In 1955 when I first fished with Severin on a troller and watched the Addington salmon trap during August, the corporations owned the salmon traps and and the seiners caught what was left over in the inside waters and fished the ocean where traps wouldn’t last in the swells and storms.
With Alaska statehood in 1959, the traps, were banned and the corporations competed for the most successful seining skippers to fish for them in the effort to keep the canneries profitable. The salmon traps had depleted the fish runs and the seiners competed for the salmon still returning to Southeast Alaska and to rivers further down the West Coast.
The west coast of the Alaska islands bordering the Pacific Ocean not only had pink salmon returning to Southeast Alaska streams but sockeye and chinook salmon migrating to rivers down the west coat of Canada and Washington.
These were exciting times in the fishing industry
ROCKING OFF LITTLE ROLLER BAY
Walt gives my shoulder a quick, hard shake,
“Your turn,Tim.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I stumble into the engine room,
grab damp socks, long johns,
rank from several days in hip boots and oil skins.
I climb the ladder out of the focsle,
step out into steady rain, a black 3:00 AM,
pee over the side, clamber onto the seine pile,
fall into the skiff, check the gas tank,
start the Nordberg engine, warm it up.
I hear the anchor clunk aboard,
jump out of the skiff,
grab a cup of yesterday’s coffee from the stove,
pass Walt headed for the bunk.
I slowly navigate through about forty seiners,
still on the hook, dark, not even a light in the galley.
I join a dozen boats headed out into Snail Bay,
round Cape Ulitka red and green running lights
dipping out of sight and then returning as the boats
quarter into the heavy southwest swells.
Wind picks up off Seagull Bluffs,
white caps peel off the swells,
bow plunges from swell to swell,
frothing water breaks beneath the bow’s flair,
streams down the boat’s sides.
Leanas, up now, banging around the galley,
making fresh coffee, morning mug-up, before the first set.
He steps into the wheel house,
leans down the hatch above the focsle,
“All right boys.”
Says to me as he returns to the galley,
“Cape Addington, asshole of the Pacific.”
Walt, on top of the house, sees a jumper.
We set off Little Roller Bay,
pick the view humpies out of the seine bunt,
drop them to slosh from from one side to the other on the careening deck.
Walt climbs to the bridge points the bow toward shore
surfs the the breakers into Little Roller Bay.
We drift.
Leanas throws pancakes, eggs, bacon on the table,
“This goddamn place.
can’t keep anything on the stove.”
Plops another pancake on Walt’s plate,
“Then I have to do the dishes while we slop around out there.”
Walt grins, “These few fish aren’t worth it.”
Tells Herb to drop the hook.
We hit the sack,
secure, snug, warm.
Noon. Walt sticks his head down the focsle hatch,
“Hey, you guys, get a move on.”
We snuggle deeper into our bags.
“Get the hell up- they’re brailing out there.”
We lurch out of the focsle,
St. John already bucking seas
breaking on top of the swells.
I flop into the skiff as we crash out of the bay.
Walt’s glasses focus on a boat brailing.
Maybe seven or eight of us are scattered along the coast.
Walt’s right arm lifts over his head,”Let’er go.”
Net’s towline slacks and snaps over skiff’s stern,
the skiff takes water over the lee rail.
St. John rises atop a swell,
disappears in the trough,
then comes up, rolling over,
exposes her undersides then
slides away from view again.
Walt raises both arms like we scored a touchdown,
motioning me home.
When the skiff and St. John are on crest of the swell,
I toss the towline to Leanas’s outstretched hand.
From the skiff I watch the net billow from beneath the power block,
spraying red, stinging jellyfish
on the faces of the crew.
We have fish – several brailers!
Walt yells, “Get the skiff hooked up.”
That night we enter Snail Bay, our hold nearly full,
our guards in the water.
Find thirty boats still on the hook, nothing caught for the day.
After we pitch our fish off to the tender,
Walt checks other seiners fish tickets.
Jumps back aboard waving the ticket,
“Four seiners loaded at the Hay Stack this morning.
We need to be there for the morning tide.
Tim, make sure you have plenty of gas in the skiff
before you hit the sack.”
HARBOR DAY
Late August,
an off day,
wind blowing a gale. Impossible to fish,
a port day . . . Steamboat Bay.
Drenching rain splatters docks, I line up for a shower,
line up again for a wringer washing machine, one in three works. Stack other crew members’ clothes on top of each other,
make room for my own on the line.
Wander over to the store,
packed with dripping, steaming, crews and skippers.
I chew on a Snickers,
feel the Spinnaker shirts,
wonder how much I owe the store. Bullshit a friend about the week’s catch.
Want to brag,
but not wanting anyone to know.
Eavesdrop on the huddled skippers,
mostly white guys except for Gill. bullshitting each other about the slack fishing,
the opening,
skiff on fire,
fishing out secrets about sets. “I caught the snag off Seagull Bluff.” “Spent two hours in the cove patching it up.”
“Missed the tide.”
“Set too late on the tide.
Damn near got sucked between the cape and the haystack.”
Talk turns to season closing – winter, “Watcha’ doin’ after you hang it up?” “Drivin’ oil truck.” “Do some dragging on the coast.” “Make some extra bucks sellin’ real estate.”
“Hey, Gill whatcha doin’?” “Goin’ to Hawaii for the winter.” “Why aren’t ya workin? Make some more money.” “Expect me to live like a goddamn white man?”
They drift apart
nets to mend
gas up the skiff
hope the weather lightens up.
PHOTO GALLERY
To read a previous SALMON SUMMERS post – click here
