SCOTT McALLISTER traded in his reels and rods for a power block and boom when he went to Alaska on a lark right out of high school and has been seining ever since. A native Oregonian, he and his wife Jill, moved to Alaska in 1980 and still call Juneau home. After raising two children, they migrated south in 2007 to get involved in the California wet fisheries.
Over the course of the past 45 years, Scott has seined salmon and herring, and long-lined and crabbed in Alaska with his boat Owyhee. Seining is his passion and writing the poetry and stories of his years on the water has recently become more important realizing, that when it's all over, only the stories are left. Enjoy.
Over the course of the past 45 years, Scott has seined salmon and herring, and long-lined and crabbed in Alaska with his boat Owyhee. Seining is his passion and writing the poetry and stories of his years on the water has recently become more important realizing, that when it's all over, only the stories are left. Enjoy.
WRITINGS
Knots & Knives
Knots … there are many, knowing them is a must,
To become a real Fisherman, someone to trust.
On deck where it happens, lines hold things together,
When hauling the gear, and in fowl weather.
Love knot, square knot, hitches and bends,
Slip knot, surgeon’s knot, bowlines and bitter ends.
Some must break and others must flip,
Some must hold and others must slip.
Deckhands must whip a bowline or a hitch,
So the stack stays put when you run in the ditch.
However a knot tied right but in the wrong place,
Is really no good, even when tied by an Ace.
So tie that knot fast and tie it right,
So the load don’t fly, away in the knight
And if you don’t know the knot,
Tie a whole lot,
And hope that it holds,
So nobody knows.
So all you greenhorns go grab, a scrap piece of twine,
And practice good knots, in your spare time.
Then working on deck, tie them with pride,
In the right place, and use good line.
Now, under their strain some knots pull too tight,
So that once you’re done, they must be cut with a knife.
Don’t get your self into this very common pickle,
Unless your knife is sharp, about this I am fickle.
So many crewmen have come onto my boat,
With a knife so dull, it won’t cut the cheese from a goat.
And when that happens, get the hatchet and chop her,
That hitch rolled wrong, or a knot tied improper.
So come-on guys, learn to throw that hitch right,
And use a good steel, to sharpen your knife.
Then keep that knife handy for when things go wrong.
Every knot must be cut … if it can’t be undone.
________________
Every Ship is Sinking
It’s a constant vigil, this staying afloat,
You never know what force is at work on your boat.
Every ship is sinking there are just degrees of how fast,
Water’s always comin’ in, how long will you last?
When seas rise up and your dippin’ the dew,
There are necessary preparations, go tell your crew.
Close all the doors and batten the hatches,
Dog her down tight, and secure all the latches.
Preventative maintenance is important for sure,
All pumps maintained and fittings secure.
At sea your bilge must be pumped dry and clean,
Free of crud and corrosion, slime and loose string.
If you don’t, this tale may be about you.
Sinking’s inevitable what ‘s a poor boy to do.
Old wood boats now they are the worst,
If left to the gremlins their seams they will burst.
Steel is tough and with good paint it is fine,
But if let go to rust, it’s hard on the chine.
Fiberglass is great, but bearing drips are a nuisance,
Water seeping in, is always a constant.
The message is simple, every bilge is filling,
A good pump essential, or the results are quite chilling.
Oh yes, there are so many ways your ship it may sink,
But there is one about which most people don’t think.
Over the years we’ve learned how dissimilar metals react,
In solution an elixir where opposites attract.
Electrolysis it’s called, electricity is formed,
It eats at your plumbing, in which seawater is born.
Electrolysis makes metals, give up and shine,
What I am talking about, the enemy is time.
Weather your boat be of wood, metal or glass,
Electrolysis is working to eat up its mass.
Then, one day when you’re out just chugging along,
An alarm go’s off and you wonder what’s wrong.
Your hull or a fitting is now gushing a leak,
Hope it’s not too bad, this job’s not for the meek.
With all pumps running and bilges still rising,
Run her up on the beach, it’s better than sinking.
_____________
I know a guy, a pump he did use,
DC electric, wired in with a fuse.
It kept his boat empty for years in harbor,
And while fishing at sea, it was free of saltwater.
Year in and year out that old pump did it’s job,
Darrell’s bilge was empty as he charged through the fog.
He slept sound at night as that pump spun away,
But mischief was about come one fateful day.
Thirty miles out and two hundred from home,
The Marry Anne started sinking no body knew where form.
Darrell searched the laz, shaft-alley and plumbing,
No trace of a leak, his bilge was still filling.
The pump kept running but the bilge was still rising,
They bailed her with buckets and the water kept coming.
Then over the radio Darrell did say,
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,”
In a most disturbing way,
“My boat it is sinking,
I’ve checked it all out, it just keeps on filling”
He said in a shout!
“I have not a clue, I don’t think I can win,
I’m running for the beach,
The water keeps coming in.”
Now from thirty miles out, that’s a long lonely trip,
On a boat that is sinking, the ride is a bitch.
Bailing with buckets on through the waves they flew,
Craig’s a long way and flat beaches are few.
From the cod grounds all boats listened that day,
As the Coast Guard flew a chopper out Darrel’s way.
Suspenseful hours by radios we stood,
Darrel’s goal, Port San Anton, with a beach that is good.
Those magnificent flyboys did drop from their chopper,
On Darrel’s deck a pump to dewater.
It wouldn’t run so they dropped another,
His crew pulled on its’ cord, it didn’t run either.
“Oh my god” Darrel said with a gasp,
“Read the directions you fools and turn on the gas;
How about that,
Now I think we can last”
On through that day the drama did play,
Would Marry Ann make it?
Or would Dave Jones steal her way.
After a while, all went silent … on the radio no talk to be heard.
The fleet stood by waiting … hoping … for Darrel’s good word.
I stood by the radio, while hauling my gear.
Hoping to hear, Darrel’s bilges were clear.
But the radio was silent, no one knew what had happened,
Had Marry Ann sank?
Not a word from her captain.
Working and listening for word through that night,
The suspense was overwhelming, till early morning’s light.
Then!
“We have beached the boat!!” Darrel’s words finally came,
“When the tide goes out the water will drain,
The pumps weren’t enough, Craig Harbor to far,
No drinks tonight for the boys at the Bar.”
With a sigh of relief, I now knew,
Darrell was safe, along with his crew.
Now I’ve heard many stories through out all my years,
Of survival and disaster, all your worst fears.
Tortured dreams … mares in the night,
Mountainous seas and vigils of fright.
But Darrel got lucky that day on the water.
He made the bay, he saved the day,
How cool is that, Darrel’s the master.
But, the cause of the flooding?
The mystery remained,
No leaks had they found,
That made for this story, of driving Marry aground.
As the tide went out she drained all her water,
Out through a hole the size of a dollar.
On further inspection Darrell did find,
The spot of the flooding … now keep this in mind.
Remember that pump, “DC electric wired in with a fuse?”
Darrell found that hole in the bottom of his boat,
In the exact same spot where that pump had been used.
After years of that pump spinning round in the bilge,
Through Marry Ann’s steel plate, electrolysis had drilled.
A hole to the sea, which caused the leaking,
That flooded Marry Ann almost to sinking.
_____________
So for all you mariners,
While out on your boats sailing,
The moral to this story is quite simple in meaning.
Don’t sleep to tight, through out all the night,
Though your boat is afloat, it always is sinking.
________________
Season’s End
F/V Owyhee,
Juneau, Aurora Harbor
0500 hrs, 8/27/14
______
And now it’s all over
I can rest again
The vigil is done
And the fish are all in
The creeks are full
The freezers are still
The stack stands bright
And ready to sell
I have done my job
And
Done it well
My crew is safe
And
Their pockets are full
As I tie her up and shut her down
All is quiet
Ah yes, the sound of silence once again
I’ll cut my hair and trim my beard
On the floor lay the strength of all of my growth
It is now fall
And fall I now do
To rest in sleep
In sleep so sweet
________________
Neon Dogs
On some years in SE Alaska, the seine season extends into September for chum salmon, or ‘dogs’ as they are locally known. Though technically fall doesn’t start until October, these fisheries are referred to as fall fisheries and occur in places where the last dogs of the year congregate to spawn.
This story takes place sometime early in September about 1980, I was the young captain of a cannery owned seine boat from Ketchikan named the Halo Wawa. The fall dog season was just getting underway and it was late in the day as my crew and I headed across Icy Strait to Excursion Inlet where a dog fishery was to open the following day.
Excursion Inlet is famous for its run of fall dogs. At the head of the inlet is the Excursion River, which drains the southeast corner of Glacier Bay National Park. The entire watershed is within park boundaries and the surrounding wilderness still has its way with the river and it’s tributaries. With its headwaters in the heart of the Chilkat Mountains, the Excursion River meanders south down a long broad valley surrounded by temperate rain forests and 3500-foot mountain peeks. Percolating up through its riverbed the Excursion is fed by artesian springs that keep the water pure and winter temperatures constant; this increases chances of egg survival and makes the Excursion River one of Alaska’s most prolific dog salmon streams.
As the crew and I motored into Excursion Inlet perched on the conning bench of Halo Wawa’s open flybridge, we were greeted by a starlit and moonless night. The first nip of fall chilled the air and a contrail of phosphorescent planktons, agitated to their luminous states trailed off our stern into the darkness. The brilliant night and intense aquatic light show stimulated our conversations as we contemplated the possibilities of the next day’s fishery.
The previous three-months grind through the long summer season had fried the crew and I must admit that so was I, but with every new fishing day comes the promise of better fishing. Optimism is the fisherman’s eternal filter and no matter how good or bad the fishing there is always the next set, the next tide, the next day, the next week or year; fishermen always hope eternal, that fishing will get better…
The next day’s fishing however turned out to be dull and fruitless. Waiting turns at strategic points for key sets and going through the motions of setting and hauling the seine was almost pointless. As each set flopped aboard with few or no fish, the crew’s spirits were deteriorating, and tensions thickened between the deck and the bridge. Unwilling though to join the crew’s pessimisms, I remained head strong and single minded about our mission; we were still fishing and that was that.
But as the day wore on things got worse, during that afternoon’s ebb tide, a large school of dog salmon had migrated form the head, back out the inlet and stopped about a mile inside closed waters. There they jumped in mass showing off the strength of their run and taunting the hungry fleet until heading back up the inlet with the next flood tide. Then adding to the bummer, sometime later that afternoon, fisheries managers came on the radio announcing that the fishing season would be extended. The managing biologists knew that there were enough fish up the river to sustain future runs and they had intended for the fleet to catch more fish, so they extended the fishing season for another 24 hours but left the fishing boundaries the same.
This announcement was met with a somber silence from the crew, and even I must admit not looking forward to another day of blind grind for nothing.
That evening, we unloaded our scanty catch to a tender that was tied to the local cannery’s dock and it was dark by he time we motored away looking for a spot to drop anchor for the night; but there was none. I, having little experience in these waters, spent a bit of time pouring over the local chart and it soon became apparent that the depth of the inlet and steepness of the surrounding shorelines offered few good anchorages and the few anchorages that were had already been inhabited by other boats.
The night was black, no moon and a high overcast as I motored along steering from the flybridge tired, sleepless and wondering what to do next. As Halo Wawa made way through glassy calm, the crests of her wakes were lit with the twinkle of agitated planktons tumbling in their curls and the wash from her prop trailed off neon into the night. Never had I scene it so brilliant and I found myself conflicted; on one hand I was stimulated by this amazing show of nature’s cold light, and on the other I was tired, frustrated and craving sleep.
Without a safe anchorage to settle on, I stared off into the darkness wondering what to do next. Then like a launched torpedo, I saw a dog-salmon dart away from the boat. I drove on and saw another and it hit me. “As fiery as the water was, what would it be like to drive onto the shoal of fish we had watched jumping up the inlet earlier that day? Besides, farther up the bay it shallows and there may be good anchorage there for the night.”
So we went.
After about a 40 minuet run up the inlet I started to see the phosphorescent splash of jumpers. Slipping Halo Wawa out of gear, she drifted forward onto the shoal of salmon and the water lit up in a luminous flair that spread before us for acres.
At this startling show of fish, it didn’t take long for my killer instinct to kick in. “Hmmmmm … maybe I can monitor these fish as the night’s ebb motivates them to migrate out the inlet towards open waters.” Salmon fishermen know this phenomenon as back-out, and just maybe, this night they would back-out the inlet far enough into legal waters, so we could catch them.
Taking a few moments to consider my situation: “there was no wind and there were no mid channel hazards to navigation.” I formulated a plan to head back out the inlet and stop mid channel between where the shoal of fish had been, and the open waters boundary, I would then set the watch alarm for one hour intervals, rack out and rise when the alarm went off to check our position and look for back-outs; so that’s what I did. Heading out the bay until I reached a position I thought was right, I stopped the boat, went below, shut down the Detroit … and all went quiet.
Ah-yes … there is nothing like this moment in the cycle of a fishing day. When the engine stops, silence suddenly replaces the hyperactive development of horsepower and soon the gentle lapping of seawater on the hull and the call of sea birds makes way into your conscious. As I lay back in my bunk with an open port, my senses dulled and sleep came on like a drug.
An hour later I was awaken by the watch alarm and did my diligence. Getting up, I went topside, looked around for signs of fish in the phosphors and there were none, Halo Wawa had maintained her position mid channel so again I went below, crawled back in my rack and fell fast asleep. An hour later I repeated the program … still nothing. By the third time I was tired and discouraged. REM sleep had eluded me and when I awoke my instinct was to throw the alarm overboard and indulge myself in the sleep my body so desired. But instead, totally zombied out, I left the warmth of my bunk, step out into the cold, climb the ladder onto the flybridge and … “is that a fish? Oh, maybe another … this might be it!”
Without the disturbance of the boat’s motion, the fish were docile, just the subtle silhouettes of single fish like dim lights running on a dead battery. I went below, fired up the Detroit, climbed back topside and when I slipped Halo Wawa into gear, oh my god! We were surrounded. The ripple of fish moving away from the boat lit up the knight and my heart jumped.
“How would this play out? Would they keep swimming out the inlet towards open waters?”
Looking out the inlet towards the boundary, I saw two lonely white mast lights, those of boats who’s captains had been blind-setting there through the night in anticipation of a back-out event. They were fishing dark, for if they turned on deck lights or even shown a galley light through a port, salmon would be attracted and possibly escape their nets under the boats as they pursed.
Now the question was; “If I go to the line and wait my turn, would my timing be right, or would one of the dark fishers get the lucky set before it was my turn?”
The answer to such questions are never know until events are over, so one must make these decisions based on the facts at hand. All I could do legally and ethically, without pissing off the dark fishers was join them, so I did.
Waiting my turn over the next forty minutes was full of angst and anticipation. For one thing, I had to get my slumbering crew out of their bunks and ready to fish in spite of their grumbling and under breath comments about how ridiculous this was and me being a slave driver; crew relations were hitting an all time low. Then I had to consider the unwritten etiquette about fishing with other boats in these waters. Depending on the crowd and circumstance, twenty to thirty minutes is generally the rule before the next boat’s turn. To set my net any sooner would be a violation of etiquette and expose me to some form of reprise of which I am not usually willing to risk. The fish had not yet backed out that far but when or even if they would was always in question, so for a very long forty minutes we waited.
The first boat finished its turn and the second one set, still there was no sign of the fish. Tick, tick, tick … the minutes passed slowly. A watched clock never chimes, and the next twenty were very long minutes, “Keep it cool” I kept telling myself. It was like sitting at a high stakes poker table, holding two aces and knowing that a third was about to be dealt; but to whom?
At precisely 20 minutes after the second boat set its net, I slipped Halo Wawa into gear, pointed her on a course perpendicular to the shoreline and gave the order to let go. I heard the bear-trap (skiff release) clank and fall to the deck, the skiff pulled away and its red light narrowed off into the darkness.
On her open flybridge, Halo Wawa had no radar or other instruments of navigation and as I steered forward into a dark formless abyss, a moment of vertigo tipped me. If not for the deck beneath my feet and my intimate familiarity with the surroundings of my con, I would have been rudderless.
Motoring forward, the net peeled off the stern. Using a flash light to see, the crew shouted out the first quarter; then I saw the fire of a fish in the water, then another, and then more … was it happening?
As the end of the net flopped over the stern, all my speculation, planning and gamble came down to what would happen over the next twenty minutes. Only a distant red dot at the far end of the net and the occasional fiery splash of a jumper served reference to our endeavor, I imagined the ebb current bending the seine into the shape of a horseshoe that deepened with time and the possible gathering of salmon inside. But then, after a while from out of the darkness, a fourth boat came, ran directly to the shoreline in front of us, and not so polite about etiquette, set it’s net in front of ours. We had been corked.
Having no other options I ordered the skiff man to “close up.” When the skiff came along side, the skiff man heaved a line to the crew at the rail, I slipped Halo Wawa out of gear, climbed off the flybridge onto the work deck and made my hookups while the crew worked the end of the net into the power-block that hauls it. Then, to keep fish from escaping under the boat, I grabbed a cupped plunger pole and standing mid ship drove it hard into the sea; the plunge of phosphorous sent dozens of dogs streaking back toward the middle of our closed seine. The fish were already trying to swim back the way from which they had come.
By then, the crew had the net rolling out of the water, up through the power-block and down onto the stern while neon streams of phosphors wrung from the web and rained down upon the deck like sparklers on the 4th of July. Everything soaked with seawater was now on fire and anything that moved glowed even brighter. Each of my crew was a silhouette of neon against the black of night as they worked under the constant drizzle from the net above and the purse line glowed as it wound around the capstan, into my hands and onto the sparkling pile at my feet.
Then, up came a bunch of gnarly male dog salmon tangled in the net by their K9 teeth. In spawning regalia, dog salmon grow sharp K9s that hook the web when they contact the net. Each fish came up struggling in a glowing cocoon of phosphorescent light, riding up and over the power-block then falling to the deck with a brilliant splash and a thud. Rowdy, twenty-pound dogs falling from the sky with sharp teeth and thrashing tails was an unexpected hazard, so we picked up the pace to limit the number of fish that would tangle.
Hauling on like a circus in the night, everything relevant to our endeavor was lit by millions of teeny, cold, glittering sea creatures and as the bottom of the net drew together with the gathering purse, a deep, dim glow shone over the starboard side. Slowly it brightened as the purse drew to the surface and when I stopped the capstan, so bright was the glow from the purse at the rail, I could see the faces of my crew as they worked setting the hook into the gathering of rings along side.
“Wow!” Exhaling a deep breath, I took a moment to soak it in. Feeling like I was on a sublime mission, lost in the darkness of space … we had them now.
Then, with the flick of a switch, I was snapped back into the real world. One of my crew had switched on the deck lights and high-intensity quartz now lit the night; our intimate relationship with millions of tiny luminous sea-creatures had been dispelled.
As my eyes adjusted and our new reality pulled into focus, I heard a low steady “Holeeeeeeey-shit;” then shouts of “Ya” and “Right On” from the crew. The sight of thousands of dog salmon swimming within the circle of corks that defined the perimeter of our pursed seine was a display that would thrill any fishermen. A celebration followed as the crew, myself included, danced about high fiving and reveling in the moment. Then with expletives and a roll of the power block, I coaxed the crew back to work.
Commercial fishing is not for the faint of heart, the quick to quit, or the unimaginative. That’s how it is in this business; you snooze you loose, and as light of the new day dawned on the well-rested fleet, Halo Wawa, tired and full of dogs made way back to the cannery dock for delivery.
Knots … there are many, knowing them is a must,
To become a real Fisherman, someone to trust.
On deck where it happens, lines hold things together,
When hauling the gear, and in fowl weather.
Love knot, square knot, hitches and bends,
Slip knot, surgeon’s knot, bowlines and bitter ends.
Some must break and others must flip,
Some must hold and others must slip.
Deckhands must whip a bowline or a hitch,
So the stack stays put when you run in the ditch.
However a knot tied right but in the wrong place,
Is really no good, even when tied by an Ace.
So tie that knot fast and tie it right,
So the load don’t fly, away in the knight
And if you don’t know the knot,
Tie a whole lot,
And hope that it holds,
So nobody knows.
So all you greenhorns go grab, a scrap piece of twine,
And practice good knots, in your spare time.
Then working on deck, tie them with pride,
In the right place, and use good line.
Now, under their strain some knots pull too tight,
So that once you’re done, they must be cut with a knife.
Don’t get your self into this very common pickle,
Unless your knife is sharp, about this I am fickle.
So many crewmen have come onto my boat,
With a knife so dull, it won’t cut the cheese from a goat.
And when that happens, get the hatchet and chop her,
That hitch rolled wrong, or a knot tied improper.
So come-on guys, learn to throw that hitch right,
And use a good steel, to sharpen your knife.
Then keep that knife handy for when things go wrong.
Every knot must be cut … if it can’t be undone.
________________
Every Ship is Sinking
It’s a constant vigil, this staying afloat,
You never know what force is at work on your boat.
Every ship is sinking there are just degrees of how fast,
Water’s always comin’ in, how long will you last?
When seas rise up and your dippin’ the dew,
There are necessary preparations, go tell your crew.
Close all the doors and batten the hatches,
Dog her down tight, and secure all the latches.
Preventative maintenance is important for sure,
All pumps maintained and fittings secure.
At sea your bilge must be pumped dry and clean,
Free of crud and corrosion, slime and loose string.
If you don’t, this tale may be about you.
Sinking’s inevitable what ‘s a poor boy to do.
Old wood boats now they are the worst,
If left to the gremlins their seams they will burst.
Steel is tough and with good paint it is fine,
But if let go to rust, it’s hard on the chine.
Fiberglass is great, but bearing drips are a nuisance,
Water seeping in, is always a constant.
The message is simple, every bilge is filling,
A good pump essential, or the results are quite chilling.
Oh yes, there are so many ways your ship it may sink,
But there is one about which most people don’t think.
Over the years we’ve learned how dissimilar metals react,
In solution an elixir where opposites attract.
Electrolysis it’s called, electricity is formed,
It eats at your plumbing, in which seawater is born.
Electrolysis makes metals, give up and shine,
What I am talking about, the enemy is time.
Weather your boat be of wood, metal or glass,
Electrolysis is working to eat up its mass.
Then, one day when you’re out just chugging along,
An alarm go’s off and you wonder what’s wrong.
Your hull or a fitting is now gushing a leak,
Hope it’s not too bad, this job’s not for the meek.
With all pumps running and bilges still rising,
Run her up on the beach, it’s better than sinking.
_____________
I know a guy, a pump he did use,
DC electric, wired in with a fuse.
It kept his boat empty for years in harbor,
And while fishing at sea, it was free of saltwater.
Year in and year out that old pump did it’s job,
Darrell’s bilge was empty as he charged through the fog.
He slept sound at night as that pump spun away,
But mischief was about come one fateful day.
Thirty miles out and two hundred from home,
The Marry Anne started sinking no body knew where form.
Darrell searched the laz, shaft-alley and plumbing,
No trace of a leak, his bilge was still filling.
The pump kept running but the bilge was still rising,
They bailed her with buckets and the water kept coming.
Then over the radio Darrell did say,
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,”
In a most disturbing way,
“My boat it is sinking,
I’ve checked it all out, it just keeps on filling”
He said in a shout!
“I have not a clue, I don’t think I can win,
I’m running for the beach,
The water keeps coming in.”
Now from thirty miles out, that’s a long lonely trip,
On a boat that is sinking, the ride is a bitch.
Bailing with buckets on through the waves they flew,
Craig’s a long way and flat beaches are few.
From the cod grounds all boats listened that day,
As the Coast Guard flew a chopper out Darrel’s way.
Suspenseful hours by radios we stood,
Darrel’s goal, Port San Anton, with a beach that is good.
Those magnificent flyboys did drop from their chopper,
On Darrel’s deck a pump to dewater.
It wouldn’t run so they dropped another,
His crew pulled on its’ cord, it didn’t run either.
“Oh my god” Darrel said with a gasp,
“Read the directions you fools and turn on the gas;
How about that,
Now I think we can last”
On through that day the drama did play,
Would Marry Ann make it?
Or would Dave Jones steal her way.
After a while, all went silent … on the radio no talk to be heard.
The fleet stood by waiting … hoping … for Darrel’s good word.
I stood by the radio, while hauling my gear.
Hoping to hear, Darrel’s bilges were clear.
But the radio was silent, no one knew what had happened,
Had Marry Ann sank?
Not a word from her captain.
Working and listening for word through that night,
The suspense was overwhelming, till early morning’s light.
Then!
“We have beached the boat!!” Darrel’s words finally came,
“When the tide goes out the water will drain,
The pumps weren’t enough, Craig Harbor to far,
No drinks tonight for the boys at the Bar.”
With a sigh of relief, I now knew,
Darrell was safe, along with his crew.
Now I’ve heard many stories through out all my years,
Of survival and disaster, all your worst fears.
Tortured dreams … mares in the night,
Mountainous seas and vigils of fright.
But Darrel got lucky that day on the water.
He made the bay, he saved the day,
How cool is that, Darrel’s the master.
But, the cause of the flooding?
The mystery remained,
No leaks had they found,
That made for this story, of driving Marry aground.
As the tide went out she drained all her water,
Out through a hole the size of a dollar.
On further inspection Darrell did find,
The spot of the flooding … now keep this in mind.
Remember that pump, “DC electric wired in with a fuse?”
Darrell found that hole in the bottom of his boat,
In the exact same spot where that pump had been used.
After years of that pump spinning round in the bilge,
Through Marry Ann’s steel plate, electrolysis had drilled.
A hole to the sea, which caused the leaking,
That flooded Marry Ann almost to sinking.
_____________
So for all you mariners,
While out on your boats sailing,
The moral to this story is quite simple in meaning.
Don’t sleep to tight, through out all the night,
Though your boat is afloat, it always is sinking.
________________
Season’s End
F/V Owyhee,
Juneau, Aurora Harbor
0500 hrs, 8/27/14
______
And now it’s all over
I can rest again
The vigil is done
And the fish are all in
The creeks are full
The freezers are still
The stack stands bright
And ready to sell
I have done my job
And
Done it well
My crew is safe
And
Their pockets are full
As I tie her up and shut her down
All is quiet
Ah yes, the sound of silence once again
I’ll cut my hair and trim my beard
On the floor lay the strength of all of my growth
It is now fall
And fall I now do
To rest in sleep
In sleep so sweet
________________
Neon Dogs
On some years in SE Alaska, the seine season extends into September for chum salmon, or ‘dogs’ as they are locally known. Though technically fall doesn’t start until October, these fisheries are referred to as fall fisheries and occur in places where the last dogs of the year congregate to spawn.
This story takes place sometime early in September about 1980, I was the young captain of a cannery owned seine boat from Ketchikan named the Halo Wawa. The fall dog season was just getting underway and it was late in the day as my crew and I headed across Icy Strait to Excursion Inlet where a dog fishery was to open the following day.
Excursion Inlet is famous for its run of fall dogs. At the head of the inlet is the Excursion River, which drains the southeast corner of Glacier Bay National Park. The entire watershed is within park boundaries and the surrounding wilderness still has its way with the river and it’s tributaries. With its headwaters in the heart of the Chilkat Mountains, the Excursion River meanders south down a long broad valley surrounded by temperate rain forests and 3500-foot mountain peeks. Percolating up through its riverbed the Excursion is fed by artesian springs that keep the water pure and winter temperatures constant; this increases chances of egg survival and makes the Excursion River one of Alaska’s most prolific dog salmon streams.
As the crew and I motored into Excursion Inlet perched on the conning bench of Halo Wawa’s open flybridge, we were greeted by a starlit and moonless night. The first nip of fall chilled the air and a contrail of phosphorescent planktons, agitated to their luminous states trailed off our stern into the darkness. The brilliant night and intense aquatic light show stimulated our conversations as we contemplated the possibilities of the next day’s fishery.
The previous three-months grind through the long summer season had fried the crew and I must admit that so was I, but with every new fishing day comes the promise of better fishing. Optimism is the fisherman’s eternal filter and no matter how good or bad the fishing there is always the next set, the next tide, the next day, the next week or year; fishermen always hope eternal, that fishing will get better…
The next day’s fishing however turned out to be dull and fruitless. Waiting turns at strategic points for key sets and going through the motions of setting and hauling the seine was almost pointless. As each set flopped aboard with few or no fish, the crew’s spirits were deteriorating, and tensions thickened between the deck and the bridge. Unwilling though to join the crew’s pessimisms, I remained head strong and single minded about our mission; we were still fishing and that was that.
But as the day wore on things got worse, during that afternoon’s ebb tide, a large school of dog salmon had migrated form the head, back out the inlet and stopped about a mile inside closed waters. There they jumped in mass showing off the strength of their run and taunting the hungry fleet until heading back up the inlet with the next flood tide. Then adding to the bummer, sometime later that afternoon, fisheries managers came on the radio announcing that the fishing season would be extended. The managing biologists knew that there were enough fish up the river to sustain future runs and they had intended for the fleet to catch more fish, so they extended the fishing season for another 24 hours but left the fishing boundaries the same.
This announcement was met with a somber silence from the crew, and even I must admit not looking forward to another day of blind grind for nothing.
That evening, we unloaded our scanty catch to a tender that was tied to the local cannery’s dock and it was dark by he time we motored away looking for a spot to drop anchor for the night; but there was none. I, having little experience in these waters, spent a bit of time pouring over the local chart and it soon became apparent that the depth of the inlet and steepness of the surrounding shorelines offered few good anchorages and the few anchorages that were had already been inhabited by other boats.
The night was black, no moon and a high overcast as I motored along steering from the flybridge tired, sleepless and wondering what to do next. As Halo Wawa made way through glassy calm, the crests of her wakes were lit with the twinkle of agitated planktons tumbling in their curls and the wash from her prop trailed off neon into the night. Never had I scene it so brilliant and I found myself conflicted; on one hand I was stimulated by this amazing show of nature’s cold light, and on the other I was tired, frustrated and craving sleep.
Without a safe anchorage to settle on, I stared off into the darkness wondering what to do next. Then like a launched torpedo, I saw a dog-salmon dart away from the boat. I drove on and saw another and it hit me. “As fiery as the water was, what would it be like to drive onto the shoal of fish we had watched jumping up the inlet earlier that day? Besides, farther up the bay it shallows and there may be good anchorage there for the night.”
So we went.
After about a 40 minuet run up the inlet I started to see the phosphorescent splash of jumpers. Slipping Halo Wawa out of gear, she drifted forward onto the shoal of salmon and the water lit up in a luminous flair that spread before us for acres.
At this startling show of fish, it didn’t take long for my killer instinct to kick in. “Hmmmmm … maybe I can monitor these fish as the night’s ebb motivates them to migrate out the inlet towards open waters.” Salmon fishermen know this phenomenon as back-out, and just maybe, this night they would back-out the inlet far enough into legal waters, so we could catch them.
Taking a few moments to consider my situation: “there was no wind and there were no mid channel hazards to navigation.” I formulated a plan to head back out the inlet and stop mid channel between where the shoal of fish had been, and the open waters boundary, I would then set the watch alarm for one hour intervals, rack out and rise when the alarm went off to check our position and look for back-outs; so that’s what I did. Heading out the bay until I reached a position I thought was right, I stopped the boat, went below, shut down the Detroit … and all went quiet.
Ah-yes … there is nothing like this moment in the cycle of a fishing day. When the engine stops, silence suddenly replaces the hyperactive development of horsepower and soon the gentle lapping of seawater on the hull and the call of sea birds makes way into your conscious. As I lay back in my bunk with an open port, my senses dulled and sleep came on like a drug.
An hour later I was awaken by the watch alarm and did my diligence. Getting up, I went topside, looked around for signs of fish in the phosphors and there were none, Halo Wawa had maintained her position mid channel so again I went below, crawled back in my rack and fell fast asleep. An hour later I repeated the program … still nothing. By the third time I was tired and discouraged. REM sleep had eluded me and when I awoke my instinct was to throw the alarm overboard and indulge myself in the sleep my body so desired. But instead, totally zombied out, I left the warmth of my bunk, step out into the cold, climb the ladder onto the flybridge and … “is that a fish? Oh, maybe another … this might be it!”
Without the disturbance of the boat’s motion, the fish were docile, just the subtle silhouettes of single fish like dim lights running on a dead battery. I went below, fired up the Detroit, climbed back topside and when I slipped Halo Wawa into gear, oh my god! We were surrounded. The ripple of fish moving away from the boat lit up the knight and my heart jumped.
“How would this play out? Would they keep swimming out the inlet towards open waters?”
Looking out the inlet towards the boundary, I saw two lonely white mast lights, those of boats who’s captains had been blind-setting there through the night in anticipation of a back-out event. They were fishing dark, for if they turned on deck lights or even shown a galley light through a port, salmon would be attracted and possibly escape their nets under the boats as they pursed.
Now the question was; “If I go to the line and wait my turn, would my timing be right, or would one of the dark fishers get the lucky set before it was my turn?”
The answer to such questions are never know until events are over, so one must make these decisions based on the facts at hand. All I could do legally and ethically, without pissing off the dark fishers was join them, so I did.
Waiting my turn over the next forty minutes was full of angst and anticipation. For one thing, I had to get my slumbering crew out of their bunks and ready to fish in spite of their grumbling and under breath comments about how ridiculous this was and me being a slave driver; crew relations were hitting an all time low. Then I had to consider the unwritten etiquette about fishing with other boats in these waters. Depending on the crowd and circumstance, twenty to thirty minutes is generally the rule before the next boat’s turn. To set my net any sooner would be a violation of etiquette and expose me to some form of reprise of which I am not usually willing to risk. The fish had not yet backed out that far but when or even if they would was always in question, so for a very long forty minutes we waited.
The first boat finished its turn and the second one set, still there was no sign of the fish. Tick, tick, tick … the minutes passed slowly. A watched clock never chimes, and the next twenty were very long minutes, “Keep it cool” I kept telling myself. It was like sitting at a high stakes poker table, holding two aces and knowing that a third was about to be dealt; but to whom?
At precisely 20 minutes after the second boat set its net, I slipped Halo Wawa into gear, pointed her on a course perpendicular to the shoreline and gave the order to let go. I heard the bear-trap (skiff release) clank and fall to the deck, the skiff pulled away and its red light narrowed off into the darkness.
On her open flybridge, Halo Wawa had no radar or other instruments of navigation and as I steered forward into a dark formless abyss, a moment of vertigo tipped me. If not for the deck beneath my feet and my intimate familiarity with the surroundings of my con, I would have been rudderless.
Motoring forward, the net peeled off the stern. Using a flash light to see, the crew shouted out the first quarter; then I saw the fire of a fish in the water, then another, and then more … was it happening?
As the end of the net flopped over the stern, all my speculation, planning and gamble came down to what would happen over the next twenty minutes. Only a distant red dot at the far end of the net and the occasional fiery splash of a jumper served reference to our endeavor, I imagined the ebb current bending the seine into the shape of a horseshoe that deepened with time and the possible gathering of salmon inside. But then, after a while from out of the darkness, a fourth boat came, ran directly to the shoreline in front of us, and not so polite about etiquette, set it’s net in front of ours. We had been corked.
Having no other options I ordered the skiff man to “close up.” When the skiff came along side, the skiff man heaved a line to the crew at the rail, I slipped Halo Wawa out of gear, climbed off the flybridge onto the work deck and made my hookups while the crew worked the end of the net into the power-block that hauls it. Then, to keep fish from escaping under the boat, I grabbed a cupped plunger pole and standing mid ship drove it hard into the sea; the plunge of phosphorous sent dozens of dogs streaking back toward the middle of our closed seine. The fish were already trying to swim back the way from which they had come.
By then, the crew had the net rolling out of the water, up through the power-block and down onto the stern while neon streams of phosphors wrung from the web and rained down upon the deck like sparklers on the 4th of July. Everything soaked with seawater was now on fire and anything that moved glowed even brighter. Each of my crew was a silhouette of neon against the black of night as they worked under the constant drizzle from the net above and the purse line glowed as it wound around the capstan, into my hands and onto the sparkling pile at my feet.
Then, up came a bunch of gnarly male dog salmon tangled in the net by their K9 teeth. In spawning regalia, dog salmon grow sharp K9s that hook the web when they contact the net. Each fish came up struggling in a glowing cocoon of phosphorescent light, riding up and over the power-block then falling to the deck with a brilliant splash and a thud. Rowdy, twenty-pound dogs falling from the sky with sharp teeth and thrashing tails was an unexpected hazard, so we picked up the pace to limit the number of fish that would tangle.
Hauling on like a circus in the night, everything relevant to our endeavor was lit by millions of teeny, cold, glittering sea creatures and as the bottom of the net drew together with the gathering purse, a deep, dim glow shone over the starboard side. Slowly it brightened as the purse drew to the surface and when I stopped the capstan, so bright was the glow from the purse at the rail, I could see the faces of my crew as they worked setting the hook into the gathering of rings along side.
“Wow!” Exhaling a deep breath, I took a moment to soak it in. Feeling like I was on a sublime mission, lost in the darkness of space … we had them now.
Then, with the flick of a switch, I was snapped back into the real world. One of my crew had switched on the deck lights and high-intensity quartz now lit the night; our intimate relationship with millions of tiny luminous sea-creatures had been dispelled.
As my eyes adjusted and our new reality pulled into focus, I heard a low steady “Holeeeeeeey-shit;” then shouts of “Ya” and “Right On” from the crew. The sight of thousands of dog salmon swimming within the circle of corks that defined the perimeter of our pursed seine was a display that would thrill any fishermen. A celebration followed as the crew, myself included, danced about high fiving and reveling in the moment. Then with expletives and a roll of the power block, I coaxed the crew back to work.
Commercial fishing is not for the faint of heart, the quick to quit, or the unimaginative. That’s how it is in this business; you snooze you loose, and as light of the new day dawned on the well-rested fleet, Halo Wawa, tired and full of dogs made way back to the cannery dock for delivery.