SALMON SUMMERS I – “FIRST DAY WITH SEVERIN”

Almost five foot-six inches and skinny at sixteen years, I shiver in the brisk northwest breeze rippling Cordova Bay’s surface into a light chop. Standing on the back deck of the Rap III, my hands brace me between the hold’s hatch and the Rap’s railing, I shift my weight from one foot to the other. 

Severin looks aft out the wheel house door, “Timmy, valk around the hatch,
you got to learn how to stand up.”
I stumble around the hatch, grabbing shrouds to hold me up.
Nameless landmarks pass to port and starboard, the Rap’s narrow bow slices the water, a rolling wave wake spreads from the stern and disappears in the distance.

The Rap races around Turn Point into whirl pools, the swift, foaming, boiling currents twist, toss, and rock the Rap. Standing at the wheel, Severin turns the wheel a sharp left, then spins the wheel to the right, keeping the boat steady ahead in the swirling currents. “Where are we Severin?” 

“Ya Timmy, vhat you lookin’ for?”

“I have to go to the bathroom. Where’s the toilet?” 

“Vell, Timmy you yust go ofer the side.”

“I don’t mean that, I’ve really got to go.”

“Vell, Timmy, I don’t have a head.”

“What’s that?”

“A toilet, Timmy, a toilet.”

“You mean. . .?”

“Ya Timmy, I been yust fine for tirty years. You yust set on the rail with your rear end ofer the side so you don’t poop on the boat. Can’t you figure dat out?”

I lower my pants, sit on the rail, grab a cable holding up the mast. My butt hangs over the water.  I stare between my legs at the swiftly passing current. “When do we get to harbor?”

“Ya Timmy, ve vill go to Kelly Cove this evening.  Ve still has a few hours to fish” 

We turn a corner into Ulloa Channel.  Several buildings line the shore. “Severin, what are those buildings.” 

“Ja, dat’s Waterfall Cannery.”

“Couldn’t we stop there?” 

“No Timmy, Yust use the railing.  Can’t you do dat?  Ve got to get to Addington to put the poles down and fish.”

We pass Waterfall Cannery, slide through the Cabbage Patch, round Cape Ulitka, wand roll into the Pacific.  Rap’s guards disappear in the southwesterly swells. Gripping a trolling pole, I sit again on the rail, water swelling up beneath my chilled, sea sprayed bottom. I fall on my knees, use the wheel house door, pull myself up. 

“Vhat’s de matter, Timmy, can’t you go? You look pale, you better eat an orange,
valk around the hatch some more.”

I lean on the rail, hang my head over the side, puke. 

“Velcome aboard Timmy. Your brudder Kenny was sick for tirty days. I tell you he was tough. You know how to clean fish?” 

“Yeah, I can clean fish.” I sit again on the railing.  Chilly sea water slaps me on the butt.  I don’t have to go anymore. 

Severin slows the Rap, lowers the trolling poles, slouches to the stern hatch, sets the gear. A trolling pole tip jiggles, a bell jingles. Severin pushes the gurdy’s handle forward.  Round, heavy weights, leaders and herring bait streams aboard. A salmon breaks the surface, Severin gaffs the fighting coho, lands it in the fish box, knocks it on the head.  “Ya, Timmy, here you go.”

I butcher it.

Severin scrutinizes the fish, “Ve can’t sell dat, ve do quality vork here. Timmy didn’t they teach you nussing in school?”  Severin cleans the second coho in the box.  He makes two quick cuts, tosses the gills to swooping gulls, slices through the belly, throws the guts overboard. “That’s how you do it; now you do it.”
I wince at my jacket’s bloody sleeves.

“Hold out your arms.” Slice, slice, slice –off come the sleeves. “Now your sleeves von’t get vet.”
My toothpick arms poke into the cold sea air. Severin’s muscle-heavy forearms,
deep, creased palms, stubby fingers pulls another salmon aboard. 

When dusk finally came, Severin pulls the gear and rounds the cape for Kelly Cove to sell our day’s catch. Tired, wet, and still queasy, I anxiously watch other trollers moving ahead of us. Why are we going slower?  I have to go again. “How fast are we going?”

“About six knots.”

“Won’t she go faster? Everyone is passing us.”

“This is a peaceful speed, what’s the hurry? You young guys always vant to go fast. What you going to do when you get there?” The corners of his thin lips turned up. “Do you know what time it is Timmy?”

“No, I don’t know. Where’s the clock?”

“Can’t you tell by the sun? By how light it is? Vhy do you need a clock? Didn’t you learn nussing in school?”

I looked at the sun sinking on the horizon, went below to check the clock, returned to the deck and saw the sun slowly sinking into the horizon. 

At last we tie up to the buying station and I begin to pitch off the fish onto a weighing scale. “Timmy, don’t throw the cohos up with the kings.” Several of the fish I’d cleaned had cuts in the flesh. “Timmy, don’t sell that one!”

“Won’t they buy it?”

“Ya, they might. But it’s not quality. We’ll salt it for ourselves. You’ve got to do careful vork.”

“Salt it?”

“Ja, ve’ll haf it smoked ven ve get to town.”

After pitching off, we tie up to a nearby float.  Severin makes us a dinner of salmon, boiled potatoes and canned peas.  Gratefully I disappear into my sleeping bag in the lower starboard bunk.

At the break of light, Severin grunts, pulls himself from the port bunk above me, stands on the ledge between the two bunks, and looks out the skylight to check the weather. I roll over and stare straight up at the open flap of Severin’s long johns. I turn back to face the hull and  imagine not getting up. Severin pulls on his wool pants, lights the stove, starts the coffee, fires up the engine, and says to me. “Ya Timmy, Vhy you roll over? Get Up. Ve have vork to do. Good fishing vetter”