Gut Feelings, Salt Water and The Port Angeles Fishing Fleet (past and present)

Pink petals from the ornamental plum tree floated by on a Southwest breeze outside the window, catching the eye of the fisherman’s wife inside. The grass was still damp, water droplets on the ends of the waving emerald grass blades glistening in the sun.

The fisherman had already left for the marina, dropping the boy off at school on the way. He was busy tracking down the reason for why the generator, freshly rewound, was producing too much voltage. The cell phone was a constant companion.

The generator issue would get sorted. The fisherman’s wife knew that. She knew to focus on mowing the lawn. Focus on keeping home life stable for the family.

It was transition time.

The fisherman expected to be starting the season in about two weeks. He’d be gone from home then. For possibly weeks at a time. He’d be away from the family, mostly, til the boy was out of school for the summer and able to go fishing. The fisherman’s wife expected to be back on the boat then also. The daughter was now an adult. Old enough to take care of herself either on the boat or at home on land. It was her responsibility to choose where to spend her time.

The boat haul-out had gone well.

All the troubles from a SE Alaska grounding in Icy Bay, a number of fishing seasons before, had finally been completely resolved over the past few Springs in the boat yard.

It was a relief, to the fisherman and his wife, that things were back to the way they should be.

A quick haul-out.

A new stern bearing zinc and fresh blue bottom paint. The red boot stripe giving a nod to the past.

The master welder in the Port of Port Angeles Boatyard had been enlisted to repair a hole in the hull. The one which had happened in a head-on collision, in fog, in California two summers before. The new aluminum pole work brightly reflected the sun. Holes in the generator exhaust pipe had been found in the engine room.

Serious business. Life-threatening.

Holes in exhaust pipe, especially in an engine room, are very bad. Potentially deadly. A local fisherman that the fishing couple had known years before, had died due to carbon monoxide poisoning in an enclosed wheelhouse of a boat. It was why a carbon monoxide detector had been installed on their boat.

The fisherman’s wife had known, earlier that year, that the boat needed to be home for Spring boat work. A gut feeling. She did not know why until she saw the holes in the old exhaust pipe.

Those gut feelings. Any fisherman, any parent, any master craftsman responsible for repairing a working boat – pays attention to them.

In the commercial fishing industry, gut feelings are often the difference between life and death.

After the exhaust pipe had been replaced, there had been a very short impromptu meeting in the boatyard the day that the fisherman and his wife watched their boat being re-launched. For the fisherman, it would be the 45th consecutive Spring that he had been involved in putting a commercial fishing boat in the water. As for his wife, she did not know any different. She had been raised in the fleet.

The master welder was at the small gathering. Also, a newer commercial fisherman that made most of his money in a white collar trade. The new guy had just hauled his boat and was getting ready to pressure hose the bottom. His coding partner was there too.

It was the coding partner that the fisherman’s wife had the most respect for when it came to trolling. He was one of the last. One of the last commercial salmon trollers left in the Port Angeles fleet. He said so himself. He was also one of the last to get into fishing having started as a partner with a brother, and also learning the trade as a deckhand.

It was a near impossible task anymore.

Good boats and permits had become too expensive for most young folks to break into the trade. He had done it the hard way, the old way, the traditional way. That is why the fisherman’s wife respected him so much.

He had crewed for one of the greatest salmon trolling highliners that the West Coast would ever produce. His former captain was one of the “Royal Family”. At 91-years-old, this skipper had passed away just a few weeks before.

The “Royal Family” of the West Coast troll fleet.

The last one of the foursome still living, out of the four highliners in the West Coast troll fleet that comprised “The Royal Family”, was the main subject during that mucky muck meeting in the Port Angeles Boatyard that day. He was an icon, this now 93-year-old master fisherman, all agreed.

The best of the best.

There was no one in the Port Angeles fishing fleet, past or present, that did not look up to him. No one.

A week before the fisherman’s wife made it a point to go with her man and her young son, to meet him, where he was currently residing in a nursing home.

To thank him.

She did not have much of a chance, to extend gratitude. The wise mentor was still teaching. Without missing a beat from their last visit,  the retired master fisherman  asked her husband what he did when he wasn’t working on the boat.  He talked about how he himself had cleared property for a Girl Scout camp out at Lake Sutherland because his two daughters were Girl Scouts.

The mentor said, “You can’t work on the boat every day”.

In that moment, the fisherman’s wife had a strong gut feeling that she and her husband would grow old together.

Moving forward a week, back into the boat yard. A plan was made, in the Port Angeles Boatyard that day, to visit the retired fleet elder. How to support his wife. As often as possible. All agreed, there was a need to give back.

A copy of the historical West Coast trolling documentary, “Coming Home Was Easy”, was handed to the new guy in the fleet, now getting ready for his third fishing season. A Jimmi Hendrix hoochie along with it.

Another copy of the commercial fishing  documentary would be put on the hatch cover of a 47′ wood troller tied up in the Port Angeles boat basin within the next few days. For the fellow that fished the boat. One of the best salmon trollers that the West Coast fishing fleet would likely ever produce. His former skipper was interviewed in that documentary.

The title of that West Coast fishing documentary, “Coming Home Was Easy”, were words that belonged to the father of the fisherman’s wife.

She typed on the laptop keyboard the Oregon State University web-address of where the video could be purchased:

http://seagrant.oregonstate.edu/sgpubs/coming-home-was-easy-video

In the video, she knew, was video footage of a cherry tree. It represented the cherry tree in the backyard of the Port Angeles home where she grew up.

The fisherman’s wife looked out the window. The breeze had backed off and the blossoms from the plum tree in the backyard had quit falling. The grass was drying and she needed to mow the lawn.

She hoped her daughter would fish with her husband that upcoming season. At least for a trip. Everyone in the boatyard agreed, that would be good. Living on the boat would come back to her first-born. The fisherman’s wife felt that in her gut. She knew. The fishing couple had taken their  daughter up the Inside Passage, from Port Angeles, when she was an 8-month-old baby.  Their girl would fish the entire season with them that year, in SE Alaska for 5 1/2 months, away from their house in Sequim, WA.

The fisherman’s wife hoped her son would have a chance to fish a boat on his own before the Port Angeles fishing fleet disappeared entirely. She hoped it never would. Disappear entirely. That future, however, was not for her to know.

My husband and son with an ocean-caught King Salmon aboard the Saint Jude. Fishing Season 2013.

She had kids to think about. Boat kids.

Fishing is in the blood. Once a boat kid, always a boat kid.

The fisherman’s wife had that very conversation with the master welder that had fixed the boat. He had been a fisherman in Canada, near the Yukultas, decades before. A salmon troller. His boys had spent time fishing on his boat when they were very young. Once again, the trust the fisherman and his wife had placed in him to make the boat right, would quite possibly mean the difference between a good fishing season and a poor fishing season. His work, the difference between life and death.

The master welder, too, had been given a copy of “Coming Home Was Easy”.

Salt Water

As she observed the last remaining shimmering water drops on the green blades of grass outside, tears sprang into the eyes of the fisherman’s wife. The hue of her tears held exactly the same rainbow colors, reflecting in the light, as that on the scales of a fresh ocean-caught King Salmon.

Turning 50! (Celebrate with me)

50! Milestone birthday for sure.

For years, I was fishing on a boat somewhere on my birthday. I was lucky when friends planned a celebration for me.

This year, I am home. With my now adult daughter. Getting ready to switch things up a bit. It is time to get the party started!

50, baby, and I ain’t sitting on my hands this year doing nothing!

Our family fishing boat, the Saint Jude, is heading in and it looks like my husband and son will be home tomorrow too. I have not seen either of them for weeks. That is the nature of us being a commercial fishing family. They will not only be able to celebrate my 50th birthday with me tomorrow, on August 23, but my daughter’s 18th birthday too!

As a fishing family, our important events tend to get celebrated in a cluster fashion. When everyone is together.

Today, truth be told, I started off wanting to get the house cleaned up more for my husband’s arrival. Boring. Conventional. I chose to write instead. I told my husband this on the phone today and he gave his blessing. He said he’d pitch in around home when he got here. I like that. It seems to mean our marriage is in a good place. That we have both learned that there is much more to life than a perfectly clean house.

I also want to spoil myself, one last day, before my son is home to get ready for the school year. When my husband goes back fishing, when the weather settles down, I will be seasonally single-parenting once again. Granted, it is much easier now than when the kids were younger and a big outing was a trip to the grocery store to buy diapers.

These days, I have a lot more time to myself. It is a transitional time, ripe with possibility.

I want to live the rest of my life with little or no regret.

Turning 50 gives me a chance to reflect on how to go about this.

Things I regret NOT doing in my first fifty years of life:

1. Not working as a Registered Nurse for at least awhile. Why? 2 years of pre-nursing college classes and 2 years of Nursing School is a lot of time commitment to have never worked in a field. The money was good, for that stage of my life when I was in my early 20’s, and it would have built confidence. I also learned it is not good to let myself get talked out of doing something that is in my best interests. It is a trap for letting resentment build. About 11 years ago, I took a refresher course to try to renew my license. The field had changed so much, by then, that I could not do this. So I will remain mandatorily retired from professional nursing and lose the resentment.

2. Not paying automobile insurance for 6 months while commercial fishing when first married. Why? Insurance companies frown on this even when a car is not being used and it is tricky getting reinsured.

3. Not hiring a housekeeper more when the kids were younger? Why? I would have had more quality time to do more with the children when they were younger and have been way less tired. The quality of our life would have been better and we would have had more people over to the house. I could also have used other skills I possess for doing things that would have had a more positive impact in my life and that of others. Like writing.

Things I don’t regret:

1. Supporting my husband with his passion of commercial salmon trolling. Why? It makes him happy.

2. Having a family home built before the kids were born. 27 years ago. Why? At one time the 2,500 sq. feet and over an acre of property seemed too small. We have used every inch of space in the house. We have had lovely celebrations. Even through tough times during the recession, while dealing with some expensive medical issues when salmon seasons were drastically cut back for 5 years in WA, CA, and ORE, the house provided sanctuary. I was 22-years-old when we had our home built. It is fun to share.

3. Owning the Saint Jude with my husband. Why? Taking a baby fishing on a commercial fishing boat for 5-6 months is challenging. The Saint Jude has seen us through some tough weather and tough times. She is all aluminum and easy to maintain. She is also lot of fun and I can tell our son enjoys her a lot.

4. Having pets. Why? They keep me humble. We will also remember them long after the objects we own, including our boat and home, become no longer useful to us.

5. Having kids. Why? They keep me humble. They also, just by their very existence, force me to grow. To live better, learn more, be more. I want for them to be happy.

6. Raising kids in Sequim, WA. Why? We are rural and there is an abundant amount of natural beauty here. A lot of people at the stores and other places know my kids, remember them when they were in preschool, ask me how Al is doing when he is away fishing. Folks trade us for fish sometimes. This is how we get our Christmas tree, some professional services, sometimes other food for our table. There is a lot of heart in our small community and it is close to my hometown, Port Angeles.

7. Getting help when needed. Why?  I have been fortunate to find out fairly early in  life that is important to not get run down too far. Not good for self to do that, not good for family. Self-care is important.

8. Listening to others. Why? My current world is fairly small. I still stay at home a lot with the kids especially when Al is away fishing. This is changing once again as they are growing older and getting more independent. I want to broaden my world view through more travel, reading, education, physical activity, socializing.

We are all different. Some things we all have in common. I like getting to know people and trying to find the common ground.

To get started, on my Facebook page today, I asked folks to share the title of a favorite book they have read, and/or favorite place they have traveled, and/or their favorite swimming pool or ocean they have swam in, and/or the most radically silly thing they have ever done.

Here is what I have to share with you so far:

My favorite book: Trinity by Leon Uris

Best place I’ve visited: Alaska and traveling by boat up and down the Inside Passage

Best Swim: Lituya Bay, Alaska

Most radically silly thing I’ve done: Swam in Lituya Bay, Alaska – more than once on different days – it’s really cold!

What is your favorite book? Most awesome place you have ever visited? The favorite pool or ocean in which you have ever swam?

What is the most radically silly thing you have ever done?

Are you living the life you want to be living? I’d love to hear!

 

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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!