Summer of 2012–Sitka Style

He was looking at a big stretch of empty

Wondering just what was up next….

The sun rose hot in the cloudless sky, its rays burning relentlessly onto the deck of the True North.   Whoa, whoa, wait – wrong story!  Ok, the first day we were at Sitka this year, and one or two of the others actually had the sun shining, but “hot”, “burning”, and “relentless” really weren’t in the picture.  Aside from those few days, the weather was 54, light rain or 54, heavy rain or 54, fog.  Still, sun or rain, it is a beautiful place.

This season is already over for us, at least the summer part.  Due to some timelines on a project at my programming business, we had to delay our fishing efforts until mid-July this year, and returned to Kalispell in late August.  A bit different than the last two years, but necessary and overall very encouraging. 

I’ve had more than a few readers tell me that last year’s blogs were depressing, and I have to admit they are right.  It was all true (fisherman true anyway…) and the sentiments expressed were pretty much right on.  I began to question my judgment regarding the whole commercial fishing thing and had made up my mind to have an enjoyable experience or else call it quits.  So there; a make or break year.

We arrived as I said on a beautiful, sunny day.  The walk down to the True North at her new moorage in Sealing Cove brought a weight of emotion and anxiety – but there she was, firmly tied to the dock and looking as pretty as the day we left her last fall.  She’s such a solid little beauty that if does a person good to look at her, knowing just how tough she really is.  We opened the cabin door, half expecting the funky smell of rotting whatever that seems to happen on a boat left for long, but no!  Our efforts to leave things in good condition, along with the attentions of our reliable boat-watch man had paid off.  A little light mold on a couple of things in the fish hold, but by and large all was in good shape.

I spent the first week torn between checking out all the systems, getting gear and equipment ready to go, and finishing up Phase I of the programming project for the team to test and train on.  Split like that, it was hard to get much enthusiasm going; it began to rain the second day and I had a good view of the surf breaking on the rocks out in the Sound.  My mind kept telling me how big the waves were, how likely things were to go wrong – just hard to get going.

Then, things began to change.  Emery and Todd came to spend a few days with us.  Their enthusiasm worked its usual magic.  We took the boat onto the grid to paint the bottom and install new zincs, which was fun to see them get involved with.  Simon and Philip came in on the Sea Fever, a little 22 foot boat they were taking from Juneau to Tacoma, and similarly livened things up.  Finally, nephew James from BC came for a week, and we had a real blast.  I’ll cover each phase in the near future on this, but for now – the jury is in – we had such a great time that we plan to continue.  Lots to do, lots still to learn, but we’re in!

Fish On!

Life, The Universe, and…

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.

El Canto del Viento

Sometimes, the wind blows here.  There are only two full days left in this year of 2011, and today the wind is blowing.  I’m not sure what that means, but it just needed saying.

When I was just a little boy, wind played a big part in my life.  I remember riding in a car with Mom and some other ladies, pulling to the side of the road as we watched a tornado cross a mile or so ahead, wondering if it was going to strike the base where my Daddy was working.   I wasn’t very old, but I remember the awe I had for that dangling dark carrot of cloud and the force of the wind in it.

Not too much later, I spent several years in Western Oklahoma.  Red dirt, cotton, and wind.  Like most everyone else, we lived in some houses that were built before super-insulation and weather barriers.  The wind always found a way to whistle its tune thru some crack or another, and when we went away to visit other, stiller places, we would find ourselves stopping to listen, wondering what was missing – ah, it was the song of the wind!

I still have a scar on my back,  small and faded now, where a bicycle, a big cardboard box, a barbed wire fence, and the wind all came together in a wonderful brainstorm that almost worked.  It seemed a grand plan – strap the huge moving box to my back with a couple of belts, get on my bike, and let the wind propel me down the dirt road with no effort on my part.  All went well, until the barbed wire gate approached at a nice clip – the handbrakes just wouldn’t quite do it, and I wound up nicely stitched up in all 4 strands of wire. 

When Orin was in Iraq, he told of the wind that brought the dust, of the time they barely made it to a safe landing spot in the middle of nowhere – the things a parent ponders in the darkness, listening to the murmur of the wind past the eaves.

Fishing, the wind hardly ever ceases.  There is always a breeze of some sort – that much uninterrupted space just cannot lie still.  On shore, we hardly notice a lively breeze until it begins to throw things around and make a lot of noise.  On the water, the constant motion of the wind over the ductile waters has its effect, adding little waves on to bigger ones, building, whipping, singing.  When the rigging sounds overcome the engine sounds, you know it is really blowing.  At anchor or in harbor, there is nothing so mysterious and lonely as the sound of wind, singing thru the stays.  Promises of gales beyond our care to imagine, the mysteries of boundless power that might be building; one never knows, but the song hints at it all.

The old year seems to be leaving with that same sense of haunting, boundless loneliness that a gale on a dark night hints at.  The world is in a strange flux – changes all around, many core values now only a memory, uncertainty in everything that once was strong and secure.  Even me.  I try to hear the promise of spring, the hints of gentleness in the breeze, but it’s not working as well as I would like.  Maybe it’s time  to just hunker down, be glad for good, strong anchor lines, and wait.  Summer really IS coming, and life is still good!  Just a little hard to see for all the stuff blowing in the wind.

Fish on!      

Happy Holidays to you all!

Well, it’s that time of year – when you can justify letting go of all the stresses of the year, and slow down for a day or two and just consider how really fortunate you really are.  Breathing in and out, most of us – life is really a good thing.  Hope this finds all well – we sure have a lot of wonderful friends.

Willie had just experienced all these new-smelling tennis balls cascading down the stairs – you can even see the ecstasy in his eyes!

Stay tuned.

Bits and Pieces

The transition back to normal life has been interesting this year.  A beautiful fall, and no work.  That stinks for paying bills, but life is made up of a whole lot more than the rat race.  I breathed deeply of the crisp, pure air and gave thanks that I was alive to enjoy it.  Lost two friends, both younger than me since returning – makes you sit up and take a fresh look at things!  It’s a shame, though, to be so afraid of  dying that you don’t really live. 
This post is just a few thoughts that have collected with no real forum to launch them into, so here seems to be the place.
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Where the crazy life began – Lovie with Ed Jolly on the Hoxie in Cook Inlet, longlining halibut in 1978.
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Commitment.  Some folks commit to a greater degree than others.  Country, occupation, sports, whatever, they just aren’t afraid to make the statement – wear the company jacket, put on the “Proud To Be” bumper stickers, plaster the team’s logo on everything.  My favorite is a local fisherman in Sitka.  A younger generation fellow, he approaches life at high speed, with a degree of reckless abandon that borders on the extreme.  Rumor has it that the level of chemicals in his bloodstream is a little higher than most, and not all of them legal.  I don’t know, but he took commitment to his lifestyle to the ultimate.  A deckhand from a young age, now a boat owner, he goes by the nickname of “Red-Green”. 
All vessels are required to have operational navigation lights; a red light visible on the port side (left side, facing forward), and a green one on the starboard.  This way,  if you see a vessel at night, you can get an idea of which side you are on, and their direction of travel.  All good practice, although not as necessary on the sidewalk as it is at sea.
Red-Green wanted to be sure.  He shaved his head, and had the port side tattooed Red,  the starboard side Green. 
This is for real.  That, my friend, is serious commitment.
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Brahams Lullaby.  I was listening to the iPod the other day while working on the computer.  My music collection is a huge pile of miscellaneous stuff I’ve collected over the years – my kids have contributed, as have many of the soldiers who deployed with O, people that Em worked with, the boys in the band, relatives, etc.  I love music of all sorts, so I have all types.  When you play the songs alphabetically, you never know what you’ll get, from Hank Snow to Abba to Metallica. 
So, I listen.  And, just after”Boulevard of Broken Dreams”, came a silence.  Then a slow piano began.  A simple melody played on a nylon stringed guitar.  My memories whirled, work stopped, everything seemed surreal.  The simple tune played on.
I was transported back, to the years in the little cabin at Ashley Lake.  Life was not always so easy there either, but it was good.  The kids were at those magic years where they always stay in my mind when I get nostalgic.  Hectic days would come to an end eventually, and almost always, we would tuck them into the safety of their beds, stuffed animals to guard for the night.  And almost always, Lovie would sit and softly sing the words to the song that has stopped me in my tracks, and brought me to a bleary-eyed, runny-nosed halt -- “Lullaby.., and good night…”  All’s right with the world.  Miss you kids.

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Hands.  Ever think about them?  I was sitting in the autumn sunlight last week, with nothing to do but listen and think, looked down, and saw my hands.  Hoyt Axton wrote a song with a line, “If that cat could talk, what a tale he’d tell”  which seems appropriate when applied to hands, also.  Mine are no longer the smooth, unblemished tools of youth and they bear the marks of 50+ years of front-lines exposure. 
They started off pretty smooth and clean.  Then there were the bike wrecks, the garage experiments gone wrong, the knuckles busted fixing motorcycles…

I can still see the marks of early Alaska, the bowsaw rip on the left hand; halibut hooks, burns from welding at the sawmill..
Then there  are the countless scars from building houses, pulling wire; smashed fingers, cuts, splinters, abrasions of all sorts; the unseen damage from handling frozen lumber and tools in the Montana winters;
Then, the climbing years..

Hanging from tiny ledges by two fingers; jamming them into crevasses and flexing a fist to hang from when no other hold would do; rope burns, and all the rest.
They’ve had a workout, those miraculous little guys – I can still hit these keys with them, and I can still coax a little music from the strings of my guitar.
Best of all is when they get to hold my wife’s – hers seem to have a similar tale to tell. 
It is getting harder to pick my nose, though… not sure why.
Weird thoughts, weird time of life.
Stay tuned.
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There, and Back Again

Bilbo’s book – the title so succinct – how much lies in between “There” , and “Back Again”!! 

As I sit in the sunshine on the back deck, safely home again in Montana, the events of summer are already feeling like the aftermath of an intense movie I watched somewhere – profoundly moving, but now safely insulated from present reality.  We made it home.

Everybody we see has asked, “How was it? How’d you do?”  Weirdly enough, we ended the season with a very optimistic outlook.  This year we became indebted to a degree we’ve never been – so many tangible and intangible kindnesses and assistance received – my lesson for the year has been one of humility.  I don’t like to admit I need help of any sort, and over and over again, others have seen our needs and helped in so many ways.  If you read this and can see yourself in any measure being one of those, thank you from the bottom of our hearts.  In fact, just reading this account helps more than you know!!

We put in the new engine, worked thru the accompanying problems, upgraded our rigging, hayrack, and gurdies.  Not a small undertaking by any standards, and poor planning on my part lost us the first month of the king/coho prime time.  That hurt.  Weather seemed to hammer us over and over, cutting fishing time by 30 percent at least.  Fish were smaller, even the biologists were publicly pondering the fact on the radio before we left; the schools were smaller and more scattered.  I heard all these complaints numerous times, from numerous sources as we waited for our plane ride out.  So, financially, the season was a bust.  Can’t wait to do the books… 

The weird part – the optimism?  The boat runs great!  the rigging works fantastically! Gurdies – wow! New places to fish – cool!  New species to target next year – yes!  All these things somehow cancelled out the negatives, and leave us with that farmer-style hope for next year, should that be on our path.  Meanwhile, it’s survival mode in Montana for the winter – anyone need diesels rebuilt, fish cleaned, songs sung, or stories written? Will work for food…!

Time – such a blur.  One day in Hoonah, Lovie was talking about something that would happen, and she asked, “What day is this?”  I told her it was Saturday, and she, very startled, looked at me with wide eyes and with panic in her voice, said “WHAT HAPPENED?”  Somewhere, somehow, Thursday and Friday had slid right off her charts, and she thought it was Wednesday.  Yeah, back to the land of cell coverage, internet, calendars, cars… 

Gotta love it all.  Stay tuned!

Excursion Inlet, to Sitka – Lovie’s Version

Lovie read my last post, and decided that I just didn’t project the full intensity of the night.  Here, in her words, are the events, as well as some comments about the trip home to Sitka.

Bad, Ugly, and Terrifying!

The details that need filling in to the Excursion Inlet / Peril Straits Run.

I hate to sleep in my yucky, smelly fish-gurry coated clothes as it will ruin my sleeping bag and I’ll have to smell it for 2 months.  So, I sleep in sweats, commonly made of cotton or as called in Alaskan Survival Schooling, “Death Cloth”. 

The irritating bumping sound that woke us at 2 a.m. – I just snuggled deeper into my warm cocoon as the boat is chilly even with the oil stove going as you have to leave windows open for ventilation.  My thought was “Aaahhh! Reubin’s taking care of it..” and next it’s “Get your life jacket on, the dock is breaking up!” 

I looked out the door to water rolling and breaking over the boards and Reubin jumping from the heeled-over boat, running and pounding on Steve’s door.   Got his boat started and cast off and ran back to ours. 

I jumped into my ExtraTuffs to keep from slipping and started undoing the stern line.  We’d tied up with 4 ropes because of the tidal current.  We’d bought a new bow rope earlier which we thought was too long but it’s saved our necks a few times already.  Reubin looped it under the cleat and back to the bow for me to hold.  I’d grabbed an additional sweatshirt and my raincoat as it’s always pouring even in pitch dark.  The far side of the dock broke loose as Steve barely cleared it and our boat.  Out into the middle of the (River!) he headed, up to find an anchor spot as he’d been there before.  

Our GPS didn’t come up right away, so I shivered with teeth chattering, hanging on to the end of the rope as the dock swung downstream with us still on it.  Thank goodness the other side of the pilings held.  Reubin had our engine running and looking at the depth sounder as we’d swept from 17 fathoms to 2 fathoms; our boat is 6 feet deep in the water – 1 fathom!  Afraid we’d hit the bank he hollered into the wind, “OK, cut her loose!”  We could barely see Steve’s light in the driving rain but he’d anchored by then and we aimed upstream to tie up – jazzed by adrenaline, which we have been several times in this occupation.

 

 

The Peril Straits trip home…….

We had to keep driving 13 hours, into the dark night to hit tides right for making Sergius Narrows at 6 a.m.  We were following Kirk and Jason as it got dark, seeing the blinking lights of beacons from one rocky point to the next.  Red beacon, green beacon, white beacon, 3-second flash, 1-second flash, as marked on charts so you know where you’re at. 

Night is not fun as our old windows glare something fierce from the computer and radar screens.  Someday we hope to get modern anti-glare windows and a high-pressure sodium floodlight so you can see logs before you hit them in the dark. 

From 7:30 p.m. to 1 a.m. we drove on in the night to a safe anchorage just before the Narrows so we could make the tide right.  As it was, it changed extra fast and we were 15 minutes late and having to buck it, but we plowed through and kept an ear out for the Ferry coming through so it didn’t run us over.  Tonnage has the right of way…!  Let them know you are there – sometimes they can’t see a little fishing boat 4o feet below their decks.  We pulled out and let it (Fairweather) go by at Olga Strait.  Seeing the glimpses of Sitka through the mountains was a relieving sight!

Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

“I sleep so much better tied to a dock than on anchor…”  Steve said as we tied to the section of cannery dock in Excursion Inlet.  Some things just shouldn’t be said, especially in the dark, on a tide-swept inlet, in the rain, 20 miles from the nearest civilization.  Our nightmare was about to begin.

After our migration to Icy Strait, our weather problems changed a great deal.  The weather cycles that hit us regularly on the outside coast continued, but their impact diminished a great deal with the absence of the coastal ocean swell.  A blow that would shut us down for 3 days on the Outside as we waited for the seas to calm would only take one day Inside, then back to nice waters and fishing again.  Granted the fishing wasn’t quite as good; rather spotty schools of coho resulting in lower daily averages than out in the Sound, but the trade off seemed worth it.  It seemed that the larger fish were to be found about an hour and  a half across Icy Strait from Hoonah, on an empty stretch called Homeshore.  Most of the fish taken from Icy Strait this summer were hooked along this section of coast, and it continued to produce fish as the summer ended.  Unfortunately, there is no protected anchorage along the coast if it blows, so the alternatives are the run back to Hoonah, or try to find a spot Northwest in Excursion Inlet.
We were tired of the small fish and low numbers on the Hoonah side, so we went to Homeshore when conditions were right.  On September 13, the forecast was for wind - East 25 knots shifting to Northeast  30 knots overnight, with 5 foot seas and continuing winds on the 14th.  This meant the Hoonah side would  be unfishable, but the Homeshore side, while rough, would have enough shelter to make it possible.  If any last runs of fish were to be had, it would be under these conditions.  The thought of a possible rough night on anchor if the wind shifted just a tad Southeast bothered me, but so did the thought of another day tied to the dock at Hoonah, not fishing.  Tensions were high on our boat as we discussed the options (read “yelled at each other!).  Kirk and Troy had opted to stay at Hoonah; Steve was going across to look for fish.  We finally decided to go for it and follow Steve.  After the crossing, it was obvious the wind and seas were picking up.  Four or five other boats were anchored in the small spot that usually provided protection.  Only the Ebb Tide and the True North were fishing in the short, ugly chop.  By dark, we had four fish on board, hardly worth the effort. 
As we passed the anchored boats for the last time, I was cleaning the last fish in the pit.  I carefully cut the entrails into small portions and threw them overboard every 30 seconds or so.  Clouds of hungry seagulls swarmed out to the boat, giving the illusion of me cleaning a large number of fish.  I knew there were several sets of binoculars watching as we passed the boats, and I could just hear the skippers thinking “That’s a lot of gulls; boy, we missed out on the bite this evening!!”  We find amusement in small ways out here…!
Steve pulled his gear in, and we headed toward Excursion Inlet in the twilight.  After an hour of travelling, we could see the lights of the dormant cannery in the distance.  Tidal currents from the ebbing tide swirled us one way and another – a lot of water forces in and out of this fjord-like waterway every day, so one must constantly be attentive to steering.  At last we drew alongside the huge pilings for the dock.  During the peak of season, a long dock area is heavily used by tenders, seiners, and trollers to offload or tie up overnight.  Now, with the operation in the process of mothballing, only one section of dock remained, a piece about 60 feet long by 20 feet wide.  Tidal current made the tie-up process a little tricky, but we managed to get secured to the dock, and Steve made his famous comment about sleeping better.  I was a little worried about the current, so tied an extra spring line to help us stay put.  We had a cup of tea, and crawled into our bunks, glad to be done for the day.

About 2 am, I was awakened by an unusual “bump,bump” noise on the hull.  I groggily thought I should go out and check out the source.  As I crawled out of the bunk, I just about fell over.  The boat was heeled at a 20 degree angle, far greater than I had ever seen it.  Wide awake now, I opened the door on a frightening scene.  We were in a whitewater river of rushing water, with waves rising over the upstream side of the dock at over 5 kph by my estimation.  The boats were straining their mooring ropes to an incredible tautness and were heeling over due to the water rushing against the deep keels.  I immediately yelled to Lovie to don her life jacket and get clothed for action, then did so myself.  As I watched, wondering what it was all about, there was a loud splintering noise from the opposite side of the dock – the water was literally ripping the huge timbers in two, tearing the dock loose from its’ mooring – and we were tied to it!
I leaped over the two foot gap of rushing water to land on the wet, slippery dock section, and ran up to Steve’s boat.  I flung the door open, and screamed to him “We’ve got to go!  The dock is breaking loose!”  You can imagine what that does to a good sleep – but good sailor that he is, he was instantly out the door assessing the situation.  He immediately started his engine, and we cast his lines loose.  As he moved away, the dock completed its breaking and swung around downstream.  True North was running by then, and untied except for a looped bow line.  As the dock swung around, I saw that the other end was tied fairly well, and that it wasn’t going anywhere immediately.  I had Lovie hold the line that held us to the dock, as it seemed prudent to remain attached to a known position rather than drift downstream while Steve tried to maneuver his way to a clear spot.  As the torrent continued to move the dock around, I began to fear it would  come loose and force us into shallow water alongside, possibly grounding or capsizing us.  We let go, and drifted clear. 
Jogging midstream in the dark, we watched Steve’s navigation lights as he searched for a suitable anchorage.  He finally settled on a site about 20 fathoms deep, and set his anchor with a lot of scope (scope is the total amount of line between anchor and boat; more scope is better, if possible.)  He called us on the VHF, and we carefully proceeded over to tie alongside.  Needless to say, we were all a bit wired up due to the adrenaline rush, so Lovie made hot cocoa as we relived the experience.  I put my GPS chart plotter tracking system on to see if our anchor was dragging, and began the watch for the remainder of the night.  Steve went to  catch a few winks of sleep; Lovie drowsed in and out, and I carefully watched shore lights and computer as the current slowly subsided.  What was really weird – the torrent that broke the dock was rushing OUT of the inlet – at peak flood tide, when the current should be doing exactly the opposite, flooding IN to the inlet.  What happened?  We still don’t know, but suspect a glacier calving, small earthquake, ice dam breaking due to the heavy rains; maybe we’ll never know.

At daybreak we headed down to Homeshore, for a rousing fish score of ZERO.  That was the first time this season that Steve and us both got skunked.  The weather had increased, beating us up more than our lack of sleep could take.  We finally pulled gear and eased our way across the Strait, a ninety minute trip of short 5 foot chop.  That night, tied to a more secure dock at Hoonah, we went to bed at 7:30; at 6:30 the next morning, we awoke to a beautiful day.  Kirk had analyzed the weather report and told us we had a two day window of good weather to make it back to Sitka, if we left on the morning tide change.   Not a problem!  We sold our puny catch, filled up with ice for ballast, and Jager and True North headed out on the 11 am flood.
We travelled the whole day and arrived at the mouth of Peril Straits at dark.  In order to clear Sergius Narrows on the morning tide change, we had to continue on for another 6 hours to anchor at Goose Bay.  Kirk had some floodlights that let him dodge logs, so we got right on his stern and followed.  At 1:30 am, we anchored.  Six a.m., off again to slide thru Sergius at about 7 knots.  A 3 hour stint fishing in Salisbury in hopes of picking up a few fish to bring home resulted in a catch of 3 – so, on to Sitka.
We made it just in time; last night the weather turned – it blew gusts of 65 knots here, with seas building over 28 feet just offshore, and worse predicted for the rest of the week.  A few days of preparation, and we should be able to head back to Montana.  Mixed feelings.  Dock should be a little more stable there, if nothing else.

Fish on.

Two Minute Warning

“Anybody listening?  Jager? True North? Anybody??”  The words carried an urgency that caused me to leave the pit where I was pulling gear with a leap, to run to the wheelhouse and grab the radio mic.  Steve’s voice, usually cool and well modulated, like the radio announcer he is, was pitched a little higher than usual; something unpleasant was happening.  “I’m in South Inian Pass, and I blew the tide.  We’re in the Washing Machine, taking water over bow and stern.  If I don’t contact you in two minutes, you know what to do!”  Well, that was a bit of a problem.  As mentioned before, South Inian is one of the places you don’t mess around with.  When the tide ebbs, it collides with any ocean swell at 12+ knots, and the result is a chaotic jumble of water, often not survivable.  I’m told that there are 58 recorded deaths in South Inian Pass; our first venture through last year sure got my attention.  The story Steve told us later in the week only adds to the air of deadly respect mariners have for the two mile stretch of water. 

Fishing a larger boat this year, he was able to hire a couple of deckhands, two girls he went to school with.  One of the hands had to get back to Sitka, and a tender from Sitka was sitting inside Icy Strait, preparing to return and unload.  Arrangements were (hastily!) made to rendezvous and transfer the passenger for a ride back home.  Several boats had already made the jump to the Inside (as we call Icy Strait, opposed to Outside which is Cross Sound and the outer coast) at the correct time, the beginning of the flood tide.  If you wait until the beginning of the ebb, you are in trouble.  The last minute decision to meet the tender put Steve at the last possible moment to attempt the Pass.  The message we heard tells the result – he was caught at the decisive moment.  The three previous days had been spent tied to the dock in the Cove, along with most of the other boats, waiting out one of the seemingly endless storms we’ve had this year.  Lovie and I had ventured out into Cross Sound to fish, and were fishing in some large ocean swells generated by the storm.  The combination of a large ebb tide and large ocean swells is not one that boded well for Steve.  He decided to gamble on the run, and made a start.  Once he committed, the currents and waves were chaotic; after about two minutes, he knew he was in for a ride.  It was as if the whole thing exploded – he looked out and his stern was completely under water.  A glance out the front showed a similar situation on the bow.  Waves slammed him from all sides simultaneously, and a porthole window blew out.  All the gear on his deck was washed off, including his pit cover.  He reached for the mic, and made the call.  There is nothing anyone else can do for you in this situation.  We began to pull our gear, watching the clock.  If he didn’t call, we would call the Coast Guard and begin to patrol across the 2 mile stretch at the mouth of the Pass, looking for floating debris and survivors.  Connley, fishing about 45 minutes away on the Inside, got on the radio, also ready to pull gear and run down to do what he could.  Steve just pointed the Ebb Tide up against the ebb, put the throttle to full, and went.  He told his deckhands to be ready to get wet; just grab something and hold on to the boat when it went, because there is no way anyone would find them if they were separated from the vessel.  The wooden boat most likely would not sink for a while, but would be totally awash, giving some safety to the crew.  He was a bit worried about planking above waterline; a trip on the grid a couple of weeks before had confirmed that the below waterline wood was in good shape,  but the upper section needed quite a bit of work.  This doesn’t help the worry factor, either! 

An eternity later, he made progress into a calmer section of water.  We all breathed a big sigh of relief.  Standing at the dock here in Hoonah yesterday, we noticed a repetitive pumping of the bilge; a seam has opened up somewhere, but for now his pumps keep up.  He has a big rework planned for the winter, and will fix it then.

We made the plunge a couple of days later, along with Kirk and Jason on the Jager – we carefully timed the tide, and made it without incident.  Even on a decent day, the swell and tide made for a very confused sea, but we wallowed our way through with no problem.  I made a short video that I’ll try to get on YouTube; it really doesn’t do justice to the feeling of being there! 

Link To Video - South Inian Approach

 

Inside – we’ve spent a week here fishing out of Hoonah; weather is a lot nicer here, only a couple of days stormed in, and flat calm the rest.  The fishing, for us, has not been hot.  We’ve barely caught enough to cover food and gas, but we feel like we have to keep trying until season ends on September 20.  If we don’t pick up a few more, we plan to fish our way on around to Peril Strait, up to Salisbury Sound, and then to Sitka at the end of season.  Hopefully we will catch enough to get a plane ticket back to Montana for the winter!  Not our finest year, financially. 

Friends to fish with are one of the bright spots.  A storm coincided with Labor Day, so we had a cookout in the blowing rain, rafted with the gang at the docks at Hoonah.  Steve cooked burgers and pork ribs; potato salad, beans, brownies, cinnamon rolls, and hot coffee.  Not too bad for a blustery evening, at the end of summer.

I had a revelation this morning; Lovie and I were consoling each other with the fact that we had each other, and we’ve had quite an adventure together.  I commented that it wasn’t necessarily fun, but it was definitely adventure.  I just realized – Lewis and Clarke, Shackleton, Peary; all wonderful adventures to read about, but probably not to be considered “fun”.  Fun and adventure only go together at Disneyworld, where the illusion of mortal peril can be invoked to adventure level, yet in the background of one’s mind there is the understanding that the danger is minimal and the duration is short.  In 15 minutes, we’ll have cotton candy and watch the puppets,  along with 10,000 other people.  It’s awfully hot on the asphalt today, isn’t it?  What’s for dinner? 

Adventure is different, folks.

Fish on.

From the Inner Edge of Nowhere

This has been a tough season so far.  The first two months of mechanical gyrations were well worthwhile; the improvements have made a world of difference in our confidence in our equipment.  Even though I still spend a lot of effort worrying about things, it is not with the same intensity of apprehension I felt with the older, worn out motor, rigging, and other gear of last year.  Things happen; seawater, wild, assaulting motion, and a host of other factors all eventually lead to failure, that’s just the way it works.  At least when you rebuild and replace things, you have a better understanding of weak spots and potential show-stoppers, and that helps one to deal with the whole experience.

The tough part right now is made up of two factors; weather and fish migration patterns.  This year, we have been hammered over and over by major weather systems that are spawned somewhere in Asia, travel the Russian coast, then head our way.  We have had 1 sunshiny day since August 1; the words “Rain likely” seem to be the mandatory wording for our weather report.  Rain isn’t a problem, it’s just a reality here.  The large ocean swells that these big storms generate, along with the winds they bring are another story.  The fish numbers have dropped off to dismal amounts; it is not unusual for boats to work all day in the Sound for 20 fish.  That’s not enough to make this worthwhile.  Last week, some of the boats discovered that fish have moved thru Inian Pass to the Icy Straits area, and they are doing very well.  The number of boats fishing the outside coast has dwindled to a handful, and we hear numbers of 60-80 boats working the Straits.  New plan: Monday or Tuesday, depending on weather, we will try to make the Pass and move inside.  If fishing doesn’t pick up in there, at least we are one step closer to getting the boat back to park at Sitka for the winter.  Bank accounts are imploding, so hope there is work somewhere for the winter.  Give us this day our daily bread…

Enough gloom and woe – we still can laugh!  The 35 knot “breeze” blowing through the Cove makes being tied up this Sunday not feel too bad.  One of the guys was telling us about an old fellow who fished till the was 90 years old out of the Cove.  Things get slightly warped after so many years here on the inner edge of nowhere, and reality blurs more than a little bit.   This lonely old fellow spent a bit of time increasingly worrying about what he heard floating thru the ether on his radio, and became convinced that the Government was interested in monitoring his life.  The obsession got so great that he appeared back in town one day with a new hat, which he wore till the end of his days.  It was fashioned out of aluminum foil, specially shaped with ridges to deter the brain-monitoring satellites the government was using to spy on him…  I don’t know, maybe he had something there.  He was a tough old guy; his boat hit a rock at Point Lucan late one winter evening and went down.  He got off a radio call, but no one was near, so he (without survival suit) was forced to go for a swim.  The tide was coming in, and Dave the Boatwright took his large vessel out to search.  Finding a floating person in the dark who has no reflective gear, EPIRB, or strobe light is next to impossible, so the fellow floated right on past Elfin Cove to South Inian Pass.  Finally, hours later, fortune washed him up on one of the rocks there.  Most men would have been dead; not this one.  Dave, calculating tidal flow, kept searching, and finally came across his rock.  Rescued, he took a bowl of hot soup, dry clothes, and asked to be returned to home at Elfin.  No hospital, hypothermia ward, or other assistance, just get him home; after all, he was over 70 at the time!  I have no doubt that the story has improved over time, but if even half of it is true, I’m impressed!

Kirk has had to replace his head gasket during this storm.  On the way up from Sitka, he noticed his oil pressure was abnormally high; when we got here, he found that his oil was more like gelatin than oil.  He kept some samples for analysis, and cleaned out all the goo he could get.  Unfortunately, the only cause for such jelling of the oil seems to be if someone added something to it, and the only source of that would be sabotage.  Some investigation, dependent on oil analysis findings, is probably in order.  If it was malicious, it isn’t a far stretch to think an attempted murder charge would be in order; one’s life is very much in jeopardy if an engine failure occurs.  I hope it is just a case of product impurity, sort of unsettling to think anyone would stoop to such an act.   Of course, on re-assembly yesterday, a critical weld on an exhaust flange broke, so he is repairing that today; hope he’s ready by tomorrow so we can go catch fish.

Steve’s deckhand had to return home to her winter job.  She is from some small village on the Bering Sea, north of Bethel.  He promptly hired two more of his friends from Sitka to come out for the rest of the season.  The girls are high-school buddies of his from Mt. Edgecumbe – sounds like they are spoiling him already – boat is getting cleaned, goodies cooked,  Steve’s just smiling!  He said he needs 2 deckhands because the next 3 weeks are going to be phenomenal fishing.  Hope he’s right!

Stay tuned.