I believe..

I believe one of the greatest gifts anyone has ever given me is when a young lady told me last evening that I should write an essay on what I believe.

I believe it was another great gift when my daughter further filled me in, later last night, on how the “I believe” essays originated.

I believe my “I believe” list may be controversial for some folks that have some opposing value systems.

I believe that differences of opinion are okay.

I believe it is possible to learn to use guns safely.
I believe it essential to allow children to find interests and activities that suit their personalities.
I believe in Santa.
I believe in telling my kids that Santa is everyone that knows them and loves them.
I believe that Santa means that my children will find presents on Christmas morning that their parents could not possibly afford all on their own.

I believe that pets should be well-cared for throughout their entire natural lives, not just when they are young and playful and mostly healthy.

(I believe the same holds true for individuals and spouses in marriages).

I believe in the value of youth organizations like Girls Scouts, Boy Scouts and 4H.
I believe humans are pro-social beings and benefit from mutual collaboration.
I believe mental health issues are not meant to be hidden but should be illuminated so people with mental health issues can access appropriate treatment and live full and happy lives.

I believe everyone has something useful to contribute to society.

I believe my paternal grandfather would have been damned proud that my son shot in the black (hit a 1″ bulls eye) after firing only four rounds at 10 Meters out at his first 4H shooting group session last week.
I believe it was an honor and more than a challenge for that same grandfather to have given me his cherished pre-’64 Winchester .30-.30 when I was 12-years-old.
I believe I would have benefitted from owning an air rifle (pellet and/or BB gun) when I was a kid before being taught to shoot a deer rifle.

I believe in raising children to become individuals that can think for themselves, express themselves, own all of their feelings, and take responsibility for their actions.
I believe the above statement is true whether raising a girl or a boy.
I believe in apologizing and making things right when a mistake has been made and someone has been hurt.
I believe making mistakes is part of being human and that in order to grow, mistakes will and need to be made.

I believe that those close to our family admire my daughter for her persistency and courage.

I believe hard work should be followed by rest and relaxation. In that order.

I believe no one should own a gun until they are ready to learn how to use it responsibly.
I believe my son is ready to own a gun.
I believe that my son would have eventually owned the .30 -.30 Winchester that my grandfather gave me if it had not burned in a tent fire in the Blue Mountains and the remnants put in a tree at the Water Hole hunt on the Wenatchee side.
I believe my son will find a present under the tree this year that is in the shape of a rectangular box but that there will not be a .30 -.30 rifle in it.
I believe my son is currently too young for a .30 -.30 (he is about a year younger than I was when I owned one).
I believe that a Daisy Avanti Champion 499 BB gun will suit my son just right because he can use it safely in our back yard and that both my husband and I can help to teach our boy how to take care of it, to shoot it safely, and how to be responsible with his firearm. I believe there are some people, maybe even some of those from my family of orgin, that will wan t to know what this gun model is…so:

 

http://www.daisy.com/node/106

I believe that Daisy is on the right track when they offer a steep discount (only on the phone when asked directly) on the BB gun we just ordered to parents who have their child involved in a formal shooting program. (None of which disputes the theory that Santa does exist, sometimes for parents too!).

I believe that my dad taught me to fish and shoot well. 

I believe my dad may also have been on to something when he said that kids that grow up just to shoot targets do not necessarily make good hunters as they are not experienced with the natural environment where things can change quickly and game is often moving. I am still thinking on this but know I am on the right track with my son owning a gun that will become an extension of himself. One he can practice with every day as he chooses. Doesn’t hurt, either, that the Daisy Avanti Champion 499 is a lever action just like my old .30 – .30. It has a peep sight and all. Doesn’t hurt, either, that the air rifle my son shot into the black is one of the most accurate pellet rifles in the world. When I saw the pattern our boy shot, I knew it was with a Daisy Avanti. Turns out it was a Daisy 853. So… a used Daisy 853 – has also been ordered and is being shipped to our house. That gun will belong to our boy one day but for just a little while – til he is a bit older – my husband and I better hang onto it for him – except when he is practicing with it – I need to get some target practice in with it too…remind myself how to breathe through the shot. Remind myself of who I am. At one time, I was a dead eye shooter. And that was a long, long time ago.

I believe in the merits of learning good breath control whether on a yoga mat, on a gun range, or in the natural environment preparing to squeeze the trigger to make a clean kill.

I believe that healthy family values and long-standing traditions are important.
I believe that if my son shows interest, that I can teach him to hunt.
I believe that it is morally and ethically correct to reject values that are not healthy and do not contribute to society.
I believe that guns and booze do not mix.
I believe it is possible for people to change for the better.
I believe my husband is an exceptionally gifted commercial fisherman and that he is even better with me by his side.

I believe fishing and hunting goes hand in hand with conservation and stewardship of our land and oceans.

I believe in art, theater, music, singing, flowers on the table, lit candles on the mantle, church choirs, that the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written, and that it is beautiful to honor the Judeo-Christian tradition of worshipping a newborn baby in a manger.

I believe life is about finding a healthy balance.

I believe that the universe (God) is looking out for me and my family.

I believe in love.
I believe in forgiveness.
I believe in patience.
I believe in hope.

I believe that of all of my beliefs that hope is the most important one.

I believe that every day is a gift and that it is my responsibility to live life well and to continue to grow in wisdom.

I believe I am embracing the more positive of the values that my parents taught me and if I were either of them, I’d be proud of me. (I also know that when my mother clicks on the link below that she will not be able to resist singing along).

I believe that the “Hallelujah Chorus” may represent how our son will feel when he opens a certain rectangular shaped package on Christmas Eve this year of 2014. The gift with the tag that will read, “Love, Mom and Dad”. The one that is the next step of him becoming a man and carrying on rich family traditions in a healthy way.

I believe that when I hear the “Hallelujah Chorus” that, even in my mind, I can hear my daughter’s beautiful voice singing loud and clear in all the choruses I have witnessed her being a part of over the years. Such a gift!  This Christmas season she is an adult and having her in our presence is a present I will always treasure!

I believe that we all have gifts and talents. What are yours?

The Thanksgiving Table

The Thanksgiving Table.

Name(required)

Email(required)

Website

Comment(required)

Submit

Δ

Last season home, letting go, and Les Miserables

Notes from a fishwife

This morning, when I flipped up the lid of my laptop computer, I noticed that someone had changed my screen-saver. The turqoise tropical waters of the previous view had been replaced by a photograph of our 46′ aluminum fishing vessel, the Saint Jude, back when she was brand-new in 1989.

Not hard to figure out who had changed the scene. I am living at home with my teen-age daughter while my son and husband are away fishing in Oregon on board the Saint Jude.

My girl admitted to changing the image. It is, I think, her way of letting me know that I am connected to the sea, and that she and I both expect the Saint Jude to take good care of our menfolk. My girl misses her little brother and her daddy. Our family fishing boat is essential to us making a living. When we are on board, our lives depend on her.

Just like the screen-saver, the lives within our small commercial fishing family are currently experiencing transition.

I became poignantly aware of this as I delivered fish last week-end to a couple of local establishments in the Sequim area. I had a nice chat with the owner of one of the establishments about how her business and customers like supporting local producers. She said they appreciated the opportunity to provide “clean food” to the community. I smiled as I handed a dozen cans of our Dungeness Seaworks albacore to her.

Then she asked me how it was for me to not be on the boat with my husband.

Ahh, that question. I looked quickly away from her, toward the horizon. Just as I do on the boat when seas start getting really rough. It is steadying. I felt my mind drift off to sea. Just for a moment. Then I made eye contact, once again, with this woman. Grounded once more. I have just met her, but I feel she has seen a glimpse into my soul.

I tell her truth.

It was and is hard. To be geographically separated from my husband for the most part of up to 6 or 7 months. Being married to a commercial fisherman is challenging. My pre-teen son has been on board for over two weeks and I miss him keenly.

My thoughts quickly move to why I am home this summer. I tell this person, who is no longer a stranger, that I am really looking forward to seeing my daughter in a local theatrical production of Les Miserables that upcoming evening. That it was a wonderful thing to spend summers at home with my children. That this will be my last season to do so, and that I am grateful.

We parted company.

That evening I dine with my mother and her housemate. We saw Les Miserables together. At one point, my 17-year-old daughter was seen in the show dancing on a table top with other “drunken” souls. The entire scene (in my mind, I call it the “Master of the House Scene”) made the audience laugh. Later, we cried.

It was just that powerful!

Every night of the show, there has been a long standing ovation. As I stepped into the night air, to hand my daughter flowers and to congratulate the entire cast waiting outside the theater, I thought to myself, ‘This is life!”

There is a monetary price for having stayed at home over the past number of fishing seasons. The crewman we hire these days, during the high season of summer salmon and albacore trolling, is only necessary to our business now because I am not there. I tell few people how much it is that our crewman makes in a season.

It is the financial amount I entice my daughter with to think about fishing with us in the future. A nearly sure-fire way to help her pay her way through college if she so chooses. As I did working as a deckhand on commercial salmon trollers in my youth.

In the here and now, however, breathing in the Sequim night air while surveying the smiles on the faces of every member of that Les Miserables cast (they absolutely nailed their performances), this was my only thought:

Being in this very moment, with my daughter, my mother, our friends, and other community members is absolutely priceless. Worth much more than the price of admission. Worth staying home this season and all the previous fishing seasons. It was worth Every. Single. Cent.

Rare air.

It is a glimpse into the future. Watching my daughter, acting in multiple roles of adult characters onstage, just as she is becoming an adult in real life.

It is a gift to be her mother.

This is a time I will savor for the rest of my life. One I am enjoying sharing with my relatives, my best friends, and most of all, with my beautiful girl.

Our small community is celebrating and savoring the amazing performances in Les Miserables provided by many, very talented local artists. My daughter, I am proud to say, is amongst them.

I invite you to share in the incredible experience that is our local Sequim production of Les Miserables.

The show runs through 2 Aug; Thursday-Saturday; 7pm Showtime.

Get your tickets at Joyful Noise Music Store (next to Hurricane Coffee), at the door, or online at http://www.Penfamtheater.org, reserve seating.

Sending a son to sea

Today I saw my son and husband heading off to sea. Again. My son is only 10-years-old and it is clear he likes fishing. He went on his first commercial trolling King Salmon trip when he was 7-years-old. Just he and his dad off the coast of Washington that time. They fished on the “Prairie” that Fall, one of the most famous fishing spots for West Coast fishermen. My husband took photos of that trip showing gorgeous, rainbow hued Kings in the fish checkers and our son in the troll pit. In the photos, the color of our son’s eyes match the dark green blue of the sea waves behind him. The kid has salt water in his veins. Seems to run in the family.

Our boy is fast approaching the age when I went on my first King Salmon trip with my dad at 12-years-old. Those Kings from yesteryear were delivered in Bellingham after about a 10 day trip which was standard back in those days, back in the mid 1970’s. I remember drifting at night off-shore. The strobe light flashing and making a piercing noise in the focsle as it cycled on and off.

I was able to land fish from a jig line. Cohos. One day I caught 7. I think I went on two back-to-back trips that year. Later, at home, my dad wrote me a check. I remember looking at it in awe. $ 75.00. It was the greatest sum of money I had earned at one time, far surpassing the .50 an hour babysitting money I had been saving. It seemed like a fortune. I put it in my savings account.

Our son is earning wages this season for the first time. He has been practicing scrubbing floors at home. He does not get paid for that. I told him he was being trained for scrubbing the deck on the boat. Eventually it will be the fish checkers and the fish hold. One of his current jobs will be to help keep the wheelhouse clean. Just as it was mine. For every ten days he is aboard this season he will be paid $75.00 to put in his savings account (currently earmarked for college) and $10 for pocket money to spend in port. We adjusted the wage I earned in the 1970’s for inflation. Someday, just as was the case for me, our son will earn a percentage of the boat catch.

It was with a certain solemnity that my husband called from Englund Marine later today where he was purchasing our boy a new, larger size of orange Grunden’s raingear and brown Xtra-tuff boots. Professional gear. He needed our boy’s social security number which I had here at home. It is required information to buy his 2014 $43.00 junior crew license. He is officially a commercial fisherman. A third generation salmon/albacore troller. I couldn’t be prouder.

Where Is Home?

 

Notes from a fish wife asking the cosmic question: Where is home?

Fishing Season 2014 – Week 2

My husband, Al, is out on his second fishing trip. As he said he planned to be. Still, I got up early this morning, made a quick cup of instant coffee, and dialed the boat cell phone. Just in case.

I love talking with Al, about fishing, in the morning. When the kids are still in bed. On week-ends, when there is not the rush of getting breakfast and everything ready for a day of school. If I’m really lucky, he is actually fishing and I’ll talk a King Salmon into biting for him. That’s just boat talk and fishing lingo. Radio chatter. It can’t really happen quite that way. It’s just how fishing partners speak to one another. Even long-distance from hundreds of miles away, I feel as if I am in that wheelhouse, watching a spring pump back up near the trolling pole. Listening to the cowbell ring. Hoping for a clatter, where more fish bite all at once.

This morning though, I quietly sipped the coffee made too strong, and thought about where the boat was. Robotic automatic voice mail messages do not make for good conversation.  The view out to the backyard, of a newly leafed-out Katsura tree, a freshly scrubbed deck, and snow-topped Olympic Mountains gives way to the sun-kissed sparkle of a blue sea. In my mind.

For years, I intentionally kept my mind off of the boat.

Instead, I took college classes, finished an associate degree and picked up a Bachelor’s degree. I volunteered here and there and I worked part-time. Some of the time. I contemplated careers that would work with Al’s fishing.

The one career that seemed to make the most sense would have been nursing. I had the associate degree. I just needed to refresh to reactivate my license.

That would not happen. The book studying went fine. The clinical evaluation in Spokane was okay. The actual working with clinical evaluation in a hospital was a dismal failure. 20 years of not working in that field was too much. There was no way I would be able to be competent without going through an entire nursing program again.

I continued to focus on raising the kids at home. Devoted more time to marketing fish. (You can check out our fishing family facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/DungenessSeaworks  )  That is where things have been for awhile.

Til last year. When I was on the boat. For a couple weeks. It all came back!

There was no feeling of incompetency. No lag in decision-making. It was almost as if I had never left.

Trying to remember dozens of medications and nursing procedures compared to remembering how to land a King Salmon. How to put the auto-pilot on u-turn. How to clean a fish well enough for the white tablecloth market.

It was easy to tell where I have spent most of my life. Those that have known me better in recent years would perhaps think that I have been taking a back seat to the fishing and  embrace being a stay-at-home mom, a “seasonal single-parent”, for the best part of my life. They are partially right.

The other best part of my life has been on the deck of a boat. As a commercial fisherman’s wife, it is true, I’ve been “seasonally single parenting” for the most part of the past 15 years.

Before that, though, I fished. A lot.

Starting off as a boat kid/deckhand at 12-years-old, I fished at least part of every salmon trolling season (except two, as a kid, when I needed to have and to recover from bone surgeries) until I was pregnant with my first-born. At 31-years-old. Even then I fished up until 4 weeks before the due date! After my  daughter came along, she and I spent two full seasons on board the boat.

I came to appreciate the nuances of fishing and boat life better than I have ever come to understand full years on land in the past 16 years or so. 

Part of that is my fault. It is easy to get addicted to the sea. To the thrum of sea life that is everywhere. Birds, whales, dolphins, otters. To get used to the relative isolation from everyday worries. To enjoy the comforts of having another adult around, most of the time, to pitch in with the work. To waking and working beside my husband, every day.

To me, that is home. “Home (Where I Wanted To Go)” – Coldplay

 

 

Home, here on land, is something that has always made me feel a little uneasy. Especially when Al is at sea, without me.  I feel a little like a fish out of water. I have to make it a point to focus on everyday tasks. How to interact with others. How to keep track of time.

This is seldom the case on the boat. Time has little meaning throughout the average fishing day. It starts at sunrise and ends at sunset. Mostly. Everything seems to fall into a rhythm. The primary focus is to catch fish!

Folks that hang out on the docks, also, seem to understand that people that have been at sea are not often particularly articulate.

In my experience, we are all a little quirky.

Quirkiness is hard to adjust for on land. Even the standard for personal hygiene has a different protocol for my home on land compared to the boat life. If I don’t shower for a few days, here, people will notice. On a boat, it simply means a freezer trip has recently begun. No one cares! It is more important to conserve water to make it through what could be a two week trip or longer.

Still, I am grateful for being able to spend so much time with the kids on terra firma. To step out on a warm cedar deck with bare feet. To feel warm sand, at a beach, between my toes. To admire the colorful flowers planted around the house and to watch one of my children water them.  To walk with a friend who is only a phone call and a few minutes car drive away.  To smell the freshly cut grass. To hear the breeze rustling the new Spring leaves in the trees. To help my son with his homework in a quiet room with every conceivable comfort close at hand.  To watch old McGyver episodes with the kids on a Saturday night. To shower with plenty of hot water and freshly laundered towels that don’t smell even a little bit of boat.

These are privileges in my life as a land-lubber.

I’ve made a bet with Al, for the past two Springs, on where the best fishing spots would be for the King Salmon openers. I can no longer keep my mind off the boat. All those years of fishing experience seem to be roaring to the surface from some latent part of my being. When Al tells me where he thinks the fleet is catching the most fish, I am rarely surprised when it turns out to be true. Often, it is where I told him where I thought the fish would be.

Maybe I was not meant to spend a lot of time working in the halls of a hospital or nursing home. Maybe things have unfolded exactly the way they should be unfolding. Maybe I am meant to fish. With my husband.

My husband, wherever he is.

“Home is wherever I’m with you” – Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros

 

 

Singing, ” Home is when I’m alone with you”.

 

Where is home for you? Is it where you want to be?  Do you have more than one home? Do you imagine living somewhere else?

 

 

 

Thanksgiving

Feasting and celebrating

Thanksgiving Day 2013 at home in Sequim with my husband Allan and our kids Kendra and Cody. Spent over an hour wondering what to write on our facebook page, “Dungeness Seaworks” (you can link to this FB page and learn more about our fishing family by clicking https://www.facebook.com/DungenessSeaworks ) . Photos? Inspirational quote about the sea? A picure of our fishing boat, the Saint Jude? Nothing seemed right. Taking ego out of it, we went to the default setting of, “Have a Happy Thanksgiving from the crew of F/V Saint Jude”.

It seemed enough.

Then the inside wave of emotions. Memories. Some painful. Many lonely.

The first year Al and I owned the Saint Jude was in 1995. We fished the season in Alaska. Had a substantial boat payment to make the following fall. Our first year freezing salmon on board. We sucked at it. Inefficient, slow, and miserable most of the time. It would not be easy, as the season progressed, to remember the highlights.

A visit by a father and daughter who presented us with two brass Superiors. The really old, heavy ones. A present for the new boat, they said. Those spoons caught fish for us that year. It was a great gift and we had no idea then how much it would come to mean to us later, their generosity of spirit.

The folks at the co-op who showed us how to cut a head off of our fish. Told us to practice. These folks encouraged us as did many others. We remember their kindness.

Bruce Gore who came down to our boat and offered to let us take out his deckhand so he could show us how to freeze fish on board. Oh my heavens, how egotistical was it of us to say, “No”, to this suggestion from a man who helped pioneer freezing salmon at sea.  We struggled for months, if not years, after that in learning to perfect the technique. Not seeing the gift for what it was. Bruce kept an eye on us and eventually offered to buy our fish. We became one of an elite group of trollers that produce some of the finest seafood on the planet.

Before that, though, we almost lost our lives. That, is what this story is mostly about.

Making a boat payment can be tough. Damned coho in SE AK start to get scarce in September. And the weather.  We’d heard our entire career about how the weather can turn ferociously wicked in the Fall in SE Alaska. Al had, in fact, spent a Winter trolling out of Sitka earlier in his career. He knew. Sort of.  How bad it could get. But we were reckless, felt desperate, and had a boat payment. So we fished the coho extension that went until Sept. 30^th in 1995. Anchored a good portion of those days behind St. Lazaria Island and in Gilmer Bay. The sea turning darker and more ominous looking by the day. Malicious. Winter water is a deadly force to be reckoned with.

Our plan was to fish until the end of the coho extension and then mop up our halibut quota in 3A. Great plan! Only on paper.

We pointed the Saint Jude North heading out of Olga and Neva Strait. Protected waters, relatively speaking. Guys had told us there were still halibut out on Spencer Spit. A fishing spot about 20 miles off-shore out from Cross Sound. Our plan was to anchor in Graves, catch a weather window, and get the halibut. In one set.

We made it to Graves. Steadily baiting the 1,500 circle hooks attached to the gangions coiled on the back deck. The bait did not smell much. Nothing on the back deck smelled much. It was too cold. We did not even need to put the tubs of baited hooks back into the ice hold. We sat in Graves for 3 days. Blowing. Blowing. Steadily blowing. Gale force winds. Dark and cold and boring sitting on the pick.

Then a break. A 24 hour weather window with winds coming down to 10-20 SE. We left the protected anchorage and headed straight out off-shore. First flagged pole went overboard and Al and I alternated snapping on gangions from the cockpit. We set about 3 miles of ground line. By the end, the weather was changing. Quickly.

Usually, it is good practice to let a long-line set soak awhile for fish to bite. Waves started slapping against the hull. The ocean felt jumpy and the sky was darkening rapidly. We headed straight back to the start of our set and started pulling. The boat started pitching around. Al was hanging on by one hand to the boat while unsnapping the gangions from the ground line coming aboard. A few halibut came and we tied them off to rails on the Port side of the boat. Water started washing across the deck through the rails on the far side. Al put on a safety vest and tied a line around his waist to the boat. When a halibut came over the side, I would haul it over and tie it to the other side. It was getting too rough to clean a fish.

At one point, we may have contemplated buoeying off the line to retrieve it later. Not much chance we would have recovered it that time of year. And we wanted to get home. To Sequim. About 800 nautical miles away. As the crow flies.

So the gear kept coming aboard, and the boat was constantly awash with sea water. Two hours later we grabbed the flagpole and bag and hauled it aboard. Ducked into the wheelhouse and dogged down the door. Only then realizing we were in serious trouble.

The throttle was put forward into our normal running speed position. Boom! A wave crashed over the bow, over the top of the bridge. Forcing us to back off the throttle. Late October. It occurred to us, belatedly, that Spencer Spit was not a good place for us to be that time of year. Our boat was too small and too slow.

We could not stand. Could not hold on long enough to any of the numerous handholds in the wheelhouse to get anything to eat. Our black lab, Tug, and gray tabby, Gremlin were both literally quivering. Have you ever heard of the expression, “Hanging on for dear life?” Yep. That was us. When we were not slowing down for oncoming waves, our fastest speed on the Echotec plotter was 3 Knots.

Night came fast. It does that in SE Alaska in the Fall. In the gulf of Alaska. By then, waves were completely obliterating the side windows. Al thought, out loud, that we were not going to make it. My thought, out loud, was “We are not going to die. Not on this night.” Al hit the bunk while I took over the helm. 3 Knots. Slow down while a wave crashes over the bow. Repeat. All night long. Somewhere along the line we made it past Cape Cross. Something changed. Ever so slowly. We picked up speed. 4 Knots. Then 5.  A CD found its way into the player. Elton John came along for the ride.

“And I think it’s going to be a long, long time…Rocket Man…”. A cup of tea was made. The black lab started snoring softly in his accustomed spot under the galley table.  He had spent most of the night cowering against my brown Xtra-tuff boot clad feet braced against the pipe under the stainless steel wheel at the helm.

Mast lights on the horizon! Black-codders fishing outside of Yakobi. An immensely welcoming sight. Like a small city afloat carrying the message of hope. We were going to live! Al got up and took wheel watch. He was so tired that we nearly missed the opening into Squid Bay which is where we planned to clean the halibut. We double-checked the paper chart against what the green radar screen was showing us through blurry vision and readjusted our course. So tired. The C-Map plotter helping us to stay on course as our minds buzzed with the need for sleep. Fear has a way of doing that. Sapping strength and mental acuity.

Squid Bay had never looked so amazing. Flat water, still, quiet. The pesky mosquitos that had tortured us all summer were not a problem that gray October day. We cleaned halibut. And cleaned and cleaned. Backs aching. Close to 3,000 lbs.  No one remembers who iced the fish. It got done. We washed the knives, deck, and hatch cover. Pulled the anchor and went back out on the ocean toward Sitka.

The halibut on board would help to be enough for us to make our boat payment that year.  With enough to spare for a trip to Hawaii. Those thoughts kept us upbeat for what would be the beginning of the next part of a perilous adventure.

Not many Washington State trollers talk about the Inside Passage in November. A few. We should have listened better, in hindsight.

Ketchikan. Oddly, while tied up there, I could no longer stand the smell of coffee. We were there for 4 days. Bought a small carved paddle. Tglingit made. An eagle painted on the surface. The clan of the artist who made it. It fit , beautifully, on the wheelhouse wall between the two book racks. I wanted to fly home.

Snow Passage was behind us by then. It had been blowing up to 100 Knots of wind. We relied on tug boat captain reports on the VHF to know when to move. It was pretty much how it would go the rest of our way home. We got across Dixon Entrance and it started to snow. We anchored that night at Lewis Isand, below Prince Rupert, and it snowed more. The radar screen was snowed out the next morning and we could not rely on it for navigation. We needed to stay anchored to avoid ship traffic.  Eventually, the seemingly innocuous falling snow, stopped drifting down on our boat. So beautiful and cleanly white. We were able to make way.

Namu ahead.

F/V Saint Jude in Namu, BC. November 15, 1995.

Canadian soil and were not supposed to get off of the boat as we had not cleared customs. Being around people seemed a difficult job. Still, they came to visit. Most noteably the gill-netters. They told us about a native. Told us to listen to him. He came on board too. Showed us on the paper chart where to tie to a tree on Egg Island if the wind came up when we went across Queen  Charlotte Sound. He said it would hold in a hurricane.

When we left Namu in the morning, 3 days later, several gill-netters were standing on the dock getting their boats ready for a day of fishing. They gave us a hand salute. That time of year, mariners become as one. No matter the country of origin.

Finn Bay. The wind howling overhead. Storm warning on the coast. In the morning, we started across Queen Charlotte Sound. The weatherman calling for a storm warning there too. He missed, seemingly. It was variable winds. Not for long though. About mid-way across a Canadian Coast Guard cutter dropped a rubber raft full of coast guardsmen that started heading our way. The waves were stacking and they turned back for the safety of the cutter. The water started hissing. Ominously. By the time we made it to Port Hardy, green water was going over the bow. Again. We were starting to get used to it.

The next part of the journey was marked by a lot of logs and other debris in the water. We started to relax.  A little. The wind was not much of a problem by then and that was a relief. By Alert Bay, we knew we’d be home by Thankgiving.

Getting across the Strait of Juan de Fuca can be scary. That was not the case for us that particular  year. The boat knew she was close to home and we got across at 9 knots heading straight for John Wayne Marina. We’d been married there 9 years before. We tied the Saint Jude to the boards, thanked her and put Tug on a  leash. We all three walked the 4 miles home. Then drove back to the marina to get our boat cat, Gremlin.

It was 4 days before Thanksgiving.

We did not know it that day, but suspected it when turkey on Thanksgiving did not hold the same appeal as usual.  Not once had I been seasick all that long fishing season so at first thought I was landsick. It was apparent a doctor visit was in order to confirm what was going on.

It was with great celebration that we visited Hawaii after Thanksgiving that year. We knew that we were going to have a baby! She would be born of love, a splash of the sea, and moments of greatness.

1995 was a  year of much difficulty. It was also one of the best of our lives. For within those difficult times confidence was forged and the beginning of us having our own family!

It is on this Thanksgiving Day, 2013 that we share this story with our children. Thanking the universe for our lives…and for theirs.

Namaste and Happy Thanksgiving!