I’m concluding this series of Salmon Summers posts with memories of characters and experiences from that time in my life when I worked for Nakat out of Waterfall Cannery. A few years before the canneries became ghosts along the beach, or became resorts like Waterfall, I left the fish tenders and hired on as a deckhand on a salmon seiner. Ah, those stories are part of a future series on the NESTER.
FRANK
God damn, Frank, I owe you one, maybe more
you cooked on the power scow Rolfy,
I was a college kid, deckhand,
You upset me with your fucks, god damns,
I asked you, “Why do you swear so much?”
You said, “What the hell is the use of conversation?”
I had no response.
You were the old timer,
cooked on the Rolfy for years.
You kept your teeth in a jar,
wobbled around the galley,
put put three square, mug-up,
did the dishes,
sometimes stoned the stove.
I remember the night
two hundred fifty pound Wild Bill came in drunk,
wanted to punch me out.
You shoved him in the chest,
he passed out.
In the morning he said,
“For two bits, I’d quit this goddamn gurry scow.”
You gave him two bits.
He left that afternoon on the Goose for town.
You grilled steaks to celebrate.
I remember Kaigani Staights in September.
We were pulling the Muzon trap into Rose Inlet
in a forty southeaster storm
that pushed us past Rose Inlet.
Everything came apart in the galley,
plates, silver, midnight meal leftovers,
all over the galley deck.
Bandy legged, belly hanging over your shorts,
glasses on top of your balding head,
you chased those dishes,
sliced your wrist that night
on a broken sugar bowl – deep.
Two weeks later you had the same tape on it
you put on it to stop the bleeding.
You had a wife and kid,
she asked for money,
you made draws,
At the end of the season,
you owed the company money.
You had reason to swear.
BILL
When Bill, Chief Engineer, said “God Dammit”,
he meant, “God dammit.”
Not like Frank spilling cuss words like salmon falling out of a brailer.
Rumor said Bill was an alcoholic.
In three years sharing a stateroom,
I never saw Bill take a drink
nor learn anything about his life.
Bill’s life began when I came aboard in June,
ended when I left in September
One Monday before leaving Seattle,
Bill came aboard looking like thunder
His face a dark, heavy storm cloud
Frank pulled me aside,
“Don’t mess with Bill.”
He kept to himself, his bunk,
Bill, Chief Engineer, his place in the scow’s guts
Tending two yellow six cylinder cats,
immaculate, gleaming under his care.
No one touched Bill’s engines,
Bill set the throttle governors,
“That’s as many rpm’s as you’ll get.”
Above decks, he ruled the winch
like a doctor working with precision instruments.
The greased drum turned at his command.
Bill swore at us
working on the foredeck
for giving him less than precise instructions.
Bill kept his space
in the stateroom we shared
like he kept his engines.
Spartan.
He kept his silence.
When he stuck his head outside the stateroom door,
growled “God dammit, shut up,” we left.
I saw him years later.
“God dammit all to hell, it’s the kid with grey hair.”
I saw him the year in his apartment.
I did a double take at the diplomas on the wall.
“MACHINISTS UNION
THIRTY YEARS OF SERVICE
EXCELLENCE OF SERVICE.”
DOCK BASKETBALL
Back board and hoop bolted to a center post on a shed,
pieces of salmon seine for a net.
Slick, split, rotted planks for the surface
with exposed shiny spike heads dangerous to feet,
death to patched, no longer round,
water soaked basketballs.
Games began causally enough,
a tender guy shooting hoops,
a drifter joins in a game of horse,
a seiner crewman walks by from the laundry,
“Hey, let’s get a game.”
“Hell, you tender men, can’t make it interesting.”
”Get your crew.”
The teams form; tendermen against fishermen,
No referee keeps the game in control,
no technicals, no free throws for shoving, blocking.
”You bastard, get off my feet.”
Hip boots, logging spikes, fishermen’s slippers,
a pair of tennis shoes without strings,
greasy black pants, gurry stained jeans,
bared white chests with reddish forearms and faces.
No clocks stops the game,
a rare time out to pass
the Mac Naughton’s chased with water.
Doomed by darkness, crushed feet, a skipper needing net work,
or a ball too flat to bounce,
“Dammit, that went through can’t you see?”
“Shit, I was underneath the hoop, didn’t come close. Our out.”
“Hey, I can’t see nothing.”
“Last basket wins.”
“Yeah. My ball.”
“We’ll get you next weekend.”
ROUNDING CAPE CHACON
Cape Chacon humps from the southern tip
of Prince of Wales Island into Dixon Entrance.
Looks innocent on a calm placid day.
Rolfy’s making seven knots on the way to Ketchikan
down Cordova Bay around
Pt. Marsh under clear skies
with a freshening southeasterly breeze.
Skipper sets the course for inside Nunez Rocks
visible with breaking seas
a few miles to the south.
Straight course to Chacon
before turning north into Clarence Straits.
The Rolfy slaps the steep seas,
spray splatters the wheelhouse windows,
the blunt bow begins to buck,
cresting white water slams over the front bulkheads.
the boom begins to swing from. port to starboard.
One hand to hold the rail
the other to tighten the guy on the boom,
Frank secures the galley,
We plunge on.
Past Brownson Bay skipper reduces speed.
Rolfy’s flat bottom crashes down
the backside of the seas,
the oncoming sea curls over the bow binboards,
unloading tons of water on the forward deck.
The hull balks, shudders, cracks,
bludgeons through the waves.
For six hours the Rolfy wallows,
rises and falls in confused, vicious seas.
With the coming of evening, Chacon passes to port,
white blinker signaling a safe rounding.
The wind eases, seas die down.
We lumber north in Clarence Straights.
Frank calls us to mug-up,
clam chowder, BLT’s, hot coffee.
To view the previous Salmon Summers post – click here –
