Trapped on the Reel
adapted from the story told by Morry Porter
Published in The Alaska Fisherman’s Journal, May, 1999
adapted from the story told by Morry Porter
Published in The Alaska Fisherman’s Journal, May, 1999
Sipping coffee in the cabin of the Gypsy as she warmed up, Morry Porter waited at the dock in Cordova as long as he could. His deckhand, drunk last night, was nowhere to be found, and Morry needed to go fishing. He didn’t like to fish alone, but in the years after World War II business had been tough, and every fish caught was worth the effort. Though he was based in Cook Inlet, Morry, along with many of the fishermen of the fleet would make the annual run east to Cordova to catch the earliest run of red salmon in Alaska returning to the Copper River.
Twenty-seven years old in 1948, Morry was experienced on the water. He ran his own boats up and down the Inlet to Anchorage delivering fish to the Army at Fort Richardson as part of his grocery store enterprise since 1943. He even took boats around the other side of the Kenai Peninsula to Cordova and Seward, and he was one of the first fishermen to experiment with drift gillnetting on Cook Inlet. Now that Squeaky Anderson, the owner of one of the biggest canneries in the Inlet, had put his money behind the creation of a drift fleet, Morry’s boat, the Gypsy, wasn’t the only gillnetter on the water. Squeaky saw a fleet of boats catching fish on the Inlet as a benefit to his cannery. The Seattle-based Libby, McNeil and Libby cannery operated most of the fish traps on Cook Inlet, nearly monopolizing the industry. A drift fleet fishing for Squeaky would make him competitive. So Squeaky and his engineers robbed transfer cases (rear ends) and manual transmissions out of automobiles to create the gearshift arrangement needed to power a reel at the stern of a boat. Powered by a jack shaft, or an alternate shaft that ran off the engine using a pulley and a V-belt like the propeller shaft, the engine could turn the reel and pull the heavy gillnet and fish on board the boat. Such a “Squeaky” design was what Morry used on his boat, and it was far better than the days of trying to haul the net into a dory by hand.
Deciding that his deckhand wasn’t going to make it, Morry cast off the lines himself and headed out of the harbor. Deckhand or not, it was time to go fishing. Gillnetting involves taking the boat out to where the fish are running, and in Cordova that means zigzagging out through the channel markers several miles to the Copper Flats. Once there, Morry laid out 200 fathoms of net by tossing a buoy attached to one end off the back of the boat. He steered from a station in the picking cockpit at the back of the boat as the net ran out. The web peeled off the reel and dropped over the stern into the water. A gillnet is suspended at the water’s surface by a line threaded through hundreds of wooden “corks” that float. Stretching downward over twenty feet, Morry had a webbed net of diamond-shaped linen fabric with holes that were too small to allow a six-pound salmon to swim through, yet the web was designed to hook inside the salmon’s gills if the fish tried to back away after hitting the net. Hence the term “gillnet.” At the bottom of the net was another line with lead weights pinched or tied to it every few feet. This “lead line” provided the weight needed to stretch the net taut in the path of the fish.
By midmorning Morry had made a few “sets,” laying out the gear and picking it back up again. The one he was currently on was not producing many “hits” or visible splashes or jerks of the net, an indication of catching fish, and Morry felt it was time to try another spot. He put on his heavy rubber slicker with covered snaps that the web couldn’t grab. Hauling in the net is wet work, and nearly all gillnet fishermen wear rain coveralls, jacket and rubber boots no matter what the weather. With the engine running and the boat in neutral, he turned the lever that put the reel in gear. The V-belt squealed for a split-second as the reel began to pull the boat backward into the choppy sea, winding up the long piece of line that led to the net. Morry sniffed the air. Well, at least it isn’t raining, he thought. If you’ve got to fish alone and not find many fish, there’s at least that.
As he buttoned his jacket, Morry’s eyes caught a wrench left on deck that needed to be put away. He reached down and retrieved it, stretching over the turning reel to toss it toward the cabin door, to be taken inside and put away after he was done picking the set. In an instant the line winding on the reel pinched the flapping bottom of his coat and pulled it upward. Feeling the tug, Morry turned toward the stern of the boat. He tried to reach the shutoff valve for the reel, three feet away. But the jacket was too strong, and the line pinned it too securely. Suddenly Morry was off his feet, rolling over the reel on his back. He was whipped over and slammed to the deck. He thought for an instant that the force might free him, but he was not so lucky. The reel hauled him up again, and as he went over it a second time the line wrapped over his chest, pinning him even more. The line was squeezing him and he found it hard to get a breath. His right arm was still free though, and as he spun he struggled to reach his knife in its sheath on his right hip, but the tangle of line and jacket wouldn’t let him. He hit the deck hard again. He knew he was in a struggle for his life, for if the net were to start coming on board over him he would be hopelessly entangled. As he slammed to the deck a third time, part of him noticed the distant sound of the V-belt squealing. For an instant he tried to wedge his arms against the deck, fighting the force of the reel at its weakest point. Again the belt squealed. If he could just hold… no! The reel picked him up and pulled over yet another time His lungs were burning with the increasing pressure on his chest. He knew he wasn’t going to get many more chances. The next time he landed on the deck, he stretched and twisted so that his arms and legs were wedged between the deck and the reel. He groaned as he pushed against the deck, fighting the force of the reel as it strained to pull him around again. Death’s V-belt screamed its protest at being robbed of its victim. Unable to turn as the pulley rubbed against it, the belt overheated and expanded until it could no longer turn the reel. The line slackened as the boat drifted back toward the net. Still pinned, Morry wriggled and untangled himself until he was free. He stood holding the gunwale and looked out at the sea as he caught his breath. He was sore, but as he mentally took inventory, he was confident no ribs or limbs had been broken. He noticed the salt air in his nostrils. The definition of the waves and the edges of the clouds above them seemed sharper to him somehow. It felt good to be alive.
He knew he needed to get the net in, so he replaced the V-belt before he was too sore to work. He buttoned his jacket with extra care and stood well away from the lines and net as they came on board. He vowed never to go fishing again until he had a foot-operated safety treadle installed that would stop the reel when released. He stared dumbly at the wrench lying on deck as he slowly took his rain gear off outside the cabin. He decided it was time to go home to Seldovia. It had been much too long since he had seen his family. His deckhand in Cordova would never set foot on the Gypsy again.
Twenty-seven years old in 1948, Morry was experienced on the water. He ran his own boats up and down the Inlet to Anchorage delivering fish to the Army at Fort Richardson as part of his grocery store enterprise since 1943. He even took boats around the other side of the Kenai Peninsula to Cordova and Seward, and he was one of the first fishermen to experiment with drift gillnetting on Cook Inlet. Now that Squeaky Anderson, the owner of one of the biggest canneries in the Inlet, had put his money behind the creation of a drift fleet, Morry’s boat, the Gypsy, wasn’t the only gillnetter on the water. Squeaky saw a fleet of boats catching fish on the Inlet as a benefit to his cannery. The Seattle-based Libby, McNeil and Libby cannery operated most of the fish traps on Cook Inlet, nearly monopolizing the industry. A drift fleet fishing for Squeaky would make him competitive. So Squeaky and his engineers robbed transfer cases (rear ends) and manual transmissions out of automobiles to create the gearshift arrangement needed to power a reel at the stern of a boat. Powered by a jack shaft, or an alternate shaft that ran off the engine using a pulley and a V-belt like the propeller shaft, the engine could turn the reel and pull the heavy gillnet and fish on board the boat. Such a “Squeaky” design was what Morry used on his boat, and it was far better than the days of trying to haul the net into a dory by hand.
Deciding that his deckhand wasn’t going to make it, Morry cast off the lines himself and headed out of the harbor. Deckhand or not, it was time to go fishing. Gillnetting involves taking the boat out to where the fish are running, and in Cordova that means zigzagging out through the channel markers several miles to the Copper Flats. Once there, Morry laid out 200 fathoms of net by tossing a buoy attached to one end off the back of the boat. He steered from a station in the picking cockpit at the back of the boat as the net ran out. The web peeled off the reel and dropped over the stern into the water. A gillnet is suspended at the water’s surface by a line threaded through hundreds of wooden “corks” that float. Stretching downward over twenty feet, Morry had a webbed net of diamond-shaped linen fabric with holes that were too small to allow a six-pound salmon to swim through, yet the web was designed to hook inside the salmon’s gills if the fish tried to back away after hitting the net. Hence the term “gillnet.” At the bottom of the net was another line with lead weights pinched or tied to it every few feet. This “lead line” provided the weight needed to stretch the net taut in the path of the fish.
By midmorning Morry had made a few “sets,” laying out the gear and picking it back up again. The one he was currently on was not producing many “hits” or visible splashes or jerks of the net, an indication of catching fish, and Morry felt it was time to try another spot. He put on his heavy rubber slicker with covered snaps that the web couldn’t grab. Hauling in the net is wet work, and nearly all gillnet fishermen wear rain coveralls, jacket and rubber boots no matter what the weather. With the engine running and the boat in neutral, he turned the lever that put the reel in gear. The V-belt squealed for a split-second as the reel began to pull the boat backward into the choppy sea, winding up the long piece of line that led to the net. Morry sniffed the air. Well, at least it isn’t raining, he thought. If you’ve got to fish alone and not find many fish, there’s at least that.
As he buttoned his jacket, Morry’s eyes caught a wrench left on deck that needed to be put away. He reached down and retrieved it, stretching over the turning reel to toss it toward the cabin door, to be taken inside and put away after he was done picking the set. In an instant the line winding on the reel pinched the flapping bottom of his coat and pulled it upward. Feeling the tug, Morry turned toward the stern of the boat. He tried to reach the shutoff valve for the reel, three feet away. But the jacket was too strong, and the line pinned it too securely. Suddenly Morry was off his feet, rolling over the reel on his back. He was whipped over and slammed to the deck. He thought for an instant that the force might free him, but he was not so lucky. The reel hauled him up again, and as he went over it a second time the line wrapped over his chest, pinning him even more. The line was squeezing him and he found it hard to get a breath. His right arm was still free though, and as he spun he struggled to reach his knife in its sheath on his right hip, but the tangle of line and jacket wouldn’t let him. He hit the deck hard again. He knew he was in a struggle for his life, for if the net were to start coming on board over him he would be hopelessly entangled. As he slammed to the deck a third time, part of him noticed the distant sound of the V-belt squealing. For an instant he tried to wedge his arms against the deck, fighting the force of the reel at its weakest point. Again the belt squealed. If he could just hold… no! The reel picked him up and pulled over yet another time His lungs were burning with the increasing pressure on his chest. He knew he wasn’t going to get many more chances. The next time he landed on the deck, he stretched and twisted so that his arms and legs were wedged between the deck and the reel. He groaned as he pushed against the deck, fighting the force of the reel as it strained to pull him around again. Death’s V-belt screamed its protest at being robbed of its victim. Unable to turn as the pulley rubbed against it, the belt overheated and expanded until it could no longer turn the reel. The line slackened as the boat drifted back toward the net. Still pinned, Morry wriggled and untangled himself until he was free. He stood holding the gunwale and looked out at the sea as he caught his breath. He was sore, but as he mentally took inventory, he was confident no ribs or limbs had been broken. He noticed the salt air in his nostrils. The definition of the waves and the edges of the clouds above them seemed sharper to him somehow. It felt good to be alive.
He knew he needed to get the net in, so he replaced the V-belt before he was too sore to work. He buttoned his jacket with extra care and stood well away from the lines and net as they came on board. He vowed never to go fishing again until he had a foot-operated safety treadle installed that would stop the reel when released. He stared dumbly at the wrench lying on deck as he slowly took his rain gear off outside the cabin. He decided it was time to go home to Seldovia. It had been much too long since he had seen his family. His deckhand in Cordova would never set foot on the Gypsy again.