THE DESERT
First week of July, 4:30 a.m. I sat at the galley table, putting caffeine in my mouth again and again, my body irresolutely stirring, reacting, skin grey, reptilian eyes sweeping the galley, out the galley door to the two-tone churning seas.
The first set was out. The first set of our third day straight of fishing. The third day of four. My first four day opening I’ve done in God knows how long and never for this skinny a catch. Four thousand pounds or so for the last two days. To give you an example of the gamble: two years prior, in the summer of 2013 on the Saint Janet, we caught 80 thousand pounds by 8 a.m. off the coast of Noyes Island. We did that three more times that week. That summer I made 60 thousand dollars. I have nothing to show for it today. (Except for the camera that took these photos.)
I’m never as tired or haggard as I remember being. Yes, carpel tunnel flaring up in my right wrist, yes some unfortunate snag in the rigging of my back, yes my soggy white feet began to form painful trenches where my flesh was rolling into itself within the confines of my damp boot. I've learned to keep the bottom far away. Keep the end of my rope and endurance beyond sight and around the corner. I’ve seen worse. I’ve been more tired. I’ve seen worse fishing. There is something strange in the psychology of telling yourself daily, again and again, “I’ve seen worse”, but I can’t tell you what. The next day we did it again. Up at 3:45 a.m. to motor out, look around, make an unsatisfying set, run back, run forward, count fish in double digits, do it again and again and again. Make circles, suck them up. Dump the strained contents on deck. Shovel 80% of it back into the ocean where someone will catch it again. Cantaloupe rind, paper plate floating face down, battered dead cod.
The fishing grounds today have more in common with the Mojave than Southeast Alaska. Rolling around on a blue desert for all the heat and the lack of fish. The simplicity, the solitude. High of 20 fish trickled to five then two then waterhauls as the wind dropped and the sea leveled out. Sun casted our feet in puddles of shadow on deck. We sweated in our rain gear, I cooled myself by rolling the ocean cold web over my back, my front. It's a respite from the hot, increasingly bacterial, damp sock, foul smelling rain gear.
The doldrums usually span from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. The freshness and the coolness of the dawn, the stunning views that only Alaska mornings can deliver with big sky and back lit mountain ranges usually sour into bleak long hours of sun or timeless grey skies or just plain bad weather. But by three it's almost four, by then the shadows have begun to grow and the days passing is tangible at last.
This day, Allie rolled cigarettes and sat cross legged on the back deck singing, “One is the Loneliest Number”, Bud stared across the blue desert and Chuck muttered and smoked with great conviction, two inches of slumping ash off the tip of his cigarettes. I read with desperate escapism. The sky was an unchanging dome of blue. Amy tried a set far outside yielding: sticks, waxed cardboard box, battered yellowed barnacle infested plastic bag (that I swear we caught last opening) and jellyfish.
No living piscine creatures in the net. We ran back in slowly and in the vibrations of the boat an uneasy hesitation resounded, a sort of tentative pause in our motions, for when you’re catching nothing but cannot quit for pride or glory or ego, what do you do? A 65 year old skipper may take the rest of the day off but for first year skipper's– that’s not even an option. That’s not even on the table.
Next: THE NORTHERN EXPOSURE
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