Cooking in the Boat / breakfast hits the deck

Dinner seemed especially satisfying, the warm dry galley in sharp contrast to the early evening gloom, bitter cold wind sending occasional sheets of icy spray across the boat a few feet away from our little bubble of comfort.

By late afternoon the next day we were outfitted for another trip, rolling along in a choppy sea toward the same fishing hole from which we had scratched up the good load a few days before.  Dinner seemed especially satisfying, the warm dry galley in sharp contrast to the early evening gloom, bitter cold wind sending occasional sheets of icy spray across the boat a few feet away from our little bubble of comfort.  Mixed with the excitement of filling the boat with shrimp again, I also felt a bit of dread at the prospect of scrambling out there in a few short hours, working the rest of the night with icy lines with the deck steeply rolling under foot in the almost threatening sea that was marching up the channel from the north east.

The series of low pressure fronts that has heralded the snow choked gales of the previous few days had given way to a high pressure cell, which swept the sky clear of the heavy cloud cover.  For most of the afternoon the weather seemed almost balmy, as the sun made an appearance, which along with the wind laying down gave what was at least the illusion of mild warmth, if not the real thing.  Night fall came with the wind backing around to the northeast, and while the temperature was nominally above freezing, at least at dinner time, there was a sharp edge to it that cut through the three layers of clothing I was wearing as we put the tie-up lines away and cleared the decks for traveling.

Hot roast beef, compliments of the radar-range oven with heaps of mashed potatoes and savory gravy, over a generous pad of sweet cream butter from the Dari-Gold can that was always on the table, pail canned green peas on the side, even a bit of iceberg salad with thousand island dressing cleansed the mind of worries about the rest of the night.  Over this sumptuous repast Tom got us all going into guffaws of laughter, telling stories of growing up on the farm in Oklahoma.  As I may have mentioned, Tom and Phil have to be two of the funniest guys I have ever known.  I don’t care what the topic, it seemed as if it wasn’t even possible for either of them to speak without sparking a laugh.  Even though our little crew was not by any means completely free from internal tensions, fun stories spiced with deep, satisfying laughter always lightened the mood.  In all the years I spent working in fish boats, the social dynamic working with those three characters was by far the most conducive to having a good time in what was otherwise less than pleasant circumstances.

After what seemed like exceedingly short naps we all sprang into action when Phil idled the main engine to near stop when the boat had wound its way back to the spot over which he wanted to set the net for the first tow of the trip.  Memories of the Oklahoma sun that Tom's stories evoked during dinner were wiped from our faces by the icy blast of a twenty mile an hour wind out of the northeast, blowing straight into the bay,  as the boat drifted sideways to the wind.  It did not slow us down a bit as we got the gear ready and in no time the net was on the bottom, “open for business” once again.  This time the loads in the net at the end of each tow were quite a bit smaller, and handling the gear  more difficult as the boat jumped and rolled heavily in the building sea that raked down on us out of the pitch black night.

We were working along the southwestern edge of a bay that cuts deeply into the Shelikof straight side of the Kodiak Island.  It was probably not much more than three miles across at the entrance, separated by steep highlands as it wound its way deep into the interior of the island.  The area we were fishing paralleled a rocky beach backed very steep slopes looming nearly a thousand feet overhead.  The northeast wind blowing straight into the entrance of the bay bounced off of this wall of mountainside a mile or so on our beam coming straight down on us in what are called willowahs.  Reminded me when Jon and I used to float boats in the bath tub in the big house on Brooklyn street, always ended up in some sea battle that splashed big waves of water over the edge of the heavy claw foot tub, onto the white tile flooring, bringing aunt Norma into the room to calm the storm by making us drain the tub and find something else to do that was less messy.

As daylight began to fill the bay the foam crested waves looked much worse than they seemed with passing under and occasionally over us unseen in the dark.  The other boats that had been dragging in the area over night with us were beginning to roll up their gear and scoot out of there looking for shelter, and we were not far behind.  With his characteristic evaluation of poor weather conditions, “savage,” Phil gave the word to lash things down as soon as we dumped a medium sized bag of shrimp onto the deck.  By then she was rolling the decks under, deep washes salty water rushing in and out of the scuppers, almost cleaning the muddy shrimp before we got to them with the hose and pitch forks.

Working with the urgency of the quickly deteriorating weather conditions, it wasn’t long before everything was double lashed down and the small pile of fish put away.  For the first time since I had been aboard the water tight door to the galley closed behind us and the heavy iron dogs pushed in place to keep the water that now roared over the top of the bulwark railings as she dipped deeper on each roll, partly driven by the increase in speed we needed to work our way our of the blow hole in which we had been fishing.  The four of us huddled in the wheel house where we could have a better look at the scene.  The sky, dotted with a few clouds ripped into shreds by the screaming northeast wind, patches bright sunshine here and there catching the foam and spray making it flash bright for an instant then scoot off to leeward in great sheets of finer mist.  With the increase in speed the volume of water breaking over the bows and windward sides of the boat greatly increased, and in the near zero temperature of the morning spray begun to freeze on the pipes and rigging, causing some concern that if we were not able to get into the open where the wind could be put on her stern, the added weight of ice on the topside of the boat could adversely affect her stability.

The only way out of the hole took us on a course toward a point three or four miles distant, taking the huge ragged seas almost directly on our starboard side.  In rough weather, a boat experiences the best level of stability when the course is set directly into or away from the direction of the wind.  Facing steep seas with the entire bulk of the displacement of the boat to dampen the movement as she jumps up the sides of the waves, or with the stern rising on each sea scooting the hull forward with deep slow rolls side to side is better than exposing the entire length of the hull, house and rigging sideways to the wind.  Twenty five feet of beam rolling heavily to leeward as each sea marches under the keel can be uncomfortable.  The ice in her belly helped, and although we had only had a few hours of scratchy fishing, there were the thirty or forty thousand pounds of shrimp iced below added to our confidence that she had every intention of recovering from standing on beams ends, but we nevertheless hung on with whitened knuckles when a particularly steep roll seemed to last forever.

Wind storm or not I was feeling peckish after working all night in the cold, and decided that things weren’t so bad that a guy couldn’t rustle up a nice hot breakfast anyway.  Making my way down the ladder toward the galley I thought about Uncle Axel, our grandfather Pete’s brother, at age ninety sitting under weeping willow tree out at Norm and Simon’s place on the lake talking about his teen age years.  In the late nineteenth century, he shipped out from Norway in a sailing ship.  Two stories stand out in memory, one of a lack of wind in hot weather and an entire hold full of bananas going rotten, he could never touch the fruit again.  In the other incident, a Pacific cyclone had the ship laying to for three days under bare poles, galley stoves washed out cold, the crew just hanging on for dear life fed on nothing but soggy crackers and cold tea.  Finally, the captain’s wife took pity on the boys out on deck and invited them into her apartment, better protected from the elements in the stern of the ship a small stove provided warmth and the magic of hot chocolate all around.  Appointed like a parlor in a fine home the apartment seemed like a tiny island of tranquility in the midst of the roaring storm, and the hospitality offered by the captain and his wife still impressed the old man seven decades later.

Compared to that, our three mile run to open water shouldn’t be any problem, should it?  Reassuring myself with the question as I planed the move from the ladder to the galley. Leaning into the wall on the starboard roll, I figured on stepping across to the bulkhead behind Phil’s place at the corner of the table and lay there as she dipped into the steeper angle to port. The next crest caught us ten seconds early and the room tilted away from me before reaching the safety of the wall.  A quick grab onto the lea rail of the table, one foot wedged into the base of the wall on my left that had transformed from floor to ceiling, the other against the table leg barely kept me from flying over the top of the table into the open door to Tom’s stateroom on the far side of the room.  The view aft, through the port hole in the galley bulkhead a few feet in front of me became a frothy mass of foam, looked like the door on an oversize washer in a laundry mat as deck load of sea water scooped up in her sidelong dive off the previous sea appeared weightless as the hull fell off then next sea rolling back to starboard.  Sure, old Uncle Axel saw much worse and lived to sit under a willow tree on the fourth of July spinning yarns for the little ones, so why not us?

Anticipating a couple of smaller waves following that big one I made my move on aft toward the galley.  At the crest of the next sea she paused for a moment, keel pointing toward the center of the earth, allowing me to scurry on  past the table, then as she climbed out of the ditch between the next two monster seas, two more steps put me in the work space at the corner between the stove and sink.  Here guy could lean into the edge of the counter on the starboard rolls, and hang on to the inch and a half oak edging around the counters, wedge a foot under the counter  and still have one hand free to work without danger of tumbling down across the room into the pantry. 

Now things were more manageable.  In between the sharp crashing rolls that filled the entire deck area with frothy sea water I could catch a bit of ocean and sky out through the port hole in the bulkhead in front of me which helped.  Normally I expect to feel sea sick for a day or two after being in town like we were between trips.  It helps a lot to look out toward the horizon.  When I am out trolling, the first six or eight hours I am fine out on deck, a bit queasy in the wheel house, uncomfortable down in the small enclosed galley.  Then a little later, I feel fine in the wheel house and only slightly sick below deck.  By the end of the day, or the next morning the process is complete and my system has salted down to where the overall feeling is much better than one ever experiences in the mundane life up on the beach.  On this trip a long night of hard work on deck in conditions only somewhat less bouncy than we experienced now and the adrenalin rush of taking a beating now seemed to be an effective cure for mal d mer, fear trumping nausea.

Everything on the boat, especially here in the galley is set up to be functional even in the wildest weather.  The stove, securely bolted to the deck, strapped to the bulkhead behind cannot move.  The electric fan in front pushing air into the fire box hardly noticing  the rough ride over these ragging combers baring down on us from the north east.  Flames in the stove swirling and sputtering; only changing pitch a little in the grip of the wildest willowahs that raged down on us from the heights of the mountain under which we labored.  Thick cream colored restaurant wear china, stacked in bins attached to the bulkheads hardly even raddled, as the boat went through her gyrations.  The last deck beam before the bulkhead, heavy with thirty years of oil stove yellowed white lead paint held a row of over sized cup hooks on which our coffee mugs rode out the gale, hanging serenely by their thick porcelain handles almost as if the boat were traveling along on a calm day.  A set of drawers at the end of the counter were made with deep slots cut into the under slides requiring the front to be lifted an inch or so before the drawer could be pulled out, preventing it from opening on its own no matter how steep and sharp the rolling and bucking motion of the boat, and under counter cabinet doors also latched fast.  Two or three shelves closer to the overhead held a variety of junk behind high front railings.  I once heard an old timer comment, “The boat could turn every way but over before things started flying loose around that galley,” well, maybe so but this morning is surely the test.

The cook in a fishing boat with a small crew like ours doesn’t get to shuffle around the galley all day fixing the meals.  Once the boat is on the grounds every minute has to be devoted to fishing, gear hauled in and set out with maximum speed.  Everyone on deck lending a hand, no time to take a break for meals.  Once in a while the skipper may decide to pull out and run to another place to fish, during which the cook can turn to in the galley, but usually a meal is completed in three stages.  At the end of one set, after the deck is cleared the cook will come into the galley to set things up for the next meal.  Then in the break after the next bout of work on deck, things are ready for the stove.  Potatoes in pot at a place on the stove where they will simmer, beans or peas in another, roast or chickens into the oven.  If the timing is correct, and the cook knows the stove well enough to get everything in the right places, a delightful hot meal will be ready at the end of the next set.  Cooking on the fishing boat a few seasons before I got very good at juggling these chores, running out over the seine pile to the skiff with plates of hot food for the boys who stayed there all day, even when the skipper was traveling between fishing holes, ready to let the net fly at the sight of fish along the way.

Not having a single person designated as cook on this trip was better, sharing these chores as the whim hit each guy added a bit of variety to the menu choices as well as reliving the burden of always being in the galley working during the brief rest periods we enjoyed throughout these long fishing days.  Sometime during the night I began to crave one of my favorite boat breakfasts and took it on myself to be cook for the morning.  Between sets I peeled and grated a pile of potatoes, stirring them  into a large pot at full rolling boil, careful to keep them from clumping up into a gelatinous mass, or over cook into unintended mashed potatoes.  A minute or so in the boiling water should be enough, then dump the entire pot into a colander in the set at the bottom of the sink and douse thoroughly with cold water to arrest the cooking process.  Parboiling does something to the starches in the potato so that when they are fried later each bit cooks separately rather than sticking together in a clump that also wants to stick to the bottom of the pan.  Tom may likes to eat a potato just line an apple, “better really, no core” he used to say, but I like mine completely cooked.  After draining in the colander as much of the extra moisture as possible needs to be removed.  The best way is to spread a clean tea towel out onto the cutting board, then turn the mass of grated potato over one half of the towel and use the other half to pat toe top of the pile dry.  If there is time, they will cook better if they have been in the cooler over night before going into the hot skillet.  

Starting this process sometime around three in the morning, and I figured on starting the potatoes frying and putting a pan of sausages into the oven toward the end of the next tow, so that when we finished up on deck after that set, sometime just after five, breakfast would be ready.  Now that we were getting beat up in the gale it seemed like a better idea to do my cooking now, hunkered down in the galley, having the food hot and ready as soon as we got out of the blow hole and turned to the southwest, putting the gale on the stern of the boat where she.  As the old man used to say, “you know how this boat is, putting it on the stern is like shutting the storm off.”

In the mean time, things were on the edge on being unmanageable in the galley.  Screen door springs with bent coat hanger hooks at each end stretched between the steel rails surrounding the top of the stove, keeping the skillet and coffee pot where I wanted them.  The potatoes were ready, and when the pan reached the critical temperature cooking oil smeared around with a half a paper towel gave just the right amount of lubrication to prevent sticking.  In the boats, and at home for that matter, we used cast iron cook wear, especially skillets.  When properly seasoned with a glaze of cooked hard oil these pans surpass Teflon’s non stick properties, with the added advantage of being significantly more durable.  No need to pussy foot around with silly little plastic utensils, regular steel spatulas won’t mar the surface, and when it does occasionally need to be touched up it is just a matter of getting the skillet very hot and applying cooking oil and allowing it to smoke and harden.  Sometimes when I get a gourmand hair up my ass I will smash fresh garlic cloves in with the oil to add some seasoning.  However the very best treatment happens on the troller from salmon oil.  There an everyday staple of our diet is poached salmon.  Nothing more than a slab of freshly filleted fish laid in the pan skin side down and put onto low heat.  By the time we get back into the galley  from hauling the gear the fish has poached in its own juices, good eating then or great to uses later in tacos or sandwiches.  The oils from this put a glaze onto the boat frying pan that is second to none, but a supply of freshly caught fish isn’t always available, so the canola oil has to do most of the time.

This morning’s menu is a good one for rough weather.  After the hash browns are almost ready to turn out or the pan you take a large spoon and form indentations around  the top of the mass, into which eggs are cracked.  Then gently lift one side of the potatoes and add a quarter cup of water and clamp the lid on the pan so the steam will come up and poach the eggs.  Even when the boat is rolling and jumping like today, the eggs hold snug in their potato nests and gently cook to perfection.  In the mean time a block of extra sharp cheddar cheese is finely grated for the finishing touches, added on top a minute before the eggs are done, it melts into the mix, creating a delight not only for the pallet but it looks dammed pretty to boot.

With the potato in the skillet and a pan of sausages, simmering under the hot stove top on the upper oven rack I looked up and saw I needed a fresh roll of paper towels.  The pantry on this trip was in the cook’s stateroom that opened at the far end of the galley.  It was identical to the other staterooms, two bunks with a tiny bench locker and storage cabinet, port hole toward the front of the upper bunk.  In the days when Jon and I were kids messing around the boat the cook lived in that room, and it had always seemed like a little island of tranquility, the safest and most comfortable place to be in the boat.  In some ways this is true, closest to the center of the boat the motion, especially when bucking into the sea is less here than it is even ten or fifteen feet closer to the bow.  Also, the galley, with stove and refrigerator, stout port lights looking out onto the aft deck, lights always burning bright, seemed to be the most comforting area as well.  But when I edged my way into the cooks room, bunks now piled with extra galley supplies to get the fresh roll of paper towels the feeling was unexpectedly different.  About that time the boat, already favoring the port side, pushed hard by the relentless gale, took an especially deep roll giving me the feeling that I had gone on my back, leaning against the bunks with the entire bulk of the boat on top of me.  It suddenly felt claustrophobic in there and just wanted to get back out to the upper corner of the galley where I could see out the window and feel closer to the door to get out of the boat if necessary.  Not that getting out of the boat if, god forbid, she went on over in one of these humongous rolls would do anyone any good.  No one could last a minute in that sea, and if she turned over suddenly there wasn’t going to be any time to get into a survival suite either.  Interesting though that the one area that had seemed like the best place to be back in town, before we ever felt the boat move in the sea turned out to be the least comfortable place for me now that the reality of the fish business was being beat into our heads.

Just as I was setting another mixing bowl in the sink into which the cheese would be grated I felt the boat begin to take an exceptional roll.  In an instant the deck under my feet became almost vertical, then seemed to fall straight down to starboard before jerking back to port and repeating the deep roll with a violence of movement that is hard to describe.  At the sink I was able to hang on, first being pushed against the counter, then almost dangling from the ledge as she rolled away.  Things went flying.  I don’t know if my frying pan bounced off the overhead, but the whole mass landed on the deck.  Something from a deep sided shelf above me toward the door went crashing off the opposite wall and slid across the floor, sounds of things that never moved could be heard from various parts of the room.

In a couple minutes, when we had stabilized back to the previous level of movement, hardly stable but not like a roller coaster ride, I was retrieving the frying pan from the cook’s room where it had landed, when Tom’s voice could be heard exclaiming amazement from the other room.  Coming around the corner I saw what was certainly the strangest thing in all my years working in the boats.  The green mesh table covering had somehow been flipped to the deck, leaving the folded up newspaper someone had been reading the previous afternoon where it was, near the corner of the table, apparently unmoved.  Like the old trick, where a performer pulls a table cloth out from under a fully set table, the movement of the boat had jerked the rubberized mesh covering off the table top without moving the papers.

The green mesh covering was the same stuff one sometimes sees as shelf lining, or in a bar where the glasses are washed.  It is especially useful for boat mess tables, staying in place on the table, which is also fitted with inch and a half side rails, and doing an excellent job of preventing plates and cups from sliding around.  Over time bits of spilled jam and syrup, dried catchup and what ever else may slop over the edges of plates at meal times augment the holding power of the covering.  Somehow, the boat moved in a couple of directions with sufficient momentum to first break loose these peanut butter bonds under the mat, then leave it suspended in mid air long enough for the mat to fall to the floor as the table and boat fell away in the opposite direction.  We were totally blown away.

Placing the mat back on the table, and picking up the bottle of simple green cleaner that had jumped out of the shelf between the door and sink, Tom observed that that thing had been there for years without moving in any kind of wild weather.

 Saying, “It seems like there is always something that happens that never happened before.” he went to work getting the mat back on the table while I turned to the mess in the galley.

Copyright 2012 - Paul Petersen

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