Lost at Sea Part III

by John S. Mickman

Last week in Part II of ' Lost at Sea’, the guys were a little down after a string of bad pots and the wind was still whipping them around. Pots had broke loose and the crew was rushing to save them when Tony found himself in the middle of chaos.

When the tremendous weight of the 3 pots came crashing into the rail, the force vibrated through the pots and his hands, as Tony struggled to hold on. He knew if he let go, he would probably die. He held on with all his strength, but he was no match for this maelstrom the sea had created. His hands broke loose, and he fell backwards into the shrieking wind and frigid water of the North Pacific.

I was running right behind Tony as he fell into the ocean, but I didn’t stop to see him hit the water. With the boat traveling at about 9 knots, I knew if I stopped to watch him, Tony would soon be left in the foaming wake of the Marcy J. As the careening pots smashed into the rail, I made a mad dash for the stern of the boat. With the deck at such a steep angle, I felt like I was actually climbing up to get to the starboard, stern quarter of the boat. I knew a life ring was back there, and everything else faded from view as I focused on getting to it. I could see it behind the back row of pots. All that mattered to me was to get there.

As I reached the life ring, my heart sank in despair. The force of the water as it cascaded over the rail, had shattered the stiff Styrofoam life ring. It hung limply in 4 pieces, held together only by the throwing rope. This would never work. All the pieces weren’t even there. “My God, Tony” I murmured to myself as I took a quick look for him off the stern. I didn’t see him. Well, this life ring was all I had. I looked at the frothy wake as we steamed along. I knew that if I didn’t do something NOW, it would be too late to do anything, ever. I tore off my gloves and stripped the knots that held what was left of the ring in place. Then I looked for Tony in earnest. “Tony” I screamed into the wind. “Where are you Tony? Can you hear me? Tony!”

Nothing. He was not on the surface, but I couldn’t wait to see him before I threw the ring. It had been at least a minute since he hit the water, and we were traveling at about 10 miles per hour. If he ever came up, he would need this life ring, and right now. I judged the strength and direction of the wind, wound up and let it fly, just as I had done with the grapple a thousand times before. As it left my strong right hand, the life ring took off in the gale as if it had a life of its own. It reminded me of a Frisbee as it made a huge arc, the 4 pieces slightly wobbling, and the rope that held them together looked stiff, like rounded pieces of re-bar. At one point, the life ring even rose in the wind and was carried further yet. Go, go, go..... At last it landed. Right in the middle of the wake, further than I would have ever hoped.

Still no Tony. I took out my knife and starting slashing through the web of the pots, throwing buoys overboard. As I looked around, I saw a bunch of buoys in the water that Chris had thrown to his brother to mark the location so we could return. But as we sailed along, I saw the wind pick them up and throw them far from where they had landed in the water. The buoys were soon lost in the gigantic swells.

Tony was in the fight of his life. Just before he hit the water, he took a huge gulp of air. As he went into the water, the shock of the frigid water almost pushed the air back out of his lungs. He could feel the tension of the water compress his heavy clothes and oilskins tight against every part of his body. He thought how slow and awkward he felt.

Unfortunately, as Tony hit the water, the boat was skidding sideways down the side of the gargantuan swell, and Tony was washed underneath the hull. His eyes open, he saw the churning wings of the propeller as it came toward him. Instantly, he fought his way down to keep from being chopped into pieces. The terrific force of the prop wash from the huge propeller as it churned along at 500 revolutions per minute, threw him down into the depths of the icy water. Whop, whop, whop, whop...

As soon as he was out of danger of the propeller, Tony tried to swim to the surface. He was an exceptional swimmer, even in cold water such as this. He and Chris used to have great fun diving off of glaciers in Southeastern Alaska when they were kids. But when he was a kid, he never went swimming with all his ‘skins’ on, and they clung to him in a death grip as he continued his slow decent to the bottom of the North Pacific. He could stroke with his arms, but his legs were useless with the big, bulky, calf high fishing boots he wore. “If I can’t get these boots off I’m all done” he thought as he bent over and struggled with them. As he sank deeper,  the pressure of the water clasped his oilskin pants and boots even tighter, as if some giant snake was coiled around him. In this death grip, Tony finally pulled his left boot off.

Suddenly, it became quiet. He could hear his heart pounding, and everything began to move in slow motion. Of course he thought, I always take off my left boot first. Now the other one.  Tony was struck with the ease of taking off his right boot.

By the time Tony got his other boot off, his lungs were almost bursting. He was 25 feet down in the water, when he finally began his breast stroke toward the surface. Still in slow motion, Tony took full advantage of each stroke and he began to rise. He looked up at the surface. Funny, it kind of looks like the sky with a swirling bank of clouds.

He began to think of Anne, and their wonderful their life together. How lucky I am to have found her, he thought. She makes me whole. And our new baby. Is it a girl or a boy. I’m going to find out. I’m not going to give into this. All I have to do is get to the surface. All I need to do is breathe.

But as he neared the surface, he realized that he was almost finished. His lungs were bursting, and hypothermia was setting in. He found his arms barely able to move. If, and when he ever got to the surface, he knew he would not be able to swim any distance at all.

Finally, he felt his arms break the surface, and he breathed in a deep breath of air. Unfortunately, in the frothy ocean, the breath he took was half water, and he gagged as the icy water went into his lungs. He thrashed wildly, trying to stay on the surface to get another breath, and he couldn’t see. His eyes were fuzzy with water and he was bobbing wildly, gasping for air. He went down again, pulled in by the soggy weight of his heavy clothes and oilskins. “My God,” he thought to himself, “I’m going to drown”. With his last burst of strength, using every reserve he had, Tony fought his way to the surface one last time. He knew this was his final effort.

As he burst through the surface, his arms flailing wildly, his right hand hit something solid. He looked to his right trying to clear his eyes, as he grasped at this last chance for life. “It’s a life ring! I can’t believe it’s a life ring, right here.” He was ecstatic. “What are the odds?”

As he grabbed at the ring, the water began clearing from his eyes and he looked more carefully. “How come this life ring looks so funny? It’s broken into pieces! It looks like a piece of junk,” he thought. With the last of his strength, Tony gathered the 4 pieces of the life ring together, held them to his chest, and pulled his legs up into the fetal position. “This will work, at least for a little while”.

His next thought was about the location of the Marcy J. He used the last of his energy to paddle around in a circle looking for the boat. It took an amazingly long time before he finally spotted her in the distance. As he watched helplessly, the Marcy J was just disappearing over the horizon. “Chris and John had to have seen me go overboard” he said to himself. “How come they aren’t turning around to pick me up?”

Back on the boat, Chris had seen me make the run for the life ring, and the first thing he did was to yell, “Man overboard. Tony went overboard. Port side!” to Harold over the intercom. Then he raced to the rail alongside the deckhouse and began untying buoys from the rail and throwing  them overboard. They were to be there not only for his little brother to hang on to,  but also to mark the spot he went in. Chris couldn’t see Tony, and he knew the toughest part of a search and rescue was the search part. He wanted to mark the position well. But then he saw the wind picking these buoys up and blowing them away. Bummer.

When I came back from the stern, Chris and I had to secure the loose pots which were still crashing to and fro on the deck. It didn’t take a minute to lash them down. As we finished I asked Chris if he had seen Tony. “No. No sight at all. The last time I saw him, the hull was sliding over him” Chris said as he gazed into the stormy water. I turned around and took a bearing on our direction. “You know”, I yelled to Chris over the din of the storm, “I don’t think we turned around. What do you think”?

Chris whipped around with a horror stricken look on his face, and raced to the intercom horn. “Dad, Dad, man overboard. Do you pick me up?” Nothing. “Dad! Do you pick me up?” He looked back at me with a look of absolute terror. “Jesus Chris; he has the intercom turner off!” he yelled to me.

In the next instant, Chris flew in the entryway, through the galley and up to the wheelhouse. “Dad, are we going to pick him up”? Harold was engrossed with the information Oscar was giving him over the screeching radio. “Pick who up?” Harold asked. “Tony”, exclaimed Chris. “Tony went overboard”.

“What! When? Which side did he go over on?” Harold cried as he dropped the mike and threw the throttle back on the main engine, so he could maneuver a 180 degree turn.

“Does John have his eye on Tony?” Harold asked.

“No. We haven’t seen him since he went overboard about 5 minutes ago”, Chris said.

“You and John get up in the rigging and start looking. I’ll get on an opposite course and we’ll go back and get him. Come on, let’s go!” Harold was a man possessed. His son was washed overboard. Every seaman's worst nightmare was now in progress. As he turned the boat around, he pushed the throttle back up to the peg and raced back to find his boy.

Chris and I climbed as high in the pitching rigging as we could go. The huge ground swells were sometimes gathering to 30 feet, and they were tossing the Marcy J wherever they wanted. Being in the rigging 40 feet above the deck, we really had to hang on. It was a wild ride.

I looked across the surface to spot Tony and was struck by the color of the water. The overcast sky had cast an unusual green pallor on the water. The strange, opaque green color reminded me of the color of the sky back in Minnesota just before a tornado would hit. How would we ever find Tony in this empty, mass of water. I thought of Anne, and the young child they would soon have. “Come on Tony, where are you?” I kept repeating to myself.

Even when we were on the crest of a wave, everything in the troughs was invisible to us, so at any given time we could see only a small part of the surface. “Hey Chris,” I yelled. “You know Tony has that crazy yellow oilskin jacket on. That should make it easier to find him”. Chris didn’t glance over as he continued to gaze the surface. “It’ll help” he said, “but I don’t like the looks of this. I can’t see anything except water.”

Harold leaned out of the wheelhouse window and yelled up to us. “Anything yet?” he asked. “No, but slow down a little bit. We should be coming up to the spot he went overboard soon”, Chris reckoned. We all strained to find Tony.

A minute later, Chris yelled, “Over there John, at 2:30, right on the horizon. Do you see him?” After looking for about 15 seconds I still couldn’t see anything. “No, I don’t see him. Do you still see him”, I asked.

Chris yelled back over the noise of the storm, “No, I thought I saw something there for a second, but it’s so rough, I’m not sure now”. Then, from out of nowhere Chris and I saw him at the same time. “There he is!” I yelled to Chris.

“Yea, I’ve got him too”, Chris yelled back. “Don’t take your eyes off of him. I’m going down to tell Harold where he is.”

Chris actually flew off of the rigging, but I didn’t take my eyes off the spot we had seen him. I could only see him part of the time. The rest of the time, I just kept my eyes on the spot.

Harold leaned out of the wheelhouse window and looked up at me. “Where is he John?” I pointed my arm right at the last place I had seen him. “Just a couple points off the starboard bow. At about 1:00” I yelled as loud as I could. Chris climbed half way up the rigging and shouted course corrects to Harold. Finally, Harold shouted back to us that he had Tony in sight. “Get ready to bring him aboard”, Harold cried as he pushed the Marcy J through the angry seas.

Chris and I climbed off the rigging and went down on deck. The bow of the Marcy J was raising to the test of each wave, and after reaching the peak of its thrust, would come thundering down in a flurry of  water. Harold was going to have to maneuver the boat through these seas carefully, and as close as he could get to Tony without letting the huge bow of the Marcy J crash down upon him. We weren't out of trouble yet.

Next week in the conclusion of ‘Lost at Sea’ Part IV, find out if the crew can get to Tony in time…

John Mickman

Lost at Sea Part II

by John S. Mickman

Last week in Part I of ' Lost at Sea’, we set out to start our season, but the weather was giving us trouble.

In weather like this there are ripples on the chop, chop on the waves, and waves on the seas. But the big problem was that now we had big seas on the huge ground swells, with intermittent smoke on the water. When traveling into such swells, the Marcy J would actually skim down into the trough and bury her bow into the rise of the next wall of water. Then she would power her way up the hill to the summit of the next swell. If the conditions were just right, the Marcy J wouldn’t clear the top and she would go right through the smoking white crest of the swell sending torrents of water crashing into the wheelhouse.

Each season would see mighty crab boats limping back to the harbor with their wheelhouse windows smashed out. Many a skipper and crewman have been impaled with shards of glass from such storms. You could also count on loosing tens of thousands of dollars worth of electronic gear.

The smoke from my cigarette was sucked up by the wind so fast I could barely see it. The entryway is my favorite place on the boat. No matter what the weather, I can stand in the protection of the entryway and watch the boundless energy of the sea as the spray whistles  past me.

I think storms like this are exhilarating to the Fulmars too. In every storm off of Alaska’s Southwestern coast, these graceful birds seemly fly into the bad weather just for the fun of it. With their long, straight rectangular wings, they glide down the back side of the huge swells just inches off the water. Their wing tips don’t ever actually just touch the surface, but they come so close the water wiggles. The force of the wind coming off the water propels them to a dizzying speed as they reach the bottom of the trough, and then shoot up the next swell, always against the direction of the wind and water. Then, when they reach the crest of the swell, the terrific energy of the gale force wind, picks them up and throws them into the air as if they were coming out of a catapult. Each time after a fulmar performs his dance, he gets into position and does it all over again, And again. The fulmars are always in small flocks and it seems like each one is showing off to the rest of his buddies, and to me. My own private performance. I’d give almost anything to be able fly like that.

Although it had not gotten any worse when we finally arrived at our first string of crab pots, it surely wasn’t any better. Tony, Chris and I were in our oilskins chopping bait, lashing the grappling hook to the rail, and getting the deck ready as Harold guided the Marcy J to the first pot in our nine pot sting of gear.

The three of us always wore the same dark green Healy Hanson rain gear, which we call oilskins, as did the rest of the fishermen in the fleet. This was as opposed to the cannery workers who always wore florescent yellow oil skins. None of the fishermen wanted to be identified as a cannery worker and for this reason, I guess, we never wore yellow. This trip however, Tony wore a yellow jacket over his green overall pants and high brown fishing boots. 

“Hey Tony, I bet you could get a job at the cannery when we get back now that you have that nice yellow jacket”, I ribbed him as we chopped bait together. “I don’t know what happened to my regular jacket”, Tony said as he chopped the frozen block of herring with the long handled chopper. “I almost didn’t have a jacket at all. I couldn’t find mine when we were leaving the dock, so I ran into the cannery and asked one of my buddies if I could borrow one of theirs. It looks kind of hokey, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Well, at least we won’t lose sight of you,” I laughed as I tossed a frozen herring at Tony. “You make a great target.” No one likes to get the bait ready, and Tony and I had a running argument regarding which one of us had to chop the bait each day because, by far, chopping bait the worst job on the deck of any crap boat.

As we finished preparing the bait, Harold pulled the boat as close as he could to the first buoy set-up. Most of the time when the boat pulls up to a buoy in a storm, the terrific force of the bow wave usually throws the buoys far away from the hull. This makes it hard for the man throwing the grapple to snag the trailing buoy.

“OK, here comes the first one,” yelled Harold through the intercom over the din of the wind, water, engine and hydraulic noise. I was standing alongside the deck house, ready with the grapple. “I’ve got it”, I yelled and threw the three pronged stainless steel grapple at the yellow, twenty inch trailing buoy.

The buoy was swirling madly through the breaking waves as the grapple, with the gleaming trail of yellow poly line, streamed through the air. The trick was to have the grapple land as close to the buoy as possible so it will drop on top of the attaching line rapidly. This was one of my favorite jobs. I took a lot of pride in my buoy grappling ability. Splash. The grapple landed just inches away from the buoy, about forty feet from the boat. After waiting a short second for the grapple to drop over the submerged line, I began pulling the yellow poly grapple line, hand over hand, back toward the boat as fast as I could. If I was too slow, the boat would sail right past the buoy, losing the grapple, and we have to start all over again with the approach. This could take up to ten minutes in this kind of weather, and Harold would let me know in no uncertain terms not let to it happen again. Fortunately, that rarely happened.

After I got the grapple and buoy back onboard, I put the buoy line into the hydraulic crab block and Chris turned on the pump. This lifted the 500 pound crab pot off the bottom of the ocean and up to the surface. Hopefully, it would have another 500 hundred pounds of crab in it too. As Chris operated the block, I coiled the three quarter inch diameter line into a neat concentric coil. Since we were fishing in about 55 fathoms of water, there was 75 fathoms, or 450 feet of line to coil.

While I was coiling, I hoped with all my heart that we had found one of the fabled ‘crab hot spots’, with 150 to 200 crabs per pot. “Let’s see,” I thought to myself. “150 crabs per pot, at 6 pounds each is 900 pounds. With a price of $1.25 per pound that’s over $1,100 worth of crab. With our 7 percent crewman’s share, the pot is worth $78 to each of us. If we had that kind of fishing all day, I would earn almost $4,000 today!” This kind of fishing is the dream of every crab fisherman in the fleet. “Come on, come on, come on...,” I said to myself as I coiled.

After four minutes the pot came to the surface. I dropped the line I was coiling and grabbed for the lever that operated the hydraulic winch for the picking boom. Chris turned off the crab block pump and hooked the picking boom hook through the crab pot’s bridle. “OK, go ahead” Chris yelled when he was ready, and I raised the pot out of the water. It was tricky work in this kind of weather, timing was everything. There was a lot of gray, stinky mud stuck to the bottom of the pot, and the wind carried the pungent, musky odor of the mud, crabs and sea water with it.

With Tony on the opposite side of the pot from Chris, they caught the pot and held onto it as I raised it over the rail, then lowered it onto the pot launcher. “Bummer” Tony yelled as we all saw only about 25 King Crabs in the pot. Chris walked over to the intercom. “We’ve only got about 25 crabs in here Dad”, Chris said.  “What do you want to do. Stack it?” Without any hesitation Harold replied, “Yeah, stack it. Maybe one of the other strings will be better”. We were all disappointed, but it was only the first pot of the day, and things would get better. Maybe. That is one of the great things about fishing crab. Each pot could be the one...

We removed all the crabs, then put the coil of line and buoys inside the pot. With the hydraulic winch off of the main boom, I lifted the pot off of the launcher and moved it toward the port stern quarter of the deck. Tony muscled the heavy pot snugly into place, and after grabbing a tie down line from the cord he had knotted around his waist, lashed it securely to the rail. By that time the second pot of the string was alongside the boat, and the operation was repeated.

Unfortunately, the entire nine pot string of pots was disappointing and we had to stack all the pots on deck. It is slow going in the bad weather and it took the better part of an hour until all the pots were secured. There were six pots in the back row across the stern, and three pots in the next row closer to the deckhouse. As the Marcy J dipped and thrashed wildly through the dark green swells, we again secured the deck for the ten minute run to the next string of pots. With nothing left to do on deck, we went into the galley and got a cup of coffee.

All crab fishermen are used to these short breaks, and we kept our oilskins on while we were in the galley. As long as we didn’t have any ocean bottom mud on them, Harold didn’t mind. We were dressed in thick wool clothes under our ‘skins’. The Oilskins themselves were made of heavy rubber suspended pants under a long hooded jacket. The thick insulated gloves we wore were put on the floor just inside the galley passageway, ready to be picked up again on our way back out to the deck.

The wind and seas had picked up, and the Marcy J was constantly thrashing and reeling through the water. Only an experienced seaman could negotiate a walk down the narrow passageways without bouncing back and forth between the bulkheads.  But to the three of us, this was just as natural as a walk in the park. No problem.

I got a couple of cups of coffee, ladled 3 teaspoons of sugar into mine, and went up to the wheelhouse. “Bummer Harold,” I said as I gave him a cup of coffee. “No crabs!” “Yeah, I know” Harold said. “But this next string is in the same depth as Captain Oscar’s pots, and I think they will be a lot better.” Harold and I spent a lot of time in the wheelhouse together talking. Although he was as old as my father and commanded the respect due the captain, I thought of Harold as one of my best friends. We were both comfortable discussing anything at anytime. Many times, more than once. Harold was a great skipper/owner to work for. Even in the toughest of times, he never hesitated to invest in new equipment that would make our jobs safer or work more efficient.

After a few minutes, Oscar called Harold on the radio and they discussed the days fishing. Since Oscar had found some good areas to fish, he began to give his coordinates to Harold in case we needed to move our gear near the area he was fishing. I knew this discussion over the radio would last a long time, so I went back down to the galley to get another cup of coffee. It was sometimes hard to even hear yourself think over the static-y blast of the 2-way VHF radio.

Just as I got to the bottom of the latterway, Chris, Tony and I heard a terrific, smashing noise on deck. Something had broken loose and was crashing back and forth on deck between the rails! “Jeez, what the hell is that?” I cried as the three of us raced down the passageway putting and grabbed our gloves. Tony went first, then me. Chris was right on my heels.

When Tony threw open the entryway door, we saw what had happened. As the Marcy J pitched wildly from side to side, the force of the pots straining against the tie downs had broken some of them, and 3 of the 500 pound pots were crashing from rail to rail. On each roll, the pots would skid across the deck and smash into the opposite rail with such force that they were starting to buckle.

When we burst onto the deck the 3 pots were sliding toward the starboard rail, with the regularity of the racing swells. Without an instant’s hesitation, Tony raced along the port rail toward the afterdeck with a couple of tie downs in his fist. He was going to get behind the pots, then when they slid back to the port rail, he would lash them to the back of the stack of pots, while I lashed the front, and Chris lashed a third corner.

Just when Tony was in the most vulnerable position, a huge, rogue wave crashed into the starboard side of the Marcy J and lifted her up over 30 feet in just the blink of an eye. The pots which had been sliding toward the starboard side, stopped in mid skid, and fell crashing back toward the portside in what seemed like a vertical free fall.

The force of this unusual thrust threw Tony to the port rail hard, and as he looked up toward the pots, he saw them falling on him - RIGHT NOW! He knew he would be smashed to a pulp if they crashed into him. Making a split second decision, he jumped up as high as he could, above the supporting rail, bent his knees and hung in mid air as the boat, the pots, and the huge sea came crashing toward him. The top rail of the pots is 6 feet tall, and he was able to grasp onto it when it came upon him. Tony grabbed on to this steel bar so tight he thought he would squeeze the juice out of it. He knew what was coming.

Next week in ‘Lost at Sea’ Part III, find out if Tony made the right decision…

John Mickman

LOST AT SEA Part I

By John S. Mickman, Deckhand (All rights reserved)

I always loved the exhilaration of leaving the harbor for the opening of any season, but King Crab Seasons were the best. As we threw off the mooring lines and headed out to sea, I waved to my fiancée Su who was standing on the dock of the B&B Cannery. Some of my buddies went to sea without being ‘sent off’ by their loved ones. Su was always there waving goodbye, and wishing us all well. Cool. A heavy fog had settled in and the bay was like a mill pond as we glided away from the harbor – flat calm, not a ripple on the water. I gave Su one last wave before she was lost in the gloom, then we rounded a small reef and headed for Cape Chiniak, the open sea and the fishing grounds hundreds of miles away.

The 4 man crew of our boat, the M/V Marcy J, was led by Captain Harold Jones. His two sons, Chris and Tony had been fishing with him since they were young boys. Although I had only been fishing for two years, this life suited me well and we worked great together. Chris, at 25, was one year older than me, and Tony was a year younger. That late October morning in 1974 found us four days into the second opening of the Kodiak Island King Crab Season. The first season had been prematurely closed by the Department of Fish and Game, and the crab fleet had really raised a ruckus. Millions of pounds of crab were still left on the annual quota, and all of us fishermen were counting on this season for much of our annual income. Gratefully, they reopened the season, but no matter how many crab the fleet brought in, or whatever the weather, the season was going to be only six days long; ever since, this season is referred to as ‘The 6 day War’. However, Chris, Tony and I were carefree with youth and exhilarated by the ocean and the possibility of a rich season; how could we have known that this was to be the most deadly season of our lives?

We were able to get one load of our crab pots in the water on opening day, and the second day we worked them. However, a screaming gale blew us off the fishing grounds after the second day and we were forced to anchor up in Alitak Bay on the southern most part of Kodiak Island.

We ‘laid on the hook’ for almost 2 days when we decided we had to try to make it back to our crab pots. We needed to get some crab in our fish hold. Crab pots are steel frames enclosed with nylon mesh, six feet square by two feet deep and weigh five hundred pounds each - empty. Since the chopped herring bait in the pots only really ‘fishes’ for 2 days, we were due to get back on the grounds and ‘work the gear’. The grounds we were fishing, were just over 50 miles off the south end of Cape Ikolik, the southwest corner of the island.

My buddy Chris and I were just finishing lashing everything down on deck as we left the shelter of Alitak Bay at 4:00 AM that morning. The wind was screaming at over 50 knots and had whipped the sea into a frothy, living thing. The swells broke sharply along our starboard bow intermittently filling the deck with sea water. We put the ‘stabilizer fish’ in the water which helped reduce some of the rolling motion of the vessel, but this was going to be a rough ride, no question about it. We finished our chores and went inside to the warmth of the deckhouse and grabbed a cup of coffee.

Up in the wheelhouse, Harold and Tony were getting worried. With the twenty foot swells coming in from Shelikof Straight, the Marcy J had to push hard, taking the seas on her starboard beam. We were pitching so violently, that our 45 foot outriggers were coming dangerously close to submerging, as the vessel rolled from side to side. Tony asked Harold, “What do you think Dad; do you think we’ll be able to work our gear?” after a particularly large swell had heeled to boat over almost to 25 degrees. “Once we get to our gear we should be OK,” said Harold. “I laid all our strings of pots on a Northwesterly course so we can keep our bow into it. At least we won’t have the rolling to contend with. If it doesn’t get any worse, and the wind doesn’t change direction, we should be able to get to all of our pots today.”  Tony replied, “That’s a lot of ifs. I can’t believe the Fish and Game won’t give us a season extension because of this storm. Most of the fleet is sitting on their anchors and can’t even fish. The small boats are really going to be hurting if they don’t extend the season. They don’t have a chance in this weather.”

“I know,” Harold agreed. “But there really isn’t much we can do about it except tough it out. The  crab aren’t going to crawl into the boat. Why don’t you watch the wheel for a few minutes. I’m going below to get a cup of coffee.”

Tony was right about the smaller boats not being able to work in this weather. Two days before a 53 foot crabber had gone down not far from where we were fishing and two men were lost. Tony had spent most his 23 years in the Alaskan fishing industry, and knew how tough it was to earn a living from the sea.  With just a glance of a hull with rigging on a distant horizon, Tony could identify every boat in the fleet. He also knew who was running each one, how successful they were, and in most cases, who was working on deck. Tony had made many friends at sea, and had lost many friends there too. But right now he was thinking about Anne, his wife, who was expecting their first baby. Just before leaving they had listed all the things they wanted to get for their new arrival, and they needed a good crab season to be able to buy all the necessities.

As Harold climbed down the ladderway I asked, “What’s the latest on this weather? Is it supposed to lay down some?” 

“Nope. The barometer is still down,” Harold replied. “And we are going to be running through the trough until we get to the grounds.  Rough ride, isn’t it,” he said with a grin on his face.

Chris was relaxing in a corner of the galley bench enjoying a cup of hot coffee as the chill from the deck left him.  “Has Oscar reached his gear yet Dad?”  Chris asked. Oscar Dyson was Harold’s fishing partner and we had gotten an earful of stories from him the night before. If either one of the two boats found good fishing, they would report to the other in code over the radio. Over the years, both had profited from the friendship.

Harold replied, “Yes, he got there about half an hour ago. They are working the edge about ten miles north of our northern string. He says they are getting about 100 crabs per pot but he isn’t sure how long they will be able to fish. The seas coming out of the Shelikof Straight are beating his crew up pretty bad.” This was not good news as The Peggy Jo was 25 feet longer and much beamier than we were. She could weather a gale a lot better than the Marcy J.

“Well Harold, if we can get 100 crabs per pot I want to work them as long as we can hang on. Remember, I’m going to America to get married next week, and Su and I really need a good season. We’re going to make it work,” I said as I negotiated my way back from the galley stove on the pitching floor after pouring Harold a cup of coffee. “It might be slow going, but if we can’t fish today, by the time we get to our pots we’ll have to load them on board and head for the harbor. The season will be over”!  

“I know guys,” said Harold. “We’ll just have to see how it is when we reach our gear. Maybe it will lay down some.” Suddenly, a gigantic swell picked up the Marcy J and leaned her way over on her port side. I looked through one of the port side portholes as I adjusted to the roll, and  watched as the end of the port outrigger dove deeply into a huge, green, ground swell. As she righted herself and the outrigger came out of the water, the Marcy J took up a tremendous shudder. Then the boat rolled way to the starboard, and as I watched, the port side, the 100 pound stabilizer ‘fish’, which is attached to the tip of the outrigger by a 60 foot long cable, cleared the water and careened wildly through the air toward the hull of the boat. It landed back in the water just before it would have smashed into the hull.

“The stabilizer just about hit us,” I reported as Harold bounded up the ladderway back to the wheelhouse. I took my cup of coffee and headed out to the deck to have a cigarette.

In the protected entryway behind the deckhouse, I watched the maelstrom build. The seas were now over 20 feet high with the tops blowing off each one. With the Marcy J traveling through the trough as we were, most of the seas were slamming over the starboard side of the vessel and washing over the entire deck. As I smoked my cigarette, I thought how nice and clean the deck looked after being blasted so hard for the past few hours. With the exception of the bait box and the bright orange life ring which was lashed to the stern railing, the deck was scoured clean.

The lonely wail of the wind in the rigging is a sound most people have never heard. It is a loud whistling howl that changes octaves with each new gust. At times when the rigging cables reverberate, it sounds like the eerie song of some unknown sea beast. The shrieking wind and crashing seas combine to a crescendo that required us to yell to each other when we communicated. Most of the guys I have fished with didn’t like storms like this. Gales make for slow, dangerous work. But I love it. Crab fishing in a storm in the open ocean is more thrilling than anything I have ever done in my lifetime.

Next week in ‘Lost at Sea’ Part II, find out if the seas layed down for the Marcy J crew.

John Mickman

The Pacific Pearl Part III

by John S. Mickman

In Part II of 'The Pacific Pearl', Dick the skipper, Tony, and me were traveling toward the fishing grounds with high hopes of filling our hold with over 50,000 pounds of shrimp!

We 'ran' through the night, as Tony and Dick took turns 'watching the wheel'. Of course as an inexperienced crewman, I wasn't able to take a turn at the wheel and slept through the trip until we reached the outside of the 3 Sisters Islands, Northeast of Kodiak Island. We arrived at about 2:00 AM in the dark and I made breakfast. By 4:00, we were lined up on the spot for our first 'tow'.

Although there was only a slight Northwesterly breeze, the Pacific Pearl was rolling from side to side and pitching to and fro. Unfortunately, I had gotten pretty queasy in the stuffy galley while cooking and eating, with sea-sickness. By the time I went out on deck I was in poor shape; it was an awful feeling - and now I knew I needed to work, and work hard!

Tony explained the process of operating the huge winches (as I leaned against them for support!), one for each side of the large shrimp net. Dick got the boat up to the right speed and announced over the intercom to run the cables out to put the net down to the ocean floor. With Tony's guidance, the process went smoothly; we were fishing!

After about two hours, Dick told us it was time to lift the net up and see what we caught. This went well too, and although I was still nauseous from sea sickness - I was working. When we got the net to the surface, the 'caught end' of the net was dragging straight down into the water, loaded with shrimp. It took us 3 - 4 'splits' to get the 8,000 pounds of shrimp onboard and onto the deck. This done, we lowered the net back into the water for the second ‘tow’ of the day and began washing the mud out of the shrimp and throwing the crushed, unwanted fish that were mixed in with the shrimp, overboard.

That done, Tony opened one of the small, round 'manhole cover' hatches, and we lowered ourselves into the dark, dank hold. "OK Hip Boot, you're going to be the Ice Man. This is a very important job, and if it isn't done right our whole load could rot", he explained. "What you need to do is to take this maddox and chop this ice that has frozen into one large ice cube, into flakes again. Then you'll use the snow shovel to mix it into the shrimp as they come through the aft manhole hatches. I'll be shoveling the shrimp down through the aft manholes. If I'm going too fast, tell me to wait."

"OK", I said. "Got it. I'll yell up when I'm ready". I hadn't told Tony I was sea sick, but I'm pretty sure he knew; I'm sure I looked green. Down in the hold, I became even more nauseous. After chopping up a bunch of ice, I yelled up to Tony that I was ready. Tony started shoveling shrimp through the manholes as I chopped and shoveled ice onto the shrimp as they poured through the portside, aft manhole.

Tony's timing was pretty good as I worked hard to keep up. However, my sea sickness was getting the best of me. Finally I yelled up, "Tony, stop for a minute!" just before I vomited all over the fresh, clean ice and rosy pink shrimp.  I had to brace myself as the boat rolled from side to side. I was dizzy, sick, weak and sweating profusely; I had never felt worse in my life.

"Are you OK down there Hip Boot? Do you need any help?", Tony yelled down through the hatch.

'Do I need help? I can hardly stand up!', I thought to myself. But, I couldn't give up. "No, I've got 'er Tony, just give me a minute more down here. I'll let you know when I'm ready." I was barely able to yell this up to Tony when I threw-up again. 'Gawd, this is awful', but I stood up, chopped through the now messy ice, and started dispersing it on the nice, clean, pink shrimp. "OK Tony, I'm ready. Let 'em fly", I yelled up with all my effort.

It took the better part of an hour to get all the shrimp into the hold and iced - one of the worse hours of my life. When I emerged into the bright sunshine through the small round manhole, I was exhausted. Tony placed the hatch-cover back on and secured it as I sat down and rested. Back on deck, everything seemed a lot better, and the fresh, salty air kind of revived me.

By the time we lifted the net up after our second tow, my sea sickness had gone away completely and I felt great and was starting to have fun. We fished all morning and into the afternoon, putting about 5 'tows' on deck and into the hold. We were really doing well and Dick was pleased. He invited me up into the Wheelhouse and explained the radar, depth finder, charts, etc. This was really interesting stuff.

Late in the afternoon, disaster struck; the thick cable which held the port side of the net, snapped apart as we were bringing the net to the surface. It took over an hour to finally get the net up and the shrimp on deck. This was hard, dangerous work, as all of us were worried about the strength of the starboard side cable; if that one snapped, we would lose the net and the broken cable could snap back and kill one of as we worked with it off of the starboard side, stern davit of the Pacific Pearl.

After much effort, we finally got the net on board, the shrimp in the hold and iced down. Unfortunately, neither Tony nor Dick knew how to splice cable, and of course I was completely clueless. "Can't we use some big cable clamps Dick?", I offered.

"No way", he said. "We're out of business. We have to go back to Kodiak, unload, and get this cable fixed. This trip is over". We were all disappointed. Me, because my learning experience was being cut short, and Dick and Tony because we didn't have a full load yet.

 But, we did have close to a full load and besides the broken cable, the rest of the systems aboard the Pacific Pearl had worked perfectly. "Next trip we're going to knock 'em dead John", Tony said as we steamed back to Kodiak. "We must have about 40,000 pounds of shrimp. That's a pretty good payday for just one day of fishing!" He explained that since I was working for free, he and Dick would split my share. That meant he would make about 20% of $2,000 - 400 bucks! Tony continued. "The good news for you is that now you can say you have experience when you're looking for a job, which is the difference between night and day. You're sure to get a job on a boat now."

I knew he was right, and I was extremely happy that Tony and gotten me on the Pacific Pearl. Although I didn't have very much experience, I could honestly say to the skipper of any shrimp boat in the fleet, "Oh yeah, I have experience. I've fished with Dick on the Pacific Pearl!" -  I could just image myself confidently announcing to anyone that asked. This was the big break I had needed.

We arrived back in Kodiak late that night and I slept on the boat. The next morning, Tony invited me up to Sollies Bar & Grill for breakfast and he treated me. "You did good Hip Boot", he said. I know a lot of guys, and I'll help you find a boat whenever we're back in town. I think Dick might help too", he said.

I enjoyed the free breakfast immensely. I was a fisherman!

At the end of that season, Dick sold the Pacific Pearl and Tony and Chris went with their dad, Captain Harold Jones to Mobile, Alabama where Harold had contracted a shipyard to build a brand new fishing boat - The Marcy J.

The very next season, the Pacific Pearl sunk in Shelikof Straights and 2 men were lost at sea; two more survived. Fleetingly I realized that if I had been aboard, I might have been one of the lost fishermen. But, I was young and strong; I'd never get hurt, I'd never die...

John Mickman (Hip Boot)

Deckhand

The Pacific Pearl Part II

by John S. Mickman

Last week in Part I of ' The Pacific Pearl', the shrimp strike had just ended and the entire fleet was preparing to go fishing. I needed a job, and the shrimp trawler, The Pacific Pearl, skippered by Dick, was one man short...

Tony, always very animated, said,  "Ok, here comes Dick. Are you ready John?".

"I don't know Tony. I guess we'll find out!", I replied. Dick jumped on board and confirmed with Tony that Chris wouldn't arrive until the next day.

"Well, were short a guy then Tony", he announced. "I knew this would happen. We need to go right now. Do you have any ideas?".

Tony replied, "Well, John here is ready to go right now Dick. I think we should take him."

Dick looked at me with a stern look. I had met Dick on a half dozen occasions and had been helping Tony get his boat ready for the past couple of weeks, for free. "You don't have a shred of experience John. This is tough work, and tricky. Do you think you can handle it?" he asked.

This was it; my big chance. "You're right Dick, I don't have any experience. But, you don't know anyone that is a harder worker or a faster learner. If you give me this chance you won't regret it. I really want to go out with you guys", I said as sincerely as I had ever spoken in my life. "Let's go fishing!"

Dick smiled and said, "Fire up the engines Tony. John, you straighten up the deck. I won't pay you for this first trip, but I'll give you the experience you need to get on another boat when Tony's brother Chris arrives. Fair enough?"

"You bet!", I exclaimed, and the three of us went to work. After the engines were warmed up, we threw off the lines, pulled out of the harbor and traveled over to the Ice Dock. One boat was already there getting ice, and we waited just off her stern securing our place in the rapidly growing line of shrimp boats.

When that first boat pulled away, we tied up to the dock and took off the big, square, water-tight hatch cover. The Ice Dock guy lowered the huge ice hose down through the open hatch. Tony and I jumped into the hold and he handed a large snow shovel to me and explained that he would 'guide' the ice hose as far into the bins as he could, but that I needed to shovel about twelve inches of ice into the bottom of the bins that he couldn't reach. We both worked hard at our tasks until we had enough 'bottom ice' in all the bins, then we just let the ice buildup in the holds' main bin until it was almost full to the top of the hatch.

As we worked, Tony explained, "When we're shrimping, we need to ice the shrimp so they don't rot. We'll need about 15 tons of ice that we have to mix in with the catch. If we run out of ice, we have to stop fishing so we need to make sure we have plenty." When Dick and Tony agreed we had enough ice, we secured the hatch, threw off the lines and headed out to sea. How exciting was this?!

By the time we left the bay, it was dinner time and I was designated as 'The Cook'. "Yes, I sure can cook Dick", I said. This wasn't a lie, although I really didn't have very many items in my repertoire. As a student, I had been pretty good at tuna fish sandwiches and Hamburger Helper meals. However, steak was what Dick wanted, and steak is what Dick got. They turned out pretty good too!

After dinner, as Dick guided the Pacific Pearl to the fishing grounds, Tony and I went on deck and he taught me the fine points of being a deck hand on a shrimp trawler. Along the way he told me that his shorter, rubber boots were actually better on a trawler than my hip boots. He suggested, "Most of the salmon seiners wear hip boots instead of these shorter ones. You should get different boots."

"Well Tony", I said, "I really like the way these boots feel and look. I don't really like the kind you're wearing.

Tony grinned back, the way that only Tony can grin, "Well that settles it then. Your nick name is 'Hip Boot'.  And it stuck...

In Part III of 'The Pacific Pearl' find out how a green-horn like me did as a professional shrimp fisherman!

John Mickman

The Pacific Pearl Part I

by John Mickman

This story is the continuing saga of my first trip to Kodiak, Alaska were I became a commercial shrimp and crab fisherman in the early 1970's.

Combined with the 'pin money' I had earned painting the interior of the house my buddy Tony would eventually buy, and after working on the Western Girl, the Halibut Schooner that I had helped unload and overhaul their 'skates' of gear,  I had almost $500. A fortune; my money problems were over for the time being. That issue out of the way, I continued my quest of getting a job on a fish boat from one of the vessels that fished out of Kodiak, Alaska. It was 1972, I was 21 years old and life was good.

My buddy Tony and I got to be better friends and most days I would visit him on the deck of the Pacific Pearl, the boat he worked on. We would talk about fishing and I met many more fishermen; it helped immensely having Tony with me in the harbor. We became a fixture in the Kodiak during those weeks. The Pacific Pearl was a 64' shrimp trawler that was kinda beat up, but Tony was happy to have a job. However, until the shrimp strike was over, he was working on the boat for free, painting, mending nets, working in the engine room, etc. I was helping, and learning.

Unfortunately for the Shrimp Boat Fleet, there was a strike going on; the cannery’s and fishermen could not arrive at a price. The unified fishing canneries made a couple of offers to the fishermen in the Shrimp Association and although neither Tony nor I could vote, we attended each meeting to keep abreast of what was happening in these important negotiations. The Fishermen were asking 7 cents/pound for shrimp and the canneries were offering 3 1/2 cents per pound; they had been paying 2 cents during the previous season. Of course as the weeks went by, the canneries started coming up in their offers and the fishermen started coming down; everyone wanted to get to work.

At one of these meetings, the canneries offered 4 1/2 cents per pound and the consensus of the fishermen was that 'maybe we should just take it; we have boat payments to make'. Towards the end of this meeting, just before the vote was to be taken, one handsome, chiseled featured boat captain stood up, and with a booming voice, and great resolve he stated the case for waiting it out until we received at least 5 1/4 cents per pound. His oration was extremely convincing and as he talked I could see lots of nods and whispers agreeing with this well respected captain.

The vote was taken right after the captain stated his case and the 4 cent offer was voted down; the strike would continue. I commented to Tony that the captain that had swayed the room had delivered an amazing speech; he had taken control of the room of more than 100 independent men. "That's my dad, Harold Jones", Tony said. "Do you want to meet him?"

"Well sure Tony", I replied. "How come I've never met him before?"

Tony smiled back at me, "My dad runs a big dragger called The Tradewinds. She is a big, Herring Seiner type boat from down the coast off of California. They just arrived with the boat a few days ago", Tony explained.

"How come you're not going to go fishing with your dad?", I asked.

"He has a crew already that worked for a long time in Seattle getting the boat ready and he has a full crew with those guys. If one of them quits or gets hurt, either my brother Chris or I will probably get onboard", Tony replied. Brother Chris was down in Port Angeles, Washington working on a construction crew waiting for the strike to end before he came up to Kodiak. He and Tony were to be the crewmen on the Pacific Pearl.

We went over to meet Captain Harold Jones and were able to talk for couple of minutes, but he was in a gaggle of other skippers talking about the strike, so Tony and I wandered off. A few days later, a buzz went up through the shrimp fleet that the canneries were going to make better offer; everyone was heading up to the town hall to hear the offer and vote.

The president of the Shrimp Assoc. announced that the canneries were offering 5 1/4 cents; 5 cents for the fishermen and a 1/4 cent going the fund the new Shrimp Association. Once again, Harold stood up and said that he thought this was an acceptable offer. The president called for a vote and it was unanimous; the strike was over!

Immediately after the vote, the room cleared as all the fishermen headed to the harbor to leave for the fishing grounds. The race was on!

As Tony and I walked briskly toward the harbor I asked Tony what he thought I should do. "You have to get to your house, get your gear and get down to the harbor, right now", Tony exclaimed. "All these skippers are going to leave the harbor and head to the ice dock to take on ice on their way out to the fishing grounds. If any of their crewmen don't show up, anyone standing there is likely to get a job!"

"Holy Smokes, Tony", I said as I cut-off in the other direction to Paul's house. "I'll see you down there in 15 minutes!" I stopped the walking, and ran to the house, threw a bunch of clothes in my backpack and high-tailed it down to the harbor in my well-worn, used hip boots.

The scene at the harbor was bedlam, as the skippers and crewmen were making last minute provisioning to their boats. Fishermen were all over the dock, the boats, marine hardware stores, and the grocery stores were already making 'standing order' deliveries of groceries to the boats tied up in the harbor. This was exciting!!!

Of course I was wearing my hip boots and asked everyone I saw if they were looking for a deck-hand. A few replied with the question, "Maybe. Do you have any experience?" I didn't, and did not receive any job offers.

The Pacific Pearl was tied up on the last dock 'finger', about halfway down the dock, and when I got to her, Tony was standing on deck jumping up and down waving for me. "John, I called my brother Chris and he won't be up here until tomorrow. Dick the skipper wants to leave right now and he's out trying to find a second deckhand so we can go fishing. You need to wait on deck with me; if he can't find anyone I think he might take you!"

"Geez Tony, I can't believe it. Really?", I said.

"I don't know for sure, but the first boat to the Ice Dock gets loaded and out to the fishing grounds first. He might take you. I know he likes you, and if he can't find an experienced guy right away, I told him you'd be down here in a few minutes. We'll just have to wait and see", Tony explained.

I could hardly breathe I was so excited. Peering through all the boat riggings we finally spotted Dick, rapidly walking along the dock toward the Pacific Pearl.  Alone.

Next week in 'The Pacific Pearl' Part II, find out if Dick hired me as a crewman.

John Mickman

Halibut Flipping Part III

By John S. Mickman

In last week’s Part II, Leon, Bob and I have just finished unloading 100,000 pounds of fresh Halibut. The other guys have left to have a beer at Sollies Bar & Grill and I am ‘basking in the glow’ on the cannery dock adjacent the fishing vessel Western Girl, the boat we had just finished unloading.

I was still enjoying the moment, standing on the B&B Fisheries dock looking across the bay when the skipper of the Western Girl walked up to me. "You're named John aren't you?" he asked with a strong Norwegian accent.

"Yup, John Mickman", I said.

"Well, my name is Nels and I'm skipper of the Western Girl here. I've been watching you today, and I have to say I've never seen anyone fly at a job the way you handled those fish today. You like working don't you?"

"Well I guess so", I said. "But I've never really thought about it that way."

He asked, "How would you like to help me move my boat over to the Transient Float in the harbor? My crew is still sleeping it off, and I could use some help getting my boat over there."

"Sure, I'd be glad to help", I said as calmly as I could. Actually I was just thrilled to be able to get a ride on an actual fish boat!

"Ok John. While I fire up the engine, why don't you throw off the breast line. The wind's coming off our bow so we'll throw off the bow line next when we're ready to go", Nels said over his shoulder as he headed for the engine room hatch.

Having been around sporting boats all my life back in Minnesota, I knew what a 'breast line' was and how to make lines off on mooring cleats.  The breast line was wrapped around a dock piling, so I took it off and coiled it up amidships.

I then walked along the port side rail (left side of the boat looking forward) and stood by the boats forward, port side mooring cleat. This seemed to be going pretty good so far, I thought to myself. I heard the main engine fire up and a faint vibration traveled through the wooden hull and up my legs. One of the cannery workers was watching me while he smoked a cigarette up on the dock. "Hey buddy, we're about to move over to the harbor. Can you take the bow line off of that dock cleat and throw the end to me when I tell you in a couple of minutes?", I asked him. He seemed just as excited about being involved with a 'real' fish boat as I was. Of course he didn't know that I wasn't a 'real' fisherman and that I didn't have a clue. "OK then, I'll let you know", and I made small talk with the guy while I waited for Nels.

A couple minutes later, Nels rolled back one of the wheelhouse windows and asked if I was ready to go. "Yup, just let me know", I said. He could see the cannery guy standing by the dock cleat obviously anxious to help throw off the bow line.

Nels looked around the starboard side across the bay to make sure there were no boats close by and told me to throw off the bow line. "I'll let you know when to let loose the stern line", he said to me as I walked past the open window of the wheelhouse. The stern line was wrapped around a dock piling too, and I waited for Nels' instruction before freeing it up. 

He did a slight maneuver and the bow swung free from the dock. "OK, let 'er go", Nels yelled back to me over the din of the engine, "and then come up to the wheelhouse". I did as I was told and found my way up to the wheelhouse. The Western Girl was a 78', schooner type wooden fish boat and there was just barely room for the two of us in the cramped wheelhouse. I quickly scanned the electronics he had on board and noticed the marked up maritime chart on the chart table. This was too cool!

Nels said, "Leon tells me that you're completely green - never been on a fish boat before. Is that right John?" he asked.

"Yes that's right", I said, "but I've been around small speedboats and sailboats all my life".

"Yeah, I can tell you know something about boats. Say, why are you wearing those hip boots?" he asked.

I looked over at Nels and grinned. "Well, I'm trying to get a job on a boat and I thought that if I wore hip boots, I'd look more like a fisherman. It seems to be working pretty good", I said.

Nels roared with laughter, "That's awesome, and a pretty good idea; you do look the part", he said. "You know, my crewmen are all headed back to BC (British Columbia, Canada) on the afternoon plane and I'm going to need some help getting ready for the next trip. Would be willing to give me a hand?" he asked.

I could hardly believe my ears, but I tried to remain calm. "Well, yes I'd be glad to help, but if I get a job on a boat I might have to quit before I'm done", I told him. "What would I be doing?

"I have 34 Skates of gear that need to be overhauled. Do you think you can handle that?" he asked. The look on my face betrayed what I was thinking; "You don't know what I'm talking about do you?" Nels asked with a big grin on his face.

"Well, I have to admit I don't have a clue, but if you show me what to do, I can do, and I'll do a good job for you Nels", I said.

Nels was squinting as he looked through the wheelhouse windows maneuvering the Western Girl toward the harbor. He glanced over to me, "I believe you will he said. Halibut Skates are the long lines that we use to catch Halibut", he said. "Each trip I insist on going through all my gear to make sure we don't have any broken line, weak gannon’s or dull hooks. It is an important job. How does $15 a 'skate' sound to you?", he asked. "That's the going rate around here."

"It sounds OK I guess, but I still really don't know what I'll be doing or how long it will take. How long does it take you to 'overhaul' one skate of gear?" I asked him.

"About an hour", he said, "but it will take you longer. I've been doing this for 40 years."

So, we struck a deal; I was beside myself. I had just made $100 and now I had a job that would take at least a week. As I was thinking about my good fortune, Nels was maneuvering the boat into the cramped harbor; I was getting a little nervous. "Say Nels, I have to admit to you that this is the first fish boat I've ever been on that wasn't tied up in the harbor. What do you want me to do when we get to where we're going?"

Nels roared with laughter agian, "By God, you're something else John, and lucky. I can't believe I'm running around with a kid from Minnesota who's never even been on a boat before." I didn't think it was all that funny, but he told me what I needed to do and tying up the Western Girl went just fine.

After Nels shut down the engine, he came back up on deck and told me to come back in the morning at 8:00. "Great Nels; I'll see you in the morning", I said as I hopped over the rail and onto the harbor float. I seemed like I never landed; I was just floating along. This was all going to work out after all, I smiled to myself as I headed back home to Paul and Sam's house. Sam liked Tequila, so I stopped by the liquor store in town and bought her a bottle to celebrate my good fortune. Sam was thrilled!

I worked in the harbor on the deck of the Western Girl for over a week, and met many more fishermen as I overhauled Halibut Skates. After the shrimp strike ended, I earned a deckhand position on the boat my buddy Tony was crewing on, the Pacific Pearl, and then I got a great job on another boat called The Sogn. Although I went back to school that fall of 1972 after a successful summer shrimp fishing (I made almost $11,000!),  my work on the Western Girl turned out to be an inauspicious beginning of a commercial fishing career that spanned a decade. It all started out 'Flipping Halibut' after doing a favor for a new friend, Leon. I guess they're right: "What goes around, comes around."

Although life seems to get better each year, my years of fishing the frigid waters of the North Pacific and Bering Seas were my most adventurous. By far.

John S. Mickman

Deckhand