Dennis McGuire

DENNIS McGUIRE, 63, has been commercial fisherman for 37 years. Working as a diver, harvesting shellfish and kelp, as a troller in the tuna and salmon fisheries off the west coast and has been gillnetting on the Copper River for the past 28 years.

He studied acting in the early seventies under Earl Kelly at the Moore Theatre and worked under his direction at the Piccoli Theatre, (currently the Seattle Children’s Theatre) in the Seattle Center.

His sailing experience includes chasing tuna up and down the coast from California to Northern Vancouver Island and a two year journey with his wife Pat from Rhode Island to Washington State via the Panama Canal and Hawaii in a twenty six foot boat.

VIDEO

Dennis McGuire performs "The Ballad of Shotgun Gulch" Video courtesy of Brad Wartman, 2013

AUDIO

WRITINGS

Wild Kelp


Boats’ pullin’ out on a quiet spring dawn
Sky’s ablaze, stretch & yawn
Seagull’s makin’ that certain cry
Goin’ kelpin’ we get another try!

Ya, spring is comin’ early this year
Boats’ loaded an’ we got all our gear
Strong ebb tide pullin’ us out
Makes ya just wanna’ get up and shout!

The stories start comin’ one by one
Boat’s just drivin’ into that mornin’ sun
“We’re gonna’ stick and stay an’ make it pay!”
We chortle along the way

Now it’s late March in Prince William Sound
Icy snow still covers the ground
Down through the water streaks the spring dawn
Great schools of herring have come here to spawn

There is a new beauty down below
This undersea landscape covered in snow
A new generation will spring to life here
On ribbon, hair and elephant ear

Clams an’ urchins an’ cukes are fine
But herring roe kelp divin’, that is sublime
Divin’ straight down into this icy cold brine
Filling our boat with a product so fine

The quality this season did entice
A very satisfying, healthy price
Now we’re leavin’ the grounds far astern
Headin’ to town with money to burn

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A fishery to remember that “Wild Kelp” as it was known. It began with rakes from the surface; then evolved as a dive fishery to lessen the impact on the kelp. A diver would cut the kelp, leaving the holdfast and lower portion of the plant pruned and healthy.
Working a bed of ribbon kelp on a clear day, sun streaming down through the water column, reflecting off a heavy layer of herring eggs and surrounded by hundreds of tons of herring, flashing, cruising slowly, darting and spawning was a unique fishing experience. Rocky point would see the diver in huge clouds of hair kelp, loaded, absolutely loaded, with herring eggs and mesmerizing the harvester, only to be startled back to the moment by a bull sea lion appearing out of nowhere, cruising too close and too fast for comfort.
   Rocky Point, year after year would see these heavy snowfalls of herring spawn and miles of milt in all directions. It was a convergence zone where the herring would pour in and spawn heavily. All the gulls, terns, jaegers, eagles, squabbling and fighting, make an endless fuss along with herds of sea lions, divers and critters of every persuasion converging to play their role in the spawn.
   Rocky point is right across the channel, maybe a half mile at most, from Bligh Reef. This scene had played over and over for centuries, I have no concept of how long this has been happening, but there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that the oil tanker that hit Bligh Reef, on March 24, 1989, right across Tatitlik Narrows from Rocky Point, destroyed a wonder of nature that took eons to build.
Just a nook south of Rocky Point I was working feverishly in a hot bed of kelp, oblivious to all but the work at hand. Having stuffed my bag with long flowing leaves of heavily laden ribbon kelp, I would charge to the surface, handing off the full bags to the tender, who tosses out fresh ones. Then race back to the bottom to bury myself upside down in the bed and start cutting again.
   Suddenly there was an explosion, right next to my head and I back peddled with every thing I had to get out of the way of whatever it was. I looked up and saw the chain pouring down from a boat above. A boat had pulled up and dropped their anchor right on my bubbles! Enraged when I saw the diver splash into the water, I swam around behind a big boulder, collecting myself, letting the rush of anger subside.
Now the diver was upside down working in my bed of kelp. I swam up, grabbed his air hose, and took it back down behind the boulder. Well hidden from my adversary, I squeezed off his air supply, until he stopped working and started to bolt for the surface, at which moment I gave him air and he settled down, going back to work. I let him just get going again and then squeezed off his air, where he repeated his pop-up and start to bolt move, and bang, I’d open the air and he’d go back to work. This went on several more times until I tired of the game. When he went back to work with his back to me, I swam out from behind the boulder, held my knife to the loop in his hose, and squeezed him off.
My adversaries’ eyeballs filled his mask when he saw me standing there with that knife to his hose! I gave him air and he shot to the surface. The anchor chain and anchor were pulled up and that boat roared out of my patch!

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Froya

The Froya was a 47 ft. Ed Monk Sr. design, built by Skookum in Port Townsend. Actually, she was built from the plug used to build the 47ft. line, making her construction extra heavy. (The “plug” is the mold the production line mold is taken from. These first two elements of fiberglass boatbuilding are built super strong, so the resulting production mold can take the stresses of repeated use). She had a beam of fourteen feet, drew six feet of water and carried fourteen thousand pounds of ballast in her keel. She was sloop rigged with a sixty foot solid fir mast, and given her head on an ocean swell with a freshening breeze, this vessel was built to thrill. I am in no doubt that Mr. Monk was proud of his 47 when it came off the drawing table. Many designs, which followed the 47, from the 32 all the way to the 53 and even the 70 footer, are no match for the performance of the 47.
   Joe and I sailed out of Neah Bay, having rigged the boat for tuna, and cleared the salmon gear from the cockpit. We had eight lines off our trolling poles with the long lines abut 12 fathoms from the tips of the poles and each adjacent line being shorter until the inside pole lines were just a little longer than the three short lines off the stern. The resulting configuration draws the fish closer to the stern of the boat as they chase the lures. The august weather produced healthy westerlies and we set off on a southeasterly tack for blue water. We got to the thousand fathom drop off and turned, following it south. We had been dragging the hooks for about a week with only a handful of fish to show for the effort. The blue water sailing however took the sting out of not catching fish. There was one big strike on the outside long line, where a blue fin tuna tailwalked across the ocean, looked me right in the eye, snapped the leader with one more powerful swoosh of the tail, and was gone.
   Now into our second week, waking in the middle of the night, a hundred or more lights appeared off to the west on the horizon. The first boats we had seen since leaving Neah Bay and we tackled the fishing with renewed energy. Setting sail, driving Froya hard at the sleeping tuna fleet and the promise of good fishing with the coming dawn.
   Good weather and time at sea had taken its toll on our ice. We were fortunate to run into some fish finally, but the fishing, as it turned out, was not all that good. Predictably, at first light, we started catching fish on our outside, long lines. We hauled in the sails and fired up the engine, needing the ability to get the vessel into tight circles, to stay on the fish.
There was chaos now on the ocean, with boats around us in every direction tightening their circles, running hard, and hauling fish. There were “bait boats” as well with their crews lined up along the bulwarks casting jigs from hand held poles. Froya’s short lines caught a few fish and she was brought into a tight circle. We dumped the entire contents of two huge bags of theater popcorn over the side, came about and ran back through the corn, lighting up the short lines. Hand lining tuna, without hydraulics, is exhilarating, hard work. The fish strikes and the line is hauled back as fast as possible against the fight of a 15 or 20 pound albacore.
   A simple rig, double barbless red and white feather jigs on a heavy monofilament leader attached with swivels to eight hundred pound test tuna cord. A rubber snubber completes the rig at the boat end. In heavy fishing, there is no time to pull the fish in from the lines running off the poles. Every effort is made to get the short lines working nonstop. When a fish is hauled aboard, it flips easily off the barbless the hook onto the deck and the jig is immediately tossed back, where another fish hits it the instant it touches the water. That morning bite found us with almost three tons of fish aboard and our ice now was becoming an issue. The fish had quit and the fleet dispersed in all directions, back to the hunt. A decision was made to run the 100 or so miles north to Ilwaco, sell our catch and get fresh ice. We at least had a good feeling for where to get on the fish, and we’d be right back out in a few days.
In the early evening of the following day, Froya entered the Columbia River Bar near the top of the flood tide. It had just gotten dark as she approached buoy 10 off Clatsop Spit. A following sea was pushing her heavily into the river when the helm went slack. Initially, feeling like the weather helm had suddenly let up, then the wheel spun free in both directions as buoy 10 shot by our port side.
   The breakers got big and gnarly real quick and then came the sickening thuds of boat against bottom. Froya was washed up broadside and waves began pounding her sides and deck, right away taking out her portside windows and dousing the VHF radio. I got a mayday out on the CB radio and a taxi driver in Astoria answered the call, which he relayed immediately to the Coast Guard. The fellow stayed on the horn through the entire ordeal that followed, relaying instructions.
   The Coast Guard was there fast, with two surface vessels and a helicopter to find Froya on her side, being battered heavily. They lit the area up with parachute flares and sent word via the cabby that the chopper would lower a basket with a line in it, as the vessels could not reach us to get the job done. We were warned not to touch the basket until it hit the deck, to avoid shock from static electricity. Joe and I went forward and hung on to the mast and rigging, the occasional wave breaking clean across the deck, nearly washed us overboard several times. The chopper now was hovering just above the mast with the basket swinging wildly from side to side over the bow, but every attempt at landing it on deck failed. Exasperated, I grabbed a gaff hook and when the basket swung past, caught it, and slammed it down on deck while static electricity shot through me like a bolt of lightening.
   The basket was empty. There was no line from the vessel waiting just outside the surf. I ran back to the CB and told the cabby the line was not in the basket and he instructed me to “get in the basket!” I yelled to Joe, who was still hanging on to the mast, to get in the basket. His eyes widened, having seen the electricity jumping from my body when I had grounded the thing, just hung on and shook his head wildly “NO!” I radioed back we weren’t getting into the basket. The cabby simply said “ok”, the basket was pulled off the deck, and the chopper was gone.
After a pause, the cabby came back across the radio, informing us the Coast Guard would attempt to get a vessel close enough to get a line to Froya. We were told to haul in on the line and there would be a hawser attached which we could make fast to the bow cleat. An abundance of flares hung over the scene, allowing us a clear view of what followed. We observed first hand the courage and determination of the Columbia River Guardsmen.
Froya was desperate, on her side, pounded mercilessly by heavy breakers, any one of which may take one or both of the crew overboard. The smaller of the two rescue vessels, a forty footer, began working its way through the breakers toward us. As she approached, she appeared to take a deep, headlong plunge, the vessel shuddered from bow to stern as she struck bottom hard, and came to a dead stop. She was greeted with the same punishment as Froya, when the breaking bar took her by the stern and shoved her up shallow.
   There they lay, the two vessels on their side, facing each other bow to bow, caught in the grip of an ocean and river that have been taking boats and lives for hundreds of years. Froya, continuously pounded by the surf, the sheer strength of heavy construction her only resource left, could do nothing more than await her fate.
   Her gallant neighbor however, was just getting into the fight. The second, larger vessel, nosed in until she appeared to strike bottom and then immediately backed down, to deeper water. In that moment however, she had gotten a line to the smaller vessel and a desperate tug of war ensued between a boat and the forces of pounding surf. The big vessel, her smokestacks telling the story of the struggle, prevailed, and little sisters’ bow came ‘round, the death grip broken.
   She had no sooner been hauled to deep water outside the surf line than the spunky little gal charged right back in. Again, she negotiated the surf and just as she got close to Froya, buried her steel nose in the sand and was turned up broadside. The two vessels lay facing each other for the second time. And for the second time here comes big sister to pull her little sibling back to safety. Again the tug of war, and again the big ship was able to do the job, hauling the smaller boat to deep water.
   Froya was filling up fast now, with the blown out windows allowing every wave to pour gallons of water into the boat. There was no opportunity to make repairs, just hanging on and not getting washed overboard was all one could do. The cabby came back across the radio and said the big vessel would attempt to get the line to us. I made my way back forward and hung on to the mast with Joe, explained what was about to happen, and to be ready to catch this line and haul it in to get hold of the hawser.
What I didn’t know, was how they were going to get the line to us. I had no idea of the technology of getting a line to a boat. In my mind, a line is simply thrown from one boat to another. The throw has to be accurate and the receiving crew must be fast, so as not to lose the line overboard, before getting their hands on it.
   Big Sister plowed toward us in the surf, plainly visible under a fresh barrage of parachute flares. With each surge of sea, her stern would lift high and skew around to port, threatening a full broach. Then she’d square up on the wave, and as it passed beneath her, the bow lifted high with a slow, moaning roll to starboard. The following wave again picked up her stern, bow dipping sharply, exposing the entire length of her decks where she appears on the verge of pitch poling headlong into the surf. Again, her stern would slew around to port and again she would square up on the wave, an expert helmsman at the wheel, working his way closer, slowly and deliberately.
   Joe and I are coiled, ready to spring. A loud BANG! pierces the thunder of crashing water and we jump, our arms outstretched to catch a line we cannot see. We landed down on all fours and there was a solid “thud” behind us. A bullet with a two foot shaft and thin line attached bounced to the deck which we both fell on instantly, grabbing up coils of line and hauling with everything we had. We did not fail to notice the half inch dent the bullet arrow had left in the seasoned, solid fir mast. Joe had a wide grin on his face and was shaking his head, his eyes alight. Instantly I was laughing too, and shaking my head at the imagined damage it could have done had we been hit.
We got the hawser aboard, tied off, and made our way back aft to the relative safety of the cockpit. Black smoke poured from the stacks of Big Sister as she huffed and puffed, pulling for deep water. Froya’s bow jerked seaward and was then pounded back with the force of breaking waves. She was pulled hard again to seaward and again she was pounded back to the ground in this furious tug o’war.
   Another loud BANG! Joe and I hit the deck, our rattled nerves thinking they had shot at us again! But the line had parted, and if any thing had been gained, it was lost. The Cabby came right across the radio and said they would try again. Joe and I hunkered way down in the cockpit when Big Sister got close. She approached with that same skillful maneuvering witnessed before and when the shot came, the line draped over the main boom right above us. We scrambled for it, hauled it in to where we got our hands on the fresh hawser, worked out way to the bow and made it fast.
Smoke poured from Big Sisters’ stacks and the roar of her engines at full throttle could be plainly heard over the din of crashing waves. The hawser came taught, spanning four or five sets of breakers, and Froya’s bow snapped around so hard, had we not been hanging on, would have thrown us off the boat. Froya greeted the next wave head on, freed from the grip of the Columbia River Bar.
Big Sister hauled Froya clear of dangers and set a course into Ilwaco. Once there and tied up to the buyers dock, the captain and several of his crew boarded Froya for the customary vessel inspection following an assist. We went straight below and waded aft through three feet of water and debris, to check the steering gear. Not a word was said as we looked at the shattered quadrant on top of the rudder shaft. The captain just stuck his hand out, looked me straight in the eye and simply said “good job”. We expressed our thanks at their tremendous effort and perseverance. The captain nodded, turned and without a word about why we didn’t get in the basket (There was a quizzical look in his eye that told me it was on his mind.), waded back with his crew and left the boat without further inspection. What was there to inspect? Everything that was stored in Froya was either floating around or sunk in the boat. It looked as if she’d been filled a third full of water and then shook like a mixed drink behind a bar.

   Many years later I told the story poetically at the Fisher Poets Gathering in Astoria Oregon:


Night on the Columbia River Bar

Crossin’ the bar on a ten foot swell
almost midnight and all is well
A following sea, a ten foot swell
didn’t have a clue we were headed for hell

Ridin’ the top of a big flood tide
keepin’ red buoys to the starboard side
Gonna’ deliver our Tuna in Ilwaco
Then we’ll go have a beer and a taco

Little did we really know
a tommyknocker was runnin’ this show
Buoy 10 was off our bow
That’s when the tommyknocker struck, and how!

Surfin’ in on that red buoy at night
gotta’ keep that light on my right
--But the helm, it felt unduly slack?
couldn’t get the bow to come back!

Now we’re surfin’, wow what a ride
an’ that red buoy shot past our port side
All I could do was say “we jest hit”!
when Froya piled up on Clatsop Spit

Heaved up on the spit near the top of the flood
it looked like Mother Nature was out for blood
All the windows went away with the first wave
I did not think this boat we could save

The VHF was on the blink
After taking a really big drink
On the CB, a call I put out
a cabby in Astoria came back with a shout

We’re on the bar at Clatsop Spit
we need the Coast Guard lickity split
Boat’s on her side windows blown out
We can’t last long there is no doubt

Waves break over with tremendous fury
cabby said they’d be there in a hurry
They came by sea and they came by air
suddenly the Coast Guard was everywhere

Up in the sky a chopper does fly
an’ I asked the cabby the reason why
“There gonna’ drop a basket on ya”
they’ll be a line in it from that big ship, out yonda’”

“But touch that basket you’d better not
the static electricity is really hot
Now me an’ Joe, we’re hangin’ on to the mast
an’ that basket, it just kept swingin’ past

Swung a gaff hook with all my might
an’ it lit me up like a neon light
That cabbies’ warning was well founded
when that basket I had grounded

The basket it hit the deck just fine
But in it, there was no line
The cabby then relayed our fate
we must now evacuate

“Get in the basket” I yell to Joe
his eyes are wide and he’s shakin’ his head no
I think he may have given it a try
If he hadn’t just watched me fry

I tell the cabby we’re not leavin’ this boat
We gotta find a way to make her float
The cabby he says’s ”well o.k”.
And that chopper, it flew away

A boat’s sent in to the breakers now
Trying to get close to our bow
Poor Froya they could not reach
Now there’s two boats on the beach

Into the surf comes another boat on the run
Now this party’s really gettin’ fun
Under this parachute flare lit night
the Coast Guards lines’ are stretched tight

Off the beach their stranded brother they hauled
All this while we’re still being mauled
Through the massive surf another boat comes in
Only to smack that beach agin’

The Coast Guards’ busy pullin’ each other off
to them, my hat, I doff
I’m sure those kids from Peoria
are cursin’ the day they wound up in Astoria

Now the cabby comes across the radio
Says their ready to give it another go
From their boat a small line will be dispatched
You pull it in an’ they’ll be a hawser attached

So me an’ Joe are clingin’ to the mast
Getting smacked by breakers blast after blast
“Whatever we do Joe, we gotta’ get that line
Cause my friend, we ain’t got much time”

A loud report rips through the Ocean’s fury
Joe an’ I react in a hurry
Hurling ourselves into the night sky
to catch this line as it’s goin’ by

Then of a sudden there is a loud “whack”
when the mast that bullet did smack
Joe’s lookin’ at me with a silly grin
That bullet landed where our heads had just been

We hauled in that hawser, tied er’ off to the bow
Told the cabby they could start pullin’ now
That line stretched tight through the surf
Those Coasties we’re pullin’ for all their worth

Another shot rang out through the din
We hit the deck, thinkin’ they shot at us agin’!
Then we saw to our dismay
That line had parted and gone away

Back into the surf those Coasties do fly
they’re gonna’ give er’ another try
On deck waves are still crashin’
from another bullet Joe an’ me are dashin’

Well we got rigged up, that didn’t go bad
Cutter was pullin’ with every horse it had
Then the bow came round toward the sea
the Columbia River bar had let Froya go free

Down below we found the steering quadrant broken
the tommyknockers’ gun was smokin’
5a.m. when we got hauled into Ilwaco
it was omelets n’ coffee instead of beer and a taco