I’m a lower state kid and the seine season begins in Ballard with boat work and net work. In mid-June the Ballard seine fleet loads the net and stores for the cruise north on the inside Passage to Icy Straits in Southeastern Alaska. Hopes are high for the “big season”and a broom on the mast signalling a catch of over one hundred thousand salmon.
The following is a photographic and poetic journey through a summer fishing season in the early nineteen-sixties.
Tim Olson
Wrangel Narrows
JUNE/JULY
Fair current through Wrangell Narrows
Whales mating in Frederick Sound
Tie up in Warm Springs Bay
Soak in the hot spring’s tubs
Hike to the cold, cold lake
Opening day in Icy Straits,
Six AM Walt calls from the bridge
“Let ’er go.”
Rings clank over the stern
Morning biting wind sweeps off Glacier Bay
Fog rolls in over Chicagof Island
I shiver in the skiff
Watch for salmon jumping.
FREDERICK SOUND
WARM SPRINGS BAY
ICY STRAITS
SUMNER STRAITS
JULY/AUGUST - NOYES ISLAND
HAYSTACK SET
Skiff’s bow drops off the St. John’s stern into the trough.
I throw the gear into reverse, pull out the diesel’s throttle,
jump around the engine box, yank in the painter.
Back at the wheel, I spin it to the right,
dipping the starboard rail in the oncoming swell.
The net, corks bobbing, rings clanging,
slides off the St. John’s seine table.
Diesel roars.
Skiff surges on the breakers,
curling over toward the stack,
boiling up like a geyser on the rock.
St. John crests a swell.
Walt waves his arm in a circle,
points toward the stack, waves faster.
I pull out the throttle.
Net’s taut towline vibrates behind me,
skiff’s stern sinks lower,
bow lifts on the incoming swell beneath me,
sliding down the backside.
I inch closer to the rock,
breaking surf crashes beside the skiff.
I scan the swells between me and the St. John,
searching for salmon jumpers.
Skipper’s arm again waves in a rapid circle,
I check the gauge,
rpm’s already at the max.
A swell breaks beneath me,
skiff thuds into the trough,
bow points to the bottom,
stern to the sky.
Towline, tense, taut to the breaking point,
holds me off the rock.
St. John appears, disappears,
circles towards the skiff.
Walt, both arms straight up, motions me home.
Skiff turns broadside to the swell,
lee rail dips beneath the wave’s white crest,
haystack disappears behind the swell,
hull looms over me.
Walt leans over the bridge,
“How many jumpers did you see?”
EVENING BEHIND CAPE ULITKA
IN THE FOCSLE
Peaceful southeastern night,
anchor on the bottom with plenty of scope, fish on the tender,
hold scrubbed-even the shaft alley,
oilskins drying out.
Back aches from bending over, pitching fish, feet sweaty, hands clammy,
scaly, wrists still stinging from jellies.
I feel good.
The focsle, a womb for five.
Drop down the ladder into blackness, crew already in their bunks.
I shed woolen layers,
each finding a hook
near the engine,
soaking up the diesel’s heat.
Chief passes the bottle for a slug of whiskey. My bunk, lower forward on the starboard side, sucks me in, surrounds me with stinky warmth. I stretch until my back cracks straight, curl into fetal position,
give myself to the night’s sounds,
bay’s ripples gently lapping the hull,
anchor cable rubs on its roller,
shipmates sigh, snore.
Whiskey buzzes me, I drift off.
Only two hours until Lenas orders from the galley, “Off your ass and on your feet,
Don’t work, don’t eat.”
To view SALMON SUMMERS VIII – click here
