Something always happens that never happened before

Mt. St. Elias - run from Yakutat to Cape Spencer

Half decade later, Thanksgiving week, I found myself in a college coffee shop high on the hill overlooking Bellingham bay, rain streaked windows drawing my mind’s eye through a thousand miles of wind torn sky out to the northwest.

     After a couple days with little sleep, we all fell into our bunks ready for a long winters nap.  With the possible exception of a rare youthful romantic adventure, no joy on this earth can match the comfort we felt that night. Snow flurries hissing against  the boat as she swung on the anchor rode,  the sound of the wind lashing through the trees up along the unseen ridge high above our tiny pool of calm water like a distant choir singing an anthem of  the storm.  

     No one got up very early the next morning. The weather forecast called for storm warnings all along the coast, outlook for the next two days sounding much the same.  Terrible Ted came in while we were at breakfast announcing that they had lots of liquor aboard, but forgot to top off the water tanks in town and needed to bum a couple hundred gallons of drinking water. After helping string the hose, we settled into a routine of reading books and napping. Waking from an unusually deep sleep sometime in mid afternoon, I shuffled out  for a snack finding the mess room and galley deserted.  The door to Tom's room stood ajar and I could clearly see the bunk unoccupied.  Jon's room next door didn't have as much light, but his bunk also seemed to be empty. Pulling myself up to the wheel house I could see just a sliver of daylight through the heavy curtains in the chart room also giving the appearance that Phil wasn't in his bunk either.   No one on deck, and through the galley windows of the Barbara Anne along side I could see that area deserted as well.  Checking engine room and fish hold, even back into the after compartment through the alleyway between head high fuel and water tanks to the steering gear compartment, lit with a couple iron caged lamps, didn't see a sole.  That's when a cold chill ran up my spine.  Russians!  The sneaky red devils must have come on board while I slept and kidnapped the boys to be slaves in their factory trawlers.  Imagined poor Tom in the clutches of the huge woman we had seen the previous afternoon hanging out the window of the trawler, the other boys put to work somewhere in the bowels of those fowl vessels.

     Realizing the isolation and quiet had gotten the better of my imagination, I fixed something to eat and settled into my spot at the table with my book.  Before long Tom came shuffling up from below, pulling his greasy coveralls off in the anti room, and came in saying that he was double checking all the fittings and connections in the steering gear, back in the lazzerett.  He had been there when I peeked around the corner looking for the lost brethren, but must have been under a large timber that crosses the room from side to side, supporting the heavy shaft connected to the rudder. A few minutes later there was a stirring from Jon’s private little nest, and I realized that the tin foil survival blanket he sometimes used instead of a sleeping bag folded and reflected light in such a way that it disguised his presence in the deeper recesses of the bunk.  Later, we heard Phil’s foot fall over our heads, as he lumbered out of his dark recess and came down for a bite of dinner.  Not wanting to reinforce their opinions that I tended to be crazy already, I didn't share my silly fantasy, and we set to work fixing a nice hot supper.

         The heightened sense of elation one feels upon arriving in a safe haven from the storm fairly quickly melts into dull boredom, and by the afternoon of the second day laying at anchor we were very pleased to hear a voice crackle on the radio, reading a favorable weather forecast for the following twenty four hours, high pressure building in the gulf. Early the next afternoon found us rounding Cape St. Elias into a glassy sea.  Calm winds, long lazy ground swell from the southwest,  the old boat  rolling along at full speed.  It smelled great to have the fresh salt air coming in the open galley port lights the doors open, memories of raging gales and black night terrors swept neatly out of the galley with Kimo's whisk broom.  Standing at the stove stirring up some lunch I could see sea birds wheeling out of our way as we chugged past their feeding activities, occasional slops of glistening sea water lapping at the rails as the old boat dipped her sides first one way then the other with just a hint of frisky excitement, as glad to be on the way as the rest of us.

     A few miles off shore we came into the biggest concentration of porpoises I have ever seen.  The little dolphins diving and jumping in every direction as far as the eye could see.  Mind you one really cannot see very far with any particular degree of detail from the rolling deck of a small fish boat, but there were a lot of these critters around that afternoon.  They were the Dall’s Porpoise that are common along our northwest coasts, shiny black on top with white underbelly that extends about half way up each side, most of them appearing to be about six feet in length.

     Usually we see them in smaller groups, suddenly appearing on either side of the boat near the bow, scooting along just below the surface along the crest of the wave that extends back from the foreword part of the boat when it is powering along at full speed.  The little pod will divide itself into two groups, half on each side of the boat.  They then take turns jetting ahead, coming almost in contact with the bow of the boat, rolling on their side for a moment showing the white markings, often giving you a good look into their exposed eye.  After a brief ride in the shock wave that pushed ahead of the bow, the little fellow will scoot ahead and the next in line, from the other side will come along in its place.  I have always considered it great good luck for the day that these creatures come along for a visit, and if this is so, then traveling through an area populated with thousands of them, and having hundreds participate in the bow wave ride from the Commander must have given us the best possible luck, at least for that day.

     Riding along out on the top of the house watching the porpoises, feeling the boat rolling under foot, sky and light variable winds, almost worm for a brief hour, felt great. Home and family not so far over the distant horizon.  By dinner time things returned to normal, raging northeast wind falling off the spectacularly beautiful mountain range that stands close above the beach in this country. Running as close to the beach as possible to shorten the winds grip on the sea, huge ragged waves still seemed to jump up out of nowhere to bar our way. Engine throttled back as she jumped head to tail over three or four sharp ridges of water, then a space running at full power almost long enough for a guy off watch in his bunk to just doze off before being jarred awake again with the next set of combers.  The kind of night when a guy thinks of home. The old beat up green couch, schefflera plant hanging in the window over the dining table,  ice cold beer close at hand, theme from  Hockey Night in Canada on the black and white TV.  Mornings with  coffee and plans for the day, shuffling down to the boat harbor to work on my little salmon boat, or having a quiet dinner party with a few friends on the weekend.  Being away like that has a way of making ordinary things at home seem so wonderful, without any of the stresses of daily life shadowing the picture.  If there is something good about thrashing around in these boats half the year, its the anticipation and all too brief elation one feels for the simple domestic pleasures back home at the end of the trip.

        Not long after noon the next day found us slipping into the flat harbor in Yakutat.   A light skiff of snow lay over the wide city wharf, the engine quiet, lines creaking on pilings, the little generator sputtering and echoing off the underside of the platform above.  Contrast between the raging northeasterly gales out on the ocean and the quiet scene in town  like stepping out of a Stephen King story into a Norman Rockwell painting.  After stretching our legs for a bit in the fresh snow, we climbed back down to the boat, heat of the galley burning our faces making toasted cheese sandwiches and soup at the grand old radar range. 

     "You should have been here the summer of sixty eight, Jon." I began to reminisce about the cannery boat days. "That year I stayed on till almost the end of September for the Kaliakh river trip.  We didn't put put up many cases of salmon"
     "Isn't that up along that country we crossed last night, just above cape Yakataga?" Phil commented.  "Didn't know you could get a boat up into any of those rivers."
     "Wouldn't want to try it in tough weather for sure. Boss lay to a mile or so off the surf line and took the chief in for a look see in the skiff before shooting in with the cannery boat. Looked for all the world like we were edging our way directly into a gravel bar as we approached the beach from the deck where he had me and another guy stationed at the anchor wenches, ready to let go on his word.  At the last minute a narrow gap appeared in the combers, revealing the river bar entrance.  Scooted in slick as a whistle.  River takes a ninety degree turn a couple hundred yards up from the beach and runs parallel to the ocean for the better part of a mile, maybe more.  Once we got around the turn the river ran fairly deep close to the upland bank, with a few scattered cabins where the fishers we brought along with us camped out for the month.
     Run a Coho that looked like medium Kings in that river that time of year, but we didn't get to run the can line more than a few hours, fish and game didn't see enough fish coming into the river to allow the locals to set their nets.  No work, large crew in our boat as well as a similar processor laying in the river a hundred yards below, with a small community of vacationing fishers scattered along the beach made for a party atmosphere.  Surprised me that there weren't more fights, but as far as I remember two brothers in the other processor boat got into it one night."
     "Jack forbid drinking on the boat the summer I worked out at Egegik," Jon allowed.
     "All that changed up in that country.  The gun rule still applied. Remember that character who tried to lead me astray in Kodiak, Cal?  Well, he got into it with his drinking partners somewhere up here in town, had to fly out to hospital in Juneau.  Flew out to meet us up the Kaliakh, got off the bush plane wearing a city boy jacket and slacks, roaring drunk, sporting a sweet little 30.30.  Several of us greeted him on the top deck, taking turns cracking off a few rounds into the clay bank up ahead of our anchorage.  Jack came out, took his turn for three or four shots, turned around and went back into his private cabin, taking the gun without a word."      Returned it when they hit Seattle a few weeks later.

By evening the pressure gradient had moderated over the gulf, and the strong outflow winds lay down.  Morning would bring good traveling weather again.  The change probably also meant another south east gale was brewing further out in the gulf, but there would be plenty of time to make the fifteen hour run to Cape Spencer, after which we would be on the inside, safe from the worst the weather could hurl our way.  Or so we hoped. 

View of the beach traveling Yakutat to Cape Spencer

     Climbing into the wheel house the next day at noon, the ocean was smooth, and we were charging along at full power rolling easily in the low rounded ground swell.  Both wheel house doors were open, salt air exhilarated the soul.  Phil was standing in his usual place in the doorway to the chart room, and spinning yarns he had heard the Old man tell about the days on the fox farm.  After several tough days our hearts felt light, Cape Spencer and the inside just a few clicks down the line.  From there one can practically see the lights of the city looming over the near horizon.

     Almost worked out that way too.  After an over night stay in Petersburg we caught a fair tide through Wrangell Narrows for an early start on the long days run down to Ketchikan.  In Snow Passage  the early morning variable winds began to freshen from the south.  The sea built into a surprisingly aggressive lump over the course of the next few hours, the old wooden boats running side by side a half mile apart, putting on a show. Dipping the bulwarks just under the crest of a larger sea, tossing the spray high at the top of the buck, a quarter of the ruddy bottom planks glistening in patchy sunshine, before plunging down into the next trough. The fun soon melted into just another day of drudgery, sustained winds in the sixty knot range, bucking endless banks of steep, black seas that seemed determined to block our way down Clarence Straights.  At some point late that afternoon a wall of water broke over the top, knocking the anemometer vanes askew, leaving the needle stuck on forty-five knots.  Crossing the entrance to Behm channel, within sight of the lights of town, wind and sea whipped considerably.  Monster waves in tide rips laying the boat over on her side again and again.   
     Tom and I spent those last long hours in the hallway just outside the galley windows, keeping close to the switch for an extra bilge pump that needed to be used from time to time in tough weather. The head opens to that area with a heavy hard wood door kept  ajar on an eight inch bronze hook.  Other than the door, the little room is sealed off from the rest of the boat and has the shower drain to the outside, so keeping the port hole open is an ideal way to get fresh air in the otherwise sealed boat interior.  Each time the railing on that side scooped into the sea on a steep roll,  a frighteningly powerful gush of black water blasted into the brightly lit head, splattering off the opposite wall with a deafening  roar.  For me, feeling the weight of that water, how quickly and powerfully it pushed into the tiny room, one had a new respect for the frail strength of the boat holding that much weight back at every seam and joint. 
    Nothing more substantial than the anemometer veins broke that night, and with a few last rolls and pitches we found ourselves putting down main street Ketchikan, looking for a place to tie up for the night.  "Feel that hum?". On deck now in the lea of the break Tom shouts to be heard over the storms scream. "When it sings in the rigging like that, its blowing 100." An hour later, perched on counter stools in a white lit down town greasy spoon, Phil and I enjoyed oily coffee and commercial cooked cherry pie. In from the storm alive felt good.

*************

     Half decade later, Thanksgiving week, I found myself in a college coffee shop high on the hill overlooking Bellingham bay, rain streaked windows drawing my mind’s eye through a thousand miles of wind torn sky out to the northwest.  Over Lummi, across the Gulf of Georgia, on up Johnstone , Chatham and Clarence, Cross Sound,  Cape Spencer, and out over the open stretch of coast line somewhere off Lituya Bay. 

     Taking a few classes in the university during the months between salmon trolling seasons, the telephone rang just as I left the house for the last  classes before the long holiday weekend. 

     Dad’s voice, “The Commander  is several days over due on a trip down the coast, Penny thinks they are holed up somewhere waiting the weather, but things do not look good.” 

     Anticipating Thanksgiving at home, they tried to beat a weather front on the run from Yakutat to Cape Spencer.  With winds approaching a hundred, Phil and the guy with whom they were running that trip spoke on the radio about turning around and sliding back to Yakutat.  Assuming the boys had decided to tough it out and blast on ahead that afternoon, the skipper of the partner boat raised the alarm a few days later when he hit Seattle and realized that the Commander had not gone on ahead.

     Phil and Jon, Phil’s oldest son Little Phil, and Sam Bisset, oldest boy of Phil's sister Lorain. One tends to  almost see it happen.  Guy on the wheel, Phil braced in the doorway to his cabin behind.  Another guy, hand on the throttle waiting to push her into smoke hole when the wheel spun hard over to port, everyone in the room guessing the timing between the biggest combers, unseen through rain and sea spray screaming at them a hundred miles an hour or more. 

     In the end, it came down just like Tommy said after the huge roll the old boat took working her way out of the fishing hole on Kodiak Island.  “Something always happens that never happened before.” 

      No trace of the boat was ever found.

end

   

   
      

Copyright 2012 - Paul Petersen

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