Green Summer: Commercial Fishing In Alaska (cont.)

Fishing goes from zero to sixty in no time at all.

Yesterday we were sitting in the harbor, thinking we'd have a few more days off, today we're looking at non-stop fishing for the next few weeks.

Upon the canneries urging, we switch to red gear – nets with a smaller mesh size to catch the smaller fish. On our first set the net comes to life with small explosions as the fish splash the surface of the water. Trying to wriggle free from the net, they only become more entangled.

Reeling in the net is a chore. One person mans the hydraulics; another struggles to feed the net on the reel; and the other picks fish. Well, this is what's supposed to happen. But with so many fish coming on board, we're all picking. I quickly learn this is what York meant when he told me my forearms would tire. After an hour it hurts to grip the head of the fish as I pull it free from the net. Wrist pain sets in, a strange numbness along with it. Blisters on my fingers don't help. Yet I pick as fast as I can, caught in the adrenaline-pumping excitement. I'm not sure if I like it. Half of me enjoys the challenge. A game. Trying to figure out how to free fish from a net. The other half, disgusted by the blood, gills and gurry that find its way into my mouth, hair and eyes.

We net 5,187 pounds during the four-hour opener. The reds have arrived!

June 26. This is insane. We finished fishing at noon, only to hear an announcement for an opening from 6 to 11pm and again at 4:30am till who knows when. Sleep is caught if and when you can. We deliver our fish around 10pm and anchor up for the night. I am awakened around midnight by the violent rocking of the boat and thunderous boom of waves attempting to break through the thin fiberglass hull. I am convinced they will.

June 27. The day's a blur. It started at 4:30am, only to be extended seven hours at 9am and again at 4:30pm for another 24 hours. I don't get it. I'm convinced the schedule is an evil ploy concocted by some guy at Fish & Game trying to mess with us. It's working. Sometimes this whole process seems like a prison sentence and knowing it could last another three weeks is torture.

July 1. Fishing is going surprisingly well. We're on track to meet our 50,000-pound goal by July 4. York would like to have 100,000 pounds a week later (earning us our promised steak dinner) and 150,000 pounds a week after that.

The mood on the boat is grim. Since hitting 50,000 pounds, we've been scratching, only pulling in a few fish at a time. York is restless; and he's considering transferring to Ugashik, a fishing district 60 miles across open water. They're faring better at the "Gash," averaging about 2,000 to 3,000 pounds a day. But it's a tough call for the Susquehanna, an old and at times unreliable boat. Not to mention the safety features: outdated flares, weak radio signal and one survival suit short for the crew.

Maybe it's worth the risk. York has had luck there in the past with 30,000-pound days. Still, it's a risk. We'll lose a day making the 14-hour trip and be required by Fish & Game to take another day off for transferring districts.
York decides it's worth the risk. Grey sky and rough seas surround us as we make the crossing. It feels like we're in the middle of nowhere. We are. We arrive in Ugashik shortly before midnight. The trip was arduous, but it restored my faith in the Susquehanna.   

The next day we're anchored in Dago Creek, crassly named for the Sicilian fishermen who would seek shelter in the protected waters. Finally the Fish & Game schedule works in our favor: a day of rest and a much needed break. Jason, Keith and I are eager to get off the boat and touch land for the first time in 13 days. We're anchored 30 feet from shore in about six feet of water. At low tide, two feet. We'd walk if we didn't sink to our waists in mud. We start devising MacGyver-like plans to get ashore, but a skiff races by. We holler; seconds later we're swept to shore. How to get back? Who cares, we're on land.

We're told there's a store in Pilot Point, a two and a half mile walk along a dirt road. Thoughts of soda and candy bars fill our head as we walk. An odd feeling. The only traffic is an occasional four-wheeler. We exchange hellos. The landscape is barren. Miles of windswept tundra, dotted by small lakes.

Pilot Point has no store. It does have a few dozen houses, a post office and a tribal building where a nice lady offers us a ride to the airstrip and the only pay phone in town. We accept. I call home. It makes me homesick.

There are fish in Ugashik, and we have our biggest set of the season the next morning morning - 12 brailors - 8,200 pounds. Our luck holds for a few days, but the weather turns. Windy, cold, wet. We're anchored in the middle of it, waiting for the tender to return from a rescue mission.

As we wait, we're glued to the radio. Reports from the tender are intermittent as it attempts to rescue the Chaos - a gillnetter stuck on a sandbar. From what we gather no one on board has a survival suit, and the situation is too perilous for other boat's to approach. "Did you get all of them?" scratches through the static. It's just confirmed. They're rescued. It's a strange, detached feeling listening to the drama unfold on the radio as I sit in the relative warmth of the cabin. Like watching a television drama, only I'm less than a mile from the action in the same rough seas.

The next day trudges on, as we make set after set, steadily filling brailor bags. The monotony of pulling gear, taking off slicks, grabbing food, putting on slicks, and repeating the process wears on me. We continue the dance all day until our final set at 8:30pm.

Sitting in the cabin, waiting to pick the gear, the seas worsen. Breakers start to form around us. In a Twilight Zone moment, we realize we're the only boat around. We rush to pick up the gear.

Giant swells gently pick up the boat, smoothly placing it down as we start to reel in the net. They aren't so bad. It's gets bad when those giant swells break at the exact moment they meet the flat surface of the stern. A torrent of white water rushes over the deck. We hold on.

I'm soaked and scared. Instinct tells me to run. Seek shelter. I would if we weren't towing a net full of fish. In calm seas a full net takes 45 minutes to pick. In rough seas, longer. It's a helpless feeling, fumbling with each fish for up to a minute before you can reel the net in another foot to start fumbling with more fish. Like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube before running from the path of a tornado.

An hour later we pull in the net and run. We come up 140 pounds shy of 100,000 pounds and another steak dinner.

We're not going to reach our goal. I've known that for sometime, but with less than a week left, reality has set in. I likely will be leaving with less than $5,000 and no plane ticket home.

I'm waiting to be woken up by the grumbling of the engines and York asking me to pull anchor. It doesn't happen. Apparently our season ended uneventfully yesterday and none of us realized it. York figures it's too rough to fish. Now another waiting game begins. A waiting game played by listening to KDLG for the weather report. The most recent report calls for a small boat advisory through tomorrow evening. If it holds true, we leave Thursday morning. I can't wait.

The confines of our 32-foot prison cell grew even smaller today. It's too wet and cold to go out on the back deck or bridge, so I'm relegated to a bench at the table in the cabin where I've exhausted every possible sitting position. I pass the time playing poker, reading, staring out the window or sleeping. The mood is grim and grows grimmer with each weather report. Now they're predicting gale force winds. If this lasts much longer, I'll know what cabin fever means.

Despite dire weather reports that never match the weather we are experiencing, we leave Ugashik. Under dying winds we refuel and replenish food and water at the tender. By the time we leave, the wind dies. The first half of the trip is smooth. The second half is rough. We hit a good bit of chop as we rotate wheel watches and try to sleep. Close to 13 hours later we pull into Dillingham. It never looked so good.

Once on land, our first order of business is to settle up. It could be frustrating, but I find it amusing. Financially the season wasn't a bust, but it wasn't a breakthrough. After shelling out over $600 for a plane ticket, I earn less than $2,000 for close to two months of, at times, non-stop work. But it was worth it for the experience. Right? It was. And that's what helps – the fact that I did this for the experience and knew it was a gamble.

I wanted to fish in Alaska, and I did. If someone were to ask was it worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? A week ago. No. Today. Absolutely.

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