Fresh off the boat.

The 2006 Sockeye Salmon run on Bristol Bay was quite the experience. I kept a fairly consistent notebook and will fill-in-the-blanks on this Greenhorn's brief foray into the Last Frontier's famous salmon run.

For now, a brief photo essay.


Roundhauling... e.g. the set has to be hauled in, hand-over-hand, over the stern deck. The bottom line is lead, top is cork, and there are about 2500 lbs of Sockeye and chum (aka Coho Salmon) stuck in this thing on our first afternoon on the water. Searingly burning forearms, hands perma-cramped into c-shaped claws and a few hours later... we made this delivery.


This is what a "set" looks like, view off the stern deck. A hydraulic reel on the back deck releases 150 fathoms of net approximately 10' deep. The top is, as described above, cork (to float the line)... the bottom is lead (to sink it). The mesh size varies depending on type of fish you are trying to catch- for Sockeye (also known as "reds") it was 5 1/8" or 5 1/16" mesh... though the fish were running on the small size this year and we'd have done better to have a 5" or smaller mesh size.

The Aquila; our store/ post office/ gas station/ spare- net- holding tender for the Peter Pan Fleet based out of Dillingham, Alaska.







My deckmate, Max, looking out over a typical Alaskan sunset... though the term "sunset" is a misnomer. The latitude that far north provided a few hours of less-than-daylight darkness, but never enough to see stars.



Nearly every evening was an explosion of color unlike anything I have seen elsewhere on earth.








Dillingham, Alaska Airport (Airport code: DLG). Many exciting destinations await you.

Foc'sle, Sleep & Midnight Interruptions.

Ryan came in at 2:45 a.m. or so from the Sea Inn (the bar) to check on Max and I- both long since asleep in the foc'sle. He was probably a bit inebriated when he blurted out how well the rest of the Gypsy Fleet liked us both.

The night prior another inebriated midnight interruption, though by a Native. It was pouring rain, just a bit before 2 a.m. and I heard the door to the house shut. "Ryan?" I called- while Max snored on in oblivion. I was answered by a grunt- so, thinking him drunk, I asked a question. No response. Stumbling out of my sleeping bag, I noticed an unfamiliar form slumped over the mess. Immediately, I told him to leave and attempted to do so nicely. I called back to Max over my shoulder... "a little help up here." He replied in the affirmative but rolled back over in his rack within a second or two. I eventually 'coaxed' the eskimo off our deck and waited to see that he didn't hurt himself descending our makeshift ladder before going back to sleep.

Eavesdropping @ the Phonebooth.

Overheard in the opposite telephone booth across the harbor parking lot. Fisherman in Grunden's bottoms, weathered sweatshirt and browbeaten but hopeful expression. He kept twitching his leg nervously and pawing at the payphone cord while talking to the youthful murmur I interpreted to be his son. After a bit he paused, let out a sigh and halted his previously tangential conversation to say-

"Yeah, I'm okay. I just miss you is all. You're my best friend."

The thing I've noticed about the fishermen here so far- they begin this work because they love it, they love the independence, the chase, the mastery of your own fate. Sooner or later, they also learn to love another- but return to the unpredictable, dangerous seas to provide; returning to the thing they loved for the sake (to provide for) those who hold their hearts tethered at home.

Fucking Greenhorns.

We had to fill the water tank and needed a garden hose to accomplish the task. When Robbie, Ryan's old mentor, stopped by the port side adjacent ship Ferking to shoot the breeze with Heidi, I yelled down to ask if we could borrow his. He said "sure" and informed me that his container was just past The Leading Edge. So I walked round, up, and into the nearest open-doored container, pulled out the neatly-laid hose and hooked up to Heidi's to fill the tanks. Some while later, Bruce (who, to this point, has done nothing but smiled at me) came over to the Ferking to bitch about someone jacking his stuff. The hose laid between our two vessels in drydock, he began eyeing Heidi suspiciously till dissented and shouted over at me. I was deep in the fish hold, leaning back miner-style against the bulkhead with a flashlight between my legs, monitoring the engine room for any sign of leaks. When I got up to the main deck, Bruce was already aware that we were the ship that had pilfered his hose, though he was over-smiling and very congenial through my whole stuttered, profuse apology. Of course, Steve-O (Heidi's boyfriend) and she told Quinn (captain of the Kolea, the ship to the starboard side of ours in dry dock) who in turn told Ryan before I could... "Hey, guess what your greenhorn did" (mockingly)... "keep your crew in fucking line." Every introduction isn't this memorable- thank God.

Working in Perpetual Sunlight.

Brutal, grinding, and easily accomplished- yesterday's in-house work was deceptively managed by my "southern" (lower 48) unfamiliarity with the sun still hanging overhead at midnight.

The sky released a cold, wet rain off and on for most of the day, giving a grey damp drizzle puddle laden yard pallor to every task, however strenuous or monotonous. The product was a need for constant change and adaptation – raincoat on vs. raincoat off, watch cap (new) on vs. off, etc. It made for uncomfortable working conditions (given most of it was, actually, outside on the deck or below ship), but though I was cold for much of the fifteen-hour work day, I was hardly tired.

Our first project of the day wasn't until 0930 or so, Ryan thought I could use the time to sleep in (very considerate for a guy who's known me for all of 12 hours) but, after a brief attempt to catch a few more winks, I'd been up writing and calling home. We stopped in for free coffee and chit chat at the PAF Office (where all the phones are) and made it back to The Solstice, diving headfirst into work without warmup or breakfast. (Which I prefer). We checked the rudder assemblies, helm controls, prop assemblies and cutlass bearings for both mobility and ability. Then the dirty end of changing oil and fuel filters (there are more than you'd think on a 32' boat); my task was to pick them out of the slop, drain & dispose (properly) of them., then hop in and out of the engine compartments a little more. Thus was my introduction to the moniker and position I'd hold for the rest of the season- being the smallest, and therefore most nimble on the boat makes me the official "deck monkey". This brought us to about 1130, we broke and went to "Lummies", the ship's chandalry store visible from the back of the deck in dry dock, just about ½ a mile away. We picked up a few odds-and-ends, including my Commercial fishing license and requisite Xtratuff boots. The latter is the nearly universal symbol of Alaskan crab and salmon fisherman, and, for that matter, all over the East Coast fisheries from Cod off Provincetown to Swordfish out of Gloucester and Lobstermen out of Maine. In Dillingham, whenever you see these boots a knowing "hello" and wish for "good fishing" follows, as the residual coal dust on coat cuffs identifies one a West Virginia miner to another.

Next up were the messy tasks that my modest size could accommodate far better than Ryan's 6' frame. I hopped down in the "laz" at the stern, undid the lower hatch and checked the ability/ condition of it's pump and float switch. It was tiny, cramped and I fit it well- but without room to spare. All day long I found myself climbing into and out of hatches like a carhartt-clad deck ape. Drawing diesel fuel to prime the oil filters (carefully) blended fuel inevitably with my already grease and oil-soaked jeans. I had the unfortunate experience of shifting forward a bit and dipping into the fish hold to drain the bilge. The experience of every conceivable kind of year-old dead fish filth on these jeans was complete. The juxtaposition of my life over the course of the past three weeks- from being seen as a seemingly well-to-do American expat in the desert to clad in muck, grime and diesel fuel shoulder-deep in the bilge of a 32' boat in Alaska- was satiating to the 'nth' degree.

The rest of the day, as work, was more of the same. "Amanda go to Lummies and get a filter wrench and 10 pigs" (Pigs are the 2' x 2' thick cloth sponges used for blotting and cleaning up grease and oil)... "< last name >, go down into the hold and ratchet the water plugs." "Coat these with teflon," "squeeze in between the starboard engine and the bulkhead to get athte battery – but watch your face around that oily air filter..." we went on and on until about ten PM or so.

Then Max showed up.

Cold, Rainy & Satiated.

After several hours of dead-to-the-world sleep, I awoke just after 5 AM here, 9 AM EST. During the night I cocooned myself in a t-shirt, sweatshirt, sweatpants and big wooly work socks inside an old green coleman sleeping bag. There's no heat in the boat when it's not running, so you have to create your own heat anyway you know how. My bunk is surrounded by the pieces of me brought from home; a black ruck full of books, camera, sunglasses, knives and other odds and ends. In the green duffel I threw in a towel, clothes and a too-full toiletry kit. There are some other things I have not brought that I wished I had- a wool watch cap, two sets of thermal underwear and deposit slips for my bank (doh!). We all know what they say about hindsight...

So I sit at the ship's mess table, an unceremonious deck-mounted affair on the starboard (right for you land lubbers) side of the cabin directly behind (as in attached to) the Captain's pilothouse chair. The morning is quiet save for seabirds, raindrops and the occasional truck in town. I've said that Cairo is where all the beautiful old British cars go to die; Dillingham is where all the rusted out old trucks come to be resurrected. It is still enough that even though the road is a half-mile away, I can hear every whisper of tire to asphalt. My rookie attire (as in, I had no idea what to bring and brought what I could) is an old pair of jeans with sweatpants beneath, a t-shirt, carhartt sweatshirt (child's size large, unfortunately. When will Carhartt recognize that women also do blue collar jobs?) wooly socks and the broken-in pair of Marine Corps issued all-leathers from college (pre their new uniform change in 2003). This morning I took a long shower, one of the few I'll get to have up here, I'm sure, and the dampness of my hair is chilling me from the inside-out.

Today is one for the yard, wrought and consumed with prepping the boat. In five days or less, we hope to be in the water and out to do the job. In the meantime, I plan on going back to sleep before the 9 a.m. call to change the port fuel filters or checking rudder assemblies.

Meeting the Solstice.

Arrived in Dillingham, AK a bit before 7 p.m. tonight. Initial thoughts:
- Compared to the rest of the world, Bristol Bay really is the last frontier. There is one main road, a post office, library and a few fishing-related industries.

- Had dinner tonight at the "Muddy Rudder", typical American diner fare in Alaska sized portions (which is to say two times the size of Texas-sized portions). The "All-Alaskan Sandwich" (Roast beef, rye, melted swiss, tomato, pickles, etc.), a side of potato salad and finishing with a slice of sickeningly sweet banana cream pie was, perhaps, ill-considered given my mostly Mediterranean diet of the last seven months. I can't recall ever feeling this full on even the worst Thanksgiving lambasting of food. The waitresses' name is Kat, originally from Florida where she used to work at a biker bar and now lives up here, running a home for troubled/ at-risk youth. Gregarious, warm and obviously a take-no-shit type. She is also the spearhead for the local "got milk?" campaign to end sugar and juice-induced childhood obesity. Here at the Rudder, there's a "drink ten glass of milk get a free milkshake" campaign afoot, referred to as "Stop Pop." Ryan (the Captain, my dinner mate and chauffer from the airport- which entailed riding to and fro in the back of someone else's truck) has an account there and we will eat free with payout from the end of the season. This is affectionately referred to as "PAF" – not the acronym for the boatyard we're dry docked in alongside 90% of the rest of the Gypsy Fleet- but "pay after fishing". Since everyone's pay comes in one lump sum at the end of the season, from greenest of the greenhorn deckhands (me) to the saltiest of the old Native captains who still roundhaul (or manually) take in their 150 fathoms of gillnet instead of using a hydraulic reel, all of the marine stores and, yes, even the Rudder, take good reputations on an "account" to pay once you're back into dry dock at the end of the season.

- No work today. Definitely feeling the resentment from Ryan about not having come yesterday (which was the original plan, but I had some trouble getting to EWR and flew out a day later then intended). He has a meticulous notebook of things to be done and tomorrow's two-man projects start at 9 AM after stops to get my boots and Alaska Commercial Deckhand license as well as stamps at the post office (?).

- It is now well past 10, it is less than 50° out, I'm full and sleepy lying alone in the cramped bunks in the forward-most part of the F/V Solstice, listening to the sounds of rain and marveling that it is still bright as dawn outside. Sleep is necessary and imminent.