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.