GENO LEECH lives between Cape Disappointment and Dismal Nitch in Chinook, WA with his wife Joanne. He began writing poetry in 1995 while drag fishing on the Columbian Star out of Astoria. "The rest is history,” says Geno. "I'm still driving a $200 beater.” You can catch Geno annually at The FisherPoets Gathering each February in Astoria, Oregon. He also performs on the east coast from time-to-time.
VIDEO
Geno performs "Last of the Beach Draggers" & "Bone China Cup" Video courtesy of Jullz Kasner, 2013
AUDIO
WRITINGS
Clean Slate
His third marriage deemed
a constructive total loss,
Chuck Sawatski,
bashed by the hammer of heedlessness,
self-medicated by rubbing rock salt
in his wounds and raring back on
Old Granddad Bourbon as needed.
At some point, Sawaski would cut
to the chase and ship out
Two weeks on a folding chair
at the Chicago NMU Hall,
flopping at Pauline's Rooming House
and nursing 'well' bourbon at Peckerhead Kates'
on 95th and Commercial,
made Sawatski wormy.
Finally, the Great Lakes tanker, POLARIS was
chalked on the board by ham-hock knuckled
union patrolman, Lou Bandini.
Sawatski heaved a sigh of relief,
and caught up with POLARIS in East Chicago
topping off a million and a half gallons
of gasoline in her cargo tanks.
Wearing a sky-blue Detroit Lion wind-breaker,
burgundy slacks and an Old Granddad glow,
Sawatski trudged up the gangway
packing a clean slate
and a sea bag.
____________________
Hard Beauty
The Great Lakes tanker POLARIS,
a converted WWII Navy 'LST',
had the hard beauty of an aging
waterfront working girl...
and had rubbed up against
lock walls and rubber-fender'd
discharge docks from Lake Superior
to the St. Lawrence Seaway.
Whatever romance and adventure
she possessed, turned to ashes long ago
in a blackened burn barrel
lashed to her stern railing
and dumped without fan-fare,
just beyond the Cleveland breakwater
into charming Lake Erie.
____________________
Lucky is as Lucky Does
Resembles the weather side of a riprap rock,
a flying bridge, faded, blue denim cap
swaggers on his head.
Lucky and his signature sky piece have endured
knife-wielding winds and pike-pole rains
from the Willapa to Bristol Bay.
Time and tide have rendered him skwonkwise
as a bent-framed F-150 Ocean Park clam beater–
been lit up by lightning three times,
had a leg crushed by a hemlock log
setting chokers for Oatfield Logging
in the Willapa Hills,
been busted up on crabbers, gillnetters and oyster scows,
burned by gasoline, jelly fish and fish cops;
he’s had more repairs and replacements
than Duck Oman’s dump truck.
Meanwhile, rubber wrap, crab-pot wire and twisted-up
welding rods
keep Lucky in the game.
Lucky needs a tide book like Jesus needed a Bible.
His heart pumps Willapa brine, his soul oozes Willapa mud.
“Hell, “ he reminds the crew,
“I’ve been on the Bay before you were bouncin’ around
in your old man’s nut sack.”
WORK is not a four-letter word
in the book of Lucky … Ask his crew: they’ve
shoveled, dredged, picked, packed and tubbed oysters
from Seal Slough to the Oysterville Sink;
slogged, bogged, mucked and mired
Station House Bed, Five-Acre Bed, the Outer Flats,
Nemah Spit and Smokey Hollow.
When Lucky’s on the Big Wheel
and the tide clock is ticking,
the crew know the drill:
take a pinch of gumption from their gizzard,
grin and bear Lucky’s banter,
familiar as the mud splatters on their faces.
“More work, less talk ––don’t make me
separate you sonsabitches!”
“Getting’ paid a man’s wages, use both hands!”
“Tide’s comin’. Hump it boys!”
And they do.
____________________
His third marriage deemed
a constructive total loss,
Chuck Sawatski,
bashed by the hammer of heedlessness,
self-medicated by rubbing rock salt
in his wounds and raring back on
Old Granddad Bourbon as needed.
At some point, Sawaski would cut
to the chase and ship out
Two weeks on a folding chair
at the Chicago NMU Hall,
flopping at Pauline's Rooming House
and nursing 'well' bourbon at Peckerhead Kates'
on 95th and Commercial,
made Sawatski wormy.
Finally, the Great Lakes tanker, POLARIS was
chalked on the board by ham-hock knuckled
union patrolman, Lou Bandini.
Sawatski heaved a sigh of relief,
and caught up with POLARIS in East Chicago
topping off a million and a half gallons
of gasoline in her cargo tanks.
Wearing a sky-blue Detroit Lion wind-breaker,
burgundy slacks and an Old Granddad glow,
Sawatski trudged up the gangway
packing a clean slate
and a sea bag.
____________________
Hard Beauty
The Great Lakes tanker POLARIS,
a converted WWII Navy 'LST',
had the hard beauty of an aging
waterfront working girl...
and had rubbed up against
lock walls and rubber-fender'd
discharge docks from Lake Superior
to the St. Lawrence Seaway.
Whatever romance and adventure
she possessed, turned to ashes long ago
in a blackened burn barrel
lashed to her stern railing
and dumped without fan-fare,
just beyond the Cleveland breakwater
into charming Lake Erie.
____________________
Lucky is as Lucky Does
Resembles the weather side of a riprap rock,
a flying bridge, faded, blue denim cap
swaggers on his head.
Lucky and his signature sky piece have endured
knife-wielding winds and pike-pole rains
from the Willapa to Bristol Bay.
Time and tide have rendered him skwonkwise
as a bent-framed F-150 Ocean Park clam beater–
been lit up by lightning three times,
had a leg crushed by a hemlock log
setting chokers for Oatfield Logging
in the Willapa Hills,
been busted up on crabbers, gillnetters and oyster scows,
burned by gasoline, jelly fish and fish cops;
he’s had more repairs and replacements
than Duck Oman’s dump truck.
Meanwhile, rubber wrap, crab-pot wire and twisted-up
welding rods
keep Lucky in the game.
Lucky needs a tide book like Jesus needed a Bible.
His heart pumps Willapa brine, his soul oozes Willapa mud.
“Hell, “ he reminds the crew,
“I’ve been on the Bay before you were bouncin’ around
in your old man’s nut sack.”
WORK is not a four-letter word
in the book of Lucky … Ask his crew: they’ve
shoveled, dredged, picked, packed and tubbed oysters
from Seal Slough to the Oysterville Sink;
slogged, bogged, mucked and mired
Station House Bed, Five-Acre Bed, the Outer Flats,
Nemah Spit and Smokey Hollow.
When Lucky’s on the Big Wheel
and the tide clock is ticking,
the crew know the drill:
take a pinch of gumption from their gizzard,
grin and bear Lucky’s banter,
familiar as the mud splatters on their faces.
“More work, less talk ––don’t make me
separate you sonsabitches!”
“Getting’ paid a man’s wages, use both hands!”
“Tide’s comin’. Hump it boys!”
And they do.
____________________
Somewhere in Wyoming
Schrader was a radioman
on Navy ‘PBY’ patrol bombers during the war.
He came home from overseas,
smoked cigarettes, stared down at his shoes
and drank Milwaukee beer with Milwaukee buddies
until both had gone flat.
On a wild-hair whim, Schrader bought a ’39 Ford,
lined up her grill on the sunset
and mashed the gas pedal.
Somewhere in Wyoming
he walked into a side-street comatose tavern.
The only thing moving was a squadron of house flies
and a green-visored bartender.
Schrader pulled up a stump and ordered a beer.
A guy packing a bay-window beer gut
came out of the Men’s Room zipping his fly
and hoisted himself on a stool at the end of the bar.
Schrader had left-heart hammering double takes
five thousand miles away in a shot-up ‘PBY’.
But Palooka-faced Hollywood actor Wallace Beery
wasn’t a Mitsubishi ‘Zero’ coming out of the sun.
Schrader bought him a beer.
Wallace Beery took a shine
to the Milwaukee guy home from the war
with the dusty trailed Ford parked out front.
The green-visored barkeep knew what was coming
and side-stepped the stories busing out of the gate,
adhering to the “Three’s a crowd” rule
by stalking Benzedrine-powered house flies with a swatter.
He kept the beer coming as Schrader and Beery
rattled ribs with laughter,
baring hearts, guts and gizzards
until the sun sank beyond the wounded slack-screen door
somewhere in Wyoming.
____________________
Schrader was a radioman
on Navy ‘PBY’ patrol bombers during the war.
He came home from overseas,
smoked cigarettes, stared down at his shoes
and drank Milwaukee beer with Milwaukee buddies
until both had gone flat.
On a wild-hair whim, Schrader bought a ’39 Ford,
lined up her grill on the sunset
and mashed the gas pedal.
Somewhere in Wyoming
he walked into a side-street comatose tavern.
The only thing moving was a squadron of house flies
and a green-visored bartender.
Schrader pulled up a stump and ordered a beer.
A guy packing a bay-window beer gut
came out of the Men’s Room zipping his fly
and hoisted himself on a stool at the end of the bar.
Schrader had left-heart hammering double takes
five thousand miles away in a shot-up ‘PBY’.
But Palooka-faced Hollywood actor Wallace Beery
wasn’t a Mitsubishi ‘Zero’ coming out of the sun.
Schrader bought him a beer.
Wallace Beery took a shine
to the Milwaukee guy home from the war
with the dusty trailed Ford parked out front.
The green-visored barkeep knew what was coming
and side-stepped the stories busing out of the gate,
adhering to the “Three’s a crowd” rule
by stalking Benzedrine-powered house flies with a swatter.
He kept the beer coming as Schrader and Beery
rattled ribs with laughter,
baring hearts, guts and gizzards
until the sun sank beyond the wounded slack-screen door
somewhere in Wyoming.
____________________
Every Boat Has a Wave
She sprung off a paint-scarred cannery fender pile
A steel hulled insomniac
Her main engine rumbled and cleared its throat
Exhaust billowed from her sooted rust-pocked stack.
In damp sad shadows beneath dim deck lights
A choreographed routine
A curse, a clang, a rattle of chain
The crew secures for sea.
Black rubber boots and a freezer suit
A midnight coffee break
He flicks a burning butt down in the wheel wash
Watches the boat slide away.
He crabs through a crack in the cannery door
Is swallowed by the florescent din inside
Never realizing he’d be the last
To see that crew alive.
On bar stools the crowd speculated
Drank in disbelief and denial
The pastor spoke of God’s grace and mysterious ways
The were somber in the grocery store aisles.
All the found was a bleached orange
Hand-lettered life ring
And a chafed timber painted the dragger’s haze gray
All that remained were memories and an old cliché
Every boat has a wave.
____________________
The More You Eat the More You Make
You may be a mud-sucker on a dredge down in Calcasieu
or bouncin’ around in a Bristol Bay beer can like a Kangaroo
Rollin’ the rails under in the Shelikoff
Or workin’ up in the Red Dog on the Justine Foss
Fringe Benefits? Step up to the plate…
The more you eat, the more you make
You may be a set netter up in Nushigak
or pullin’ albacore tuna on a down-hill tack
If your share ain’t comin’ off the top
and you’re more or less workin’ for three hots and a flop’;
Take the bull by the horns, throw ‘em on your plate;
The more you eat, the more you make
Don’t be bashful, belly up to the triough
Be it Cape Blanco or the Pribiloffs
You may be a Gypo tow-boater with a tandem tow
on a Central Gulf Freighter on the roll and go
Man, stuff your cake-hole, deck-load your plate
The more you eat, the more you make
Two spilts and a lift in the Willapa deep
only sleep you’ve had in standin’ on your feet
The weather’s turned sour, the skipper’s half-baked
The frostin’s done melted right offa’ your cake
Can’t plug the boat? Keep pluggin’ your plate
The more you eat, the more you make
Globetrotter or troller, high seas high risk
Spent hald your life wallowin’ in the ditch
Ain’t got a 401-K or retirement plan,
but you’ve got a knife and a fork and a bone-in ham
and make sure to lick both sides of your plate
The more you eat, the more you make
____________________
The Last of the Beach Draggers
He slaps the kitchen floor
with big bare calloused feet,
re-loads a stained mustard-colored coffee strainer.
Slides the window open,
a fleet of clouds race past the moon,
cocks his head and sizes up the weather.
One hand’s a fried egg sandwich
on the drive down to the boat.
Bottom paint and a prayer are keeping her afloat.
He’s on the rolling black horizon
before the red eastward rising sun –
The last of the beach draggers,
a commercial fisherman.
Spudded down in a captain’s chair
worn slick by a million tows,
with duct tape brown leather padded arms.
He basks in the heat of a diesel stove,
feet propped in dash board clutter –
gauges, gouges, gloves and buried
long forgotten charms.
Slurps coffee black as bunker-C,
wags a waterlogged White Owl,
reads his own ancient history from an old log book.
He’ll let ‘er soak another fifteen minutes,
then he’ll take a look.
He’s sashayed down this tow since before day bloody one –
The last of the beach draggers,
a commercial fisherman.
Hypnotized by a spooling bar,
he winds wire on the winch.
Wraps snap tight against the other.
His thoughts ebb back to this very deck
once worked by his sons and by his brothers.
He has no one astern.
He has no one abeam.
Pencil necks with pointer sticks have holed and sunk the fleet.
The cod end swings aboard.
They sort the tow.
Fishing’s all he’s ever done –
The last of the beach draggers,
a commercial fisherman.
____________________
Bone China Cup
I.
How a Bone China cup survived
aboard a little gas engine powered salmon troller
that fished off the Oregon – Washington coast
in the 1940’s, ‘50’s and early ‘60’s
is beyond me.
Thick white muscle-bound mugs
tattoo’d with a Shenango or Buffalo China trademark
were the standard at sea
and took as much abuse as the boat
and the person that drank from them.
Bucking into jackass seas
or a nor’west wind chop
was like facing a relentless body puncher
day after day.
A bad Bar crossing could take out
anyone or anything
ready or not
coffee cups included.
II.
Having learned that my father-in-law
drank his coffee from a Bone China cup
while fishing salmon and silvers
from Quiliyute to Newport
in the little troller “Joanne”
I wondered…
…why a Bone China cup?
Superstition?
A lucky charm perhaps?
Think of it:
a delicate, dainty,
gold-rimmed, floral patterned, hand painted
Bone China cup
cradled in the hands of an old country Swede
who had logged from Nemah to Queets
in the steam whistle days.
Shot stumps as a powder monkey.
Built bridges up and down the coast.
He’s been busted up
Bushwhacked
Buried alive
electrocuted,
and had even survived
moonshine poisoning
before pursuing a less hazardous occupation:
commercial fishing.
III.
My father-in-law was too tough
for a Bone China cup.
The Bone China cup bothered me.
And so,
one day before he died at age 97
I cranked up the volume and asked him:
“John. While you were out fishing,
why did you drink your coffee from
a Bone China cup?’
And although his hearing had been
carpet bombed and destroyed
by gas engine trollers, power saws, shotguns
and dynamite,
he comprehended,
but looked at me as if I had asked
the last stupid question of his life.
And in a voice that danced like a Schottiche
he replied,
“Because. It yust taste better dat vay.”
