Award-winning author IRENE MARTIN has specialized in lower Columbia River fisheries for over forty years. Her husband, Kent, is a fourth-generation Columbia River gillnetter. They have fished together in Alaska, the Columbia and Willapa Bay. Her most recent book is The Flight of the Bumble Bee; the Columbia River Packers Association and a Century in the Pursuit of Fish. Irene is currently working on another book: The Incoming Tide of Memory, a History of the Salmon Canneries of the Columbia River. A recent exhibit she created, Legacy of the Columbia River Fishery, incorporated her knowledge of Columbia River fisheries and images and artifacts from a number of collections, including that of her husband. The exhibit was awarded the David Douglas medal from the Washington State Historical Society in 2013. Among other awards, she received the James B. Castles Heritage Award, Washington State Historical Society Center for Columbia River History in 1998 and the Washington State Governor’s Heritage Award, 2000. She resides in Skamokawa, Washington.
Other books include Legacy and Testament, the story of Columbia River Gillnetters, and the Beach of Heaven, the history of Wahkiakum County, Washington as well as Sea Fire, Tales of Jesus and Fishing. Her book of poems, “The Family that Never Threw Anything Away,” was published in 2013. Irene is currently a board member on the Lower Columbia Fish Recovery Board, and on the Board of Trustees of the Columbia River Maritime Museum, as well as Salmon For All, an organization of fishermen and processors on the Columbia River.
Other books include Legacy and Testament, the story of Columbia River Gillnetters, and the Beach of Heaven, the history of Wahkiakum County, Washington as well as Sea Fire, Tales of Jesus and Fishing. Her book of poems, “The Family that Never Threw Anything Away,” was published in 2013. Irene is currently a board member on the Lower Columbia Fish Recovery Board, and on the Board of Trustees of the Columbia River Maritime Museum, as well as Salmon For All, an organization of fishermen and processors on the Columbia River.
WRITINGS
End of the day in the Blue Mist
After fishing was done for the day,
I’d crawl into my bunk in the forepeak,
Exhausted, ready for sleep.
The pillow was layered on my folded clothes,
Our towels stuffed between the ribs along the planking,
since storage was non-existent.
My sleeping bag was waiting to embrace me.
And sleep was waiting too,
In the coffin-sized space.
Would a coffin feel this way?
Embracing, welcoming,
Pillows, and towels at my back,
Cuddled in a sleeping bag,
Glad of the darkness,
The slap and gurgle of waves
Next to my head.
And you in the other bunk,
So close we can hold hands across the space between the bunks,
As we lie at anchor
And drift away to sleep.
_______________________
From my night window
The egg-shaped moon wobbles
Behind the dinosaur tree.
Pulling salmon in their tidal migrations
Back and forth, in cycles of cycles.
From my night window I see
Salmon stars, in their eternal migration
Through the galaxy.
And wonder,
What do salmon do in the dark?
Do they procreate, and die like
Ancient stars,
Leaving a black hole that pulls us
Into that memory?
Are we stardust?
Or salmon slime?
_______________________
Distant Water Fishery
A capture fishery operating on the high seas.
“Distant water fishery,” a phrase
Usually used to describe
A capture fishery conducted away from home port,
Or far off-shore, away from land.
But who or what is captured?
Those who live and work on the floating islands
Known as boats are at sea for long periods,
Away from families, from land,
Held captive by wind, tide and storm,
Lives captured,
Captivated,
by fish.
_______________________
Fishing/Marriage
I learned to fish when I became a bride.
Not from desire, but because we needed crew.
A slippery union, when salmon and love collide.
The first night out, I felt the bowpicker glide
Through choppy waves. This waterscape was new!
I learned to fish when I became a bride.
I worried over every knot I tied.
I learned new skills by imitating you.
A slippery union when salmon and love collide.
We visited haunts where fishermen had died.
I steered the boat, read charts and radar too.
I learned to fish when I became a bride.
Now boats have come and gone. We no longer ride
The “Floozie,” “Dorleen,” “Blue Mist,” or the “Pen 2.”
A slippery union when salmon and love collide.
But still we fish together, side by side.
Older, closer through the years we grew.
I learned to fish when I became a bride:
A slippery union when salmon and love collide.
_______________________
Delicious Irony
Washington’s state fruit is the apple.
Takes you back, doesn’t it?
The first garden, the first parents,
The tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
Washington seemed like a paradise (with salmon)
To the native peoples and early explorers.
Their followers, though, had apples on their minds.
They built dams that blocked salmon,
Especially the Columbia’s royal summer Chinook,
From their spawning grounds.
But dams enabled irrigated agriculture,
Which in turn enabled apples to grow,
Especially the Delicious apple,
That, unfortunately, is not all that delicious.
But still, it’s the state fruit.
When the angels come at the end of the age
and examine God’s fishnet, we will all be in it.
And we will wonder:
“Will we see again those beautiful summer
salmon of our memories, or are they ghost
fish for eternity?”
“What is knowledge and what is wisdom?”
“Should we have eaten all those apples?”
After fishing was done for the day,
I’d crawl into my bunk in the forepeak,
Exhausted, ready for sleep.
The pillow was layered on my folded clothes,
Our towels stuffed between the ribs along the planking,
since storage was non-existent.
My sleeping bag was waiting to embrace me.
And sleep was waiting too,
In the coffin-sized space.
Would a coffin feel this way?
Embracing, welcoming,
Pillows, and towels at my back,
Cuddled in a sleeping bag,
Glad of the darkness,
The slap and gurgle of waves
Next to my head.
And you in the other bunk,
So close we can hold hands across the space between the bunks,
As we lie at anchor
And drift away to sleep.
_______________________
From my night window
The egg-shaped moon wobbles
Behind the dinosaur tree.
Pulling salmon in their tidal migrations
Back and forth, in cycles of cycles.
From my night window I see
Salmon stars, in their eternal migration
Through the galaxy.
And wonder,
What do salmon do in the dark?
Do they procreate, and die like
Ancient stars,
Leaving a black hole that pulls us
Into that memory?
Are we stardust?
Or salmon slime?
_______________________
Distant Water Fishery
A capture fishery operating on the high seas.
“Distant water fishery,” a phrase
Usually used to describe
A capture fishery conducted away from home port,
Or far off-shore, away from land.
But who or what is captured?
Those who live and work on the floating islands
Known as boats are at sea for long periods,
Away from families, from land,
Held captive by wind, tide and storm,
Lives captured,
Captivated,
by fish.
_______________________
Fishing/Marriage
I learned to fish when I became a bride.
Not from desire, but because we needed crew.
A slippery union, when salmon and love collide.
The first night out, I felt the bowpicker glide
Through choppy waves. This waterscape was new!
I learned to fish when I became a bride.
I worried over every knot I tied.
I learned new skills by imitating you.
A slippery union when salmon and love collide.
We visited haunts where fishermen had died.
I steered the boat, read charts and radar too.
I learned to fish when I became a bride.
Now boats have come and gone. We no longer ride
The “Floozie,” “Dorleen,” “Blue Mist,” or the “Pen 2.”
A slippery union when salmon and love collide.
But still we fish together, side by side.
Older, closer through the years we grew.
I learned to fish when I became a bride:
A slippery union when salmon and love collide.
_______________________
Delicious Irony
Washington’s state fruit is the apple.
Takes you back, doesn’t it?
The first garden, the first parents,
The tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
Washington seemed like a paradise (with salmon)
To the native peoples and early explorers.
Their followers, though, had apples on their minds.
They built dams that blocked salmon,
Especially the Columbia’s royal summer Chinook,
From their spawning grounds.
But dams enabled irrigated agriculture,
Which in turn enabled apples to grow,
Especially the Delicious apple,
That, unfortunately, is not all that delicious.
But still, it’s the state fruit.
When the angels come at the end of the age
and examine God’s fishnet, we will all be in it.
And we will wonder:
“Will we see again those beautiful summer
salmon of our memories, or are they ghost
fish for eternity?”
“What is knowledge and what is wisdom?”
“Should we have eaten all those apples?”
