Green Summer: Commercial Fishing In Alaska
By Joel Turner

Walking the docks of Seattle’s Fishermen's Terminal, I nervously approach anyone working on a boat, asking whether they’re looking for help. I don’t know the difference between a seiner, a sockeye or a greenhorn; all I know is that I want to fish in Alaska. I realize it won’t be glamorous, but I figure it could be adventurous and possibly lucrative.

My journey starts in April. Summer plans begin brewing, and thoughts of fishing in Alaska start flowing. Incessant thoughts, I know, will haunt me all my life if I don't act on them.

"Are you looking for help or know anyone who is?" I repeat the question at least two dozen times. It becomes my mantra. Some quickly dismiss me. "I've already got a crew," they shout from behind the wheelhouse as they outfit their boats for the upcoming season. Others stop and ask, "What's your experience?"
 
"Not much, but I'm eager to learn," I say, hoping they give me the time of day to prove I'm serious.

"A greenhorn," they immediately reply, scratching their chins as I cringe. Greenhorn. The word starts to sting. It becomes an obstacle. An obstacle hard to overcome.

I quickly realize that finding a fishing job in Alaska takes patience and determination.

More leads; more rejections. I search internet classified ads, where more "Alaska fishing job" ads pop up every day. I respond to an ad for a crewman aboard a gillnet. I receive a call from a soft-spoken captain who invites me to his Seattle home to watch a 30-minute fishing video and answer my questions.

Dan York is a mountain of a man, standing 7-feet tall with a trimmed white beard and thinning gray hair. He walks with a marked limp, the result of a commercial scuba diving accident in his twenties.

York's been fishing for almost 40 years, falling into the profession after buying a gillnetter to commercially dive for sea urchins in Puget Sound in 1968. A gillnetter in Bristol Bay since 1980, he skippered seven boats before being asked to captain a boat late last season as a medical transfer. He fished a third of the season and was invited back to captain the F/V Susquehanna, a 1976, cream-colored Modutech that wears its age in patched fiberglass and rust stains.

He's looking for three greenhorns. Only greenhorns would settle for experience plus a 5% crew share.
Sitting in recliners in York's living room, we watch the video in a pause/play fashion. York provides commentary of gillnetting, a fishing technique that employs a fine filament mesh dropped in the path of migrating fish like a giant, invisible tennis court net. The openings are just large enough for fish to get their heads stuck.

York replays the scene of two people quickly pulling fish from a net that is being reeled on board by a giant hydraulic drum. He emphasizes how important fast fish picking is and how tired my arms will be. I try to visualize the act as he hands me a black, plastic-handled wrist exerciser.

"See if you can do a hundred squeezes," he says as I take the hand-gripping device and hurriedly begin the exercise, pumping as fast as I can, counting each under my breath.

I hit 75 and tire, but manage to struggle through the final 25. Good enough apparently. York asks when I can leave. That's it. The deal is sealed. I'm going fishing in Alaska.

I shell out $175 on a commercial fishing license and about $100 on extras. In exchange for an early arrival to work on the boat, York purchases my plane ticket with a promise to cover the return flight if we catch over $150,000 worth of fish. He sounds optimistic.

I arrive in Dillingham on June 4. There I meet York and crewmember Jason, a 27-year old construction worker from Seattle. Keith, a 24-year-old marine biology student in Olympia, WA will be joining us in two weeks.

Dillingham is a quiet town. Population 2,400 in winter, double in summer as fishermen flood in. Only accessible by boat or plane, it's surrounded by miles of flat tundra with jagged peaks clawing the sky in the distance.

The town sits on Nushagak Bay, an inlet of Bristol Bay – the small indent just above the Aleutian Island chain in Southwest Alaska. The five bays or districts that feed Bristol Bay are home to the largest run of salmon in the world. It's also the shortest salmon season in Alaska; 32.7 million fish are forecast to return to the region this season ,with the majority caught over a six week period.

Like clockwork, the season begins early June as chinook or king salmon return home. Kings are followed by sockeyes or reds, which typically build up to a peak around July 4. By the end of July the run, excitement, and population of the town dies. Boats on blocks. Fishermen heading home.

Love at first sight is hardly a term I'd use for my initial encounter with the Susquehanna. It looks nothing like the picture of the sea-worthy vessel that had been shown to me. The boat in the picture is floating. The boat I find is on blocks in its owner's backyard. The debris-ridden cabin and splintered deck don't strike me as seagoing, but we aim to get the boat in ship shape for a king salmon opener within the week.

A steady month of work wouldn't be enough time to prep the Susquehanna, yet here we are with a growing list of fixes and pressure from the owner to get the boat in the water. The work is full of ups and downs. Two steps forward, one step back. A fixed oil leak, a cracked water pump, a tightened hose clamp, a loose wire.

Despite my doubts we're out before I know it.

Anticipation runs high as York climbs to the bridge 10 minutes before our first opener. Jason and I, donning our yellow slicks, stand on the back deck with neatly laid out coils of net at our feet. We practice the routine York briefed us only minutes before: Buoy over, man the break, watch for backlashes.

We wait anxiously as York counts down the final 10 seconds. "Let her go," he hollers, as the bright orange buoy swings overboard, followed by the attached cork line. Jason mans the break as the net pulls free from the reel, racing over the back roller. I stand by watching for snags. Five minutes, 900 feet later the net forms a 10-foot wall. I'm fishing in Alaska. I watch the corks for splashes or bobbing; any indication there are fish in the net. Nothing. "We'll be here for a while," Dan says. I head inside to fix some oatmeal.

A few hours later we reel in the net. Nothing. Then, near the end of the third shackle, a huge silver king, gasping, falls over the roller. Surreal. Jason and I attack it, trying to free its stiff body from the net that not only wedges its way under the gills, but around the head, tail, fins, body. With the fish free, we bleed it and put it on ice. Our first fish. The only one we catch all day. Disappointment. Later we discover we did as good as, if not better than, the rest of the fleet. Relief.

Fishing is a waiting game. A waiting game played by tuning into KDLG, the one and only radio station serving the Bristol Bay area, and listening to the fishing report. Three times a day The Department of Fish & Game reports the number of fish caught, the strength of the run and the next opening. Openings are determined by escapement, the number of fish allowed to escape the fishery and spawn, ensuring healthy returns. As escapement goals are met, more fishing time is allotted.

I can only imagine what the Dillingham boat harbor looks like during the off-season; Not much I'm sure. Right now the small, sheltered cove about the size of a football stadium is packed with about 300 boats in what looks like a massive tailgate party. The atmosphere isn't much different; barbecue, beer, music.

With boat work caught up and a few days off, we kill time chatting on the phone, reading books, writing letters and checking email at the library. For a real treat we head out to the dump to watch bears. For those of us raised in the lower 48, this is Dillingham's equivalent to taking in a movie at the drive-in. Cars line the edge of the dump, awaiting the arrival of brown bears, which scavenge through garbage for food. It's a novelty for me to see a bear in the wild, but it has the feel of catching a glimpse of an animal at the zoo.

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