tender’s cleat again and you all slide back in the current like a sigh. Engine after engine goes silent, lines creak around the cleats as they stretch taut. Your crew slips into the bunk while you settle back in the skipper’s chair, light a smoke and sip a cold cup of coffee. You’re still waiting. Waiting to deliver. |
Chapter Three: The Six-Foot Journey excerpt, 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 dock. 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 an access ladder on wheels that raises and lowers with the huge Cook Inlet tides, the lower float is only accessible by a ramshackle walkway stretched from the riverbank to the float. It’s a Rube Goldberg-looking affair made of slippery-looking planks, sheets of plywood and waterlogged pieces of 2x12’s lashed together with makeshift lines and cables. 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 it’s 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 six 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 plywood skiff. 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 get within six feet of 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 before the current can take me downriver. 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 the upriver side of the little boat. 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.
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 dock. 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 an access ladder on wheels that raises and lowers with the huge Cook Inlet tides, the lower float is only accessible by a ramshackle walkway stretched from the riverbank to the float. It’s a Rube Goldberg-looking affair made of slippery-looking planks, sheets of plywood and waterlogged pieces of 2x12’s lashed together with makeshift lines and cables. 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 it’s 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 six 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 plywood skiff. 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 get within six feet of 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 before the current can take me downriver. 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 the upriver side of the little boat. 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.
Use your smartphone camera on the QR code above to be linked directly to our page on Amazon
OR
OR
