Summer of seventy something

Same place in Neah Bay, taken a few years later

What the Hell you doin' here?

Probably the only time in my life I used the word hell in a sentenced directed at my older brother Justin.  Our mother did not allow that kind of language.  Never mind cuss words, she'd go off on you for the mildest gee-whillikers.  Sounds crazy the way we all talk these days, but I'm sticking to the story.   


Summer of seventy something.  Year before Max came along is all I recall for sure.  Normally two people will work a boat the size of Shirley.m  Lot of grunt work involved in trolling, hard to keep up without help.  Teenagers on summer holiday from school make good boat pullers.  Husband and wife teams are common. Two brothers build the Shirley B* in the thirties, worked the boat together, raising  young families on king salmon delivered to town on ice in her round belly.

That year I ran the boat out to Neah Bay in early May, planning to fish alone. Took a notion, which actually turned out to be true, that I needed to run the boat by myself, without the extra distraction and responsibility of a deck hand for a season as a part of learning the fishing trade.  Besides the tiny living area in that boat worked a lot better with a single occupant.

Family at home thought better of that plan, and put Justin on the bus out work with me for the season.

Lots of things happened that season.  Much of which I don't remember, or remember wrong, or choose to leave out of the story because it does not fit my narrative.  But, as I recall, it must have been sometime toward the end of May when Justin came walking down the dock, colorful patches on the knees of his jeans, duffel bag over his shoulder.

Crew's berth in that boat came from WWII military surplus. Upper bunk, pipe frame, canvas bottom and a thin narrow mattress.  Hinged to the inside skin of the hull, with plumber's tape loops and ten penny common nails. Short lengths of line at either end hooked over  bent nails in the deck beam clamp to keep it up and out of the way when not in use.

About the middle of June Kathy and the kids loaded up their vintage Suburban and came on out to Neah Bay.  Set up housekeeping in a big old trailer out at Tsoo Yess beach.  Mr and Mrs Idas' place.  Tribal elders.  Shared lots of stories, showed me how to roast  salmon in a cedar stick rack over an open fire.  Still see her using her little finger to show me the size of cedar splint to use supporting the split fish.  Best way to eat king salmon, on the beach.

Most of that summer Justin and I fished a regular schedule each week.  Out to the grounds early Monday morning.  Fish along the banks, thirty to sixty fathom of water, between the cape and Carroll Island throughout the week, cleaning and packing fish ice below deck.  Saturdays, after a few hours fishing in the early morning, we rolled up the gear and pointed her toward town.  Special feeling in the boat those days, feet up relaxing as she rolled along heavy with salmon in the bins below deck, two tired boys ready for a break in town.

After selling our catch at the fish plant and cleaning up the boat, Justin headed down to the trailer, leaving me for a few hours relaxation on my own. Dog tired and not having to get up an hour before daylight, a guy sleeps deep after five days on the ocean in a boat like Shirley.  Fresh from the shower, empty fish hold scrubbed clean, little check in the pants pocket to send home next morning, level of satisfaction one rarely if ever experiences during life on the beach.

Sunday morning ritual about the same as at home in Bellingham.  Eggs and fried potato with toast and jam, then up to my chair in the wheel house.  Drink coffee, watch  the comings and goings in town and listen to CBU AM radio, Vancouver.  News and entertainment programs.   At noon, day off over I cranked up the machine, moved over to the ice house,  squirt a couple tons of fresh flake ice to refrigerate the catch as well as for ballast for the boat.  Raft up to another boat at the fish company docks for rest of the afternoon.  Grocery shopping and grab a few things up in the gear store then stand in the trolling pit for a couple hours overhauling leaders, splicing line or any one of the hundreds of chores the troller has to do every day to keep the hooks in the water.

Early Monday Kathy drove Justin back into town and we headed back out in search of the elusive wild salmon. 

Justin had the gift of gab.  Once we got salted down, term we used for getting comfortable with the movement of the boat in the ocean, he started his shtick.  Mimicked the CB radio voices of various characters fishing in our same area to hilarious effect. Painted  poetic pictures of shared memories from our childhood days.  Even the simplest story, Sunday evening sardine and cracker dinner on TV trays at age twelve and fourteen became the stuff of myth and legend.  On the boat we became Justina and Paul, two boys out on a hike to Willow Springs at Entiat or over past tenth avenue in Great Falls, where according to Justin the great planes officially began.

Most fun I ever had on that boat.  Later on, in the eighties Justin and I worked together, this time me working for him in the carpentry trade.  Those days may as well have been a seamless transition from the summer in the boat.  Me playing the straight man to his near constant spinning of yarns and stories.  Rare to be in an occupation in which you remind yourself during the morning commute that at least you are not going to work.  Wish those days could have lasted forever.

Uncle Simon had warned me in no uncertain terms to stay out of the rock pile anchorages along that stretch of coast.  Wind can shift in a minute and you wouldn't have a chance of getting out from the rocks on the lea shore.

First summer we were on the coast in the Shirley a guy in our code group lost his life at the Columbia river south jetty that way.  In northwesterly weather boats snuggle in close below the south jetty for protection from the afternoon northwesterly lump that prevails summer and fall in that area.  One night, a week or so after I ran the boat back up toward La Push, a huge sea rolled in from the southwest.  Boats anchored in three fathoms, combers breaking out in five fathoms.   One guy told me he had to force the boat into the sea at full throttle to to pull the anchor, then blast his way  toward deep water in what sounded like a terrifying ride.

At daylight everyone looked around for the Solar, boat hadn't checked in on the radio yet.  Found her lying wrecked on the rip-rap jetty.  Guy who told me the story claimed that the bodies of the owner and his deck hand were never found.

Hardly a week before the accident I had been sitting in the galley on that boat sipping whiskey and talking about art and philosophy with the owner, whose image if not name still rests in a shadowy corner of my mind.

On the other hand it ain't necessarily so safe laying offshore either.  Ships rattle through that area all the time on their way in and out of the straights.  Sound of the huge propellers echoes through the boats hull.  Hear them at least five miles away, maybe more.  Laying in the bunk at night, a guy comes half awake.  Sound gets louder for a while, then back to sleep with a deep breath when the thrashing begins to fall off when the ship moves by.

One night  Justin and I had the closest pass from a freighter of my entire fishing career.  Anchored with a group of other trollers in about twenty fathoms, I came half awake as usual with the first hints of that bronze monster wheel filtered through the blanket into my ears.  Little more awake as the sound continued to get louder.  Feeling concerned as the sound continued its crescendo, louder then even the closest ships I'd ever heard.  Wide awake and both of us running on deck as the sound got so loud our teeth fairly rattled in our heads.  Black steel wall passing close on our starboard.  Four weak knees on the deck of little Shirley that night.

Next day we laughed it off.  Imagining we had seen a guy on the ships bridge, peering down at us through shot glass thick glasses and high pitched demonic laugh.  Row of troller silhouettes painted on the bridge cowling. Image of the perfect maniac coming from one of our shared memories,  favorite episode of Outer Limits in which a maniac of that description captured our imaginations.  Often referencing the character with our version of the demonic laugh. 

Most of the time we went against the Old Man's warning, and snuck back behind the rocks with all the other boats.

When we were anchored out, whether in the open or back behind the rocks, I always got up about an hour before daylight.  Had a red travel alarm, kind that folds closed about two and a half inches square in a net hammock type bag hanging on the wall in my bunk.  Never takes much to wake me, couldn't sleep in the room, let along six inches from my ear anymore.

At the ring, I'm up and dressed.  Keep the diesel oil fire in the galley range going all the time, water in the kettle at a simmer, just below boiling.  Hot water ready for a heaping spoon of instant coffee* and a couple bags of Nestles cocoa mix before climbing up to crank up the engine and get the anchor gear rolled in.

In the mean time, Justin lounged in his blankets as if it were kids Saturday morning sleep-in. Reminded me of Great Falls days when he and I got to spend Friday nights on the hida-bed in the rec room.  Watch old Charley Chan or Sherlock Holmes movies on the little black and white TV set, then sleep late the next morning.

His sea sickness cure, possibly taken from the advice of the porter on the train to Chicago in fifty four.  Eagle brand sweetened condensed milk.  Kept the weeks supply of cans in a line along the edge of his bunk.  Colorful red and white labels with portrait of the cow looked real homey.  While I rustled around getting going, he punched a can open and sipped its contents until his digestion stabilized and he could get up and fix breakfast while we ran out to the grounds.

In the evenings after finishing chores on deck, cleaning up and finding our anchor spot we got out the box of treats.  Laughing at the simplicity of the little ritual, we nevertheless made quite a thing our of Hostess Ding Dongs that summer.  Each week I got a box of however many, and we would allot ourselves just one each before bed.  Sitting in the little galley, one of us at each side of the green mat fold out table, carefully opening the tinfoil covers on the little cakes, savoring each bite as if it came from the best kitchens on the Continent. Probably haven't had one since.

Everything seemed so right now and forever in those days.  Still just kids ourselves.  Saw the first wrinkle on my brother's face that summer.  Little arch starting to form over one eyebrow. Same as mother.  Couldn't believe time had stretched our lives so far already.

About ten years later Hans, Justin and Kathy's son, and I spent July and August trying to catch dogfish in the San Juan Islands.  He remembered a part of that summer that had escaped my notice.  We tried to keep fishing for a couple weeks after Labor Day, so he and his sisters had to start school in the village.  That turned out to be not so much fun for the kids.  Wish now that we would have put the gear away and run the boat back to town over Labor Day weekend.  Doubt we made expenses in September anyway.