I sit here tonight with the brown dog lying on my feet. He’s freshly bathed, so upstairs on the carpet is acceptable this evening. I’m listening to songs from the sixties, by artists like Gordon Lightfoot, Peter,Paul,and Mary, and John Denver. Mellow stuff that brings nostalgia, but tonight it’s comforting. There’s something about the loss of yet another friend that cries out for the comforting, the familiar. Yeah, another friend is gone. That’s three in less than a year. Wes, Val, and now Troy. All younger than me. Guess this life isn’t going to last forever, after all. So, in the memory of Troy, whose heart just decided to quit Wednesday, tonight I reminisce, and smile, trying not to listen to the clock ticking steadily on the wall.
To the good times, Troy.
I first met Troy in Elfin Cove, on a blustery afternoon. We were only a few days in the area, and were still pretty wide-eyed with the grandeur and vastness of it all. In for a blow, we were safely tied to the dock, and the tide was coming in. I heard the soft “whump-whump” of a 671 Jimmy idling, looked out, and saw the Bonny Jean sliding up to Connley’s dock. At 48 feet long, the classic looks of the Bonny were impressive. Drawing over 8 feet of water, she is a real blue-water boat. It wasn’t too long and the little dingy she carried was pulling up alongside our dock. Kirk made the introductions, and I first saw the good-natured grin the Troy always seemed to wear. He had caught a few fish, and he and his deckhand were glad to be tied to the dock again.
I soon learned that this was his first year as skipper of his own boat – an undertaking that is both heady and terrifying. We had the bond of being first-year skippers, and often compared notes about the fears and freedoms we had found. At first glance, he seemed to be a part of the seascape of wooly-headed, rough-clad seafarers that habited these corners of the world. A few hours spent together leaning on the rail looking out the mouth of the Gut in Elfin Cove, with that sporadic, sparse conversation that fishermen enjoy, and I learned that he was just as green and scared as I was. We both were optimistic of the lifestyle, agreeing with the bravado of the committed that there was no greater life than the one we had chosen, the life of a commercial fisherman. We both admitted we had a lot to learn, and both were just as aware of how unforgiving the trade can be.
Thereafter, it was a comfort to see the old BJ rising and falling on the waves as we followed the currents in search of coho off the northern coast of Chichagoff Island. I don’t know how many times in the last two years I have followed some illusive current eastward, hoping there would be that golden bounty of fish trapped in the juncture of green glacier water and deep black ocean, only to see Troy on the same tack, working the same waters. There were times when we would pass in the light fog, only a few hundred yards apart – 3 or more miles offshore, with no other boats on the horizon or radar, and there would be no sign of a skipper or deckhand – confidence in his autopilot, I suppose, or attending to some task. There were those wonderful days when we would pass on the opposite tack on a drag, both of us back in the pit, pulling in coho after coho, with just a moment for a wave of the hand – nothing to say, both happy that the other guy was enjoying the same harvest. There were also the days when my 34 footer would be rolling from side to side, or bashing thru the steep chop, and we’d see the stately old craft slowly rolling back and forth as if nothing more than a breeze was blowing.
Troy loved company. His boat had the most substantial anchor system I’ve ever seen on a boat that size. Quite often when we pulled into Hoktaheen Cove, he’d be there with the hook already set, and often with one or two boats tied to him, all relying on his anchor. He’d be on the radio, offering us a place to tie up for the night, always room for one more. We didn’t always, but the times we took his offer, there was always some sort of good food involved. The deck of the Bonny Jean is enormous, and we would spread the grub out on his hatch cover, all sit around eating and telling stories about the days significant events. Boots the beautiful tri-colored cat timidly came up from below, and looked us all over. Good times out on the edge of the world.
His luck wasn’t always the best. I don’t recall all the incidents, but there seemed to be a a number of times when I’d hear his voice on the radio, asking Connley or Kirk about how to fix an overheating problem, an oil pressure problem, a rigging issue, or something. I remember the blow we all got caught in, getting the snot beat out of us, when he got sideways in the wave troughs and dipped the tip of a pole into the water – look at the pictures, figure out the angle the boat had to be to accomplish that, and tell me YOU wouldn’t pull into Elfin Cove, walk straight up the dock past all your buddies, not saying a word, straight to the liquor store, buy a bottle of whiskey, and head straight back to the boat, still not saying a word, and disappear below for a couple of days! But, he surfaced, took a deep breath, and went back out again, wiser.
After our dysfunctional start last year, the new engine that broke, and all the delays, we didn’t have enough money to get enough gear to attract fish like we should. When we got to Elfin Cove, the guys all pitched in and gave us enough gear to make a decent attempt. I’ll never forget the kindness and camaraderie of these wonderful men. Troy gave us a bag of flashers that I really don’t think he could spare, and wouldn’t take no for an answer when I questioned him about it. He just had a big grin, and I could tell he really got a kick out of being able to help us out. Thanks to you all, again.
One of the last times I saw Troy, he was almost defeated. We were coming back into Hoonah one fall evening; Jager, True North, and Bonny Jean. We’d been over to Homeshore for the day, and hadn’t done too well at all. We were all spread out – Jager far to the northwest, us in the middle, and Bonny Jean further southwest. The tide was moving west at a pretty good rate, and we were pulling our gear for the last dash into port as darkness fell. Troy, fishing alone with no deckhand this year, didn’t see the buoy of the crab pot until too late – before he could pull his lines in or turn, he was washing over it. One line tangled, and he kicked the boat out of gear. This let the other 3 lines settle, and they all tangled around and around each other and the crab pot cable. He worked as best he could to get the mess to break free, but to no avail. We had already rounded the last buoy and were tying up when he came on the radio telling his plight. Kirk and Jason were near, and came by to lend a hand. Not much could be done, it was dark by now, so he had no choice – snip, snip, snip, snip – 800,1600,3200. Dollars. There’s a hole in the bottom of the sea… it’s where your money goes when you lose your gear. Back at the dock, he was sure he was done. A bad season had just turned a lot worse. But, some of the kindness he had shown to others earlier was able to come back to him – his buddies all pitched in and donated gear, so by the next morning he had enough to continue fishing. Still bummed, but back at it again. In fact, he was so upbeat that when Kirk and I finally decided to head back to Sitka, he opted to stay for a few more weeks, maybe even for the winter, trying for winter kings. That didn’t happen, but the optimist in him thought it might.
I know, I really didn’t know the man. I don’t know really where he came from, who he loved, what his goals were, where he wanted to be. All I really know, is that we were comrades in a place where comrades are dear. I really will miss you, Troy. Fish On.
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