drunk in lapush

Drunk in LaPush

Whiskey drunk.  My mother blamed her brother-in-law Simon. Not the drinking part so much but he spun yarns of life in the fish boats to us wide eyed kids growing up and here I am not so many years later, in the little Shirley B, lashed alongside an old-timer, classic trunk cabin troller.  Free moorage float at LaPush fish company.  Roar of the real ocean on the Rialto beach just across a sand spit and jetty that give protection to a half mile of river before it dumps into the surf behind James Island.

La Push Fish Co.  All traces of the place had vanished when I did a silent pilgrimage one time not so long ago, but before the vampires infiltrated the forests around there,  tribes of hippies spent the summer on the beaches and in rag tag trolling boats rafted at the transit floats. Catch a few coho in between beach bonfires. Guitars rang voices raised in the smoke war children is just a shot away ... Schlitz cans  Mexican ditch weed in ZigZag.   Split salmon in front of the flames, black muscles from the rocks at the end of the beach open close to the heat, cedar chopsticks dipped into clarified butter in makeshift tinfoil close to the coals.   Time on the beach, days working the grounds chasing salmon don't count against the allotment of time we are all given on this earth, do they?

A couple logs with planks spiked down and a long ramp up to the parking lot, in the river current with the wake of every boat running past bouncing us into one another. Bells ring overhead, black tire bumpers laying waste to our carefully applied spring white lead paint job. Yes, marine paint in those days still contained actual lead. Undercoat of red lead and yellow zink chromate for rust control, treat the old fir and oak timbers and ribs of the boat with a mix of penta and diesel with a garden sprayer a couple times a year.  Handling dangerous stuff made us tough. Didn't it?

Worse places to tie up a boat must exist but in the years I ran Shirley, we never found one as bad as that LaPush Fish Co float. Ramp down to the buying barge even worse, slick and steep at low tide. When we were camping in the van we let our sweet little dog Brigid out in the night on her own. She fell off that damned ramp and broke one of her hind legs. We took her to a vet in PA, came back a few days later, sad eye look from the lady behind the counter, poor little girl passed. Died of a broken heart or put down by the vet who didn't think we were coming back.  Still feel a little shadow on my heart thinking on that scene.

But now it's the next June and we are sitting in the tiny galley of Shirley B instead of the Corvair van camper up in the parking lot.  Balmy August all but forgotten in the ice cold winds sweeping in from the west.  After hanging out in Neah Bay for a while we made it down to LaPush. Our first day in town. The summer before I fished with a guy who came in every night, pitched off the day's catch and slipped forward to this float for overnight and an early start in the morning.  We made friends on the dock and it never even occurred to me that the transit float an eighth of a mile up the river is a more comfortable place to sleep. 

Later we heard a story of a guy who's boat started leaking after the coast guard ran down the river at full throttle and those boats put out quite a wake and he got crushed between two heavier boats.  Skipper ran for Westport to get the boat hauled out, but sank along the way. Some say he set his gear on a huge patch of coho which might have contributed to the loss of the boat, but how could he resist?  Trust his pumps and make his season on the way past Grenville.  I wasn't there and the fisher families have as many rumors and stories as any other bunch of carnies.

Only window in our galley is a twelve by twelve inch skylight over the center of the room. Always propped open, afternoon westerlies swirl in the two-burner oil stove. Have to measure gasoline in with the diesel in the day tank to get it to burn clean, spinner at the top of the stack ten feet overhead pulling the draft. Porcelain wide bottom kettle always simmering, screen door springs between stove lea rails keep it in place, most of the time. The run past James island can turn a boat every way but over and almost everything goes flying. 

Must have been later in the afternoon, long June days skew ones perception sometimes, and Karen and me chillin in our little home when the old guy from the boat next climbs down the ladder with a bottle of whisky and pack of Camel straights.

I  deserve a drink, don't I? Ten hours on the ocean and we came through the scary gut at Tatoosh and down the thirty-fathom line to the Quileute. Must have dragged our gear, but for some reason, I remember the whiskey and forgot the rest.  

Trolling got its name from the creatures harassing billy goats from under bridges back in the old country.  It takes a little of the almost evil magic to coax salmon, especially king salmon onto your hooks. 

This old-timer, all of fifty, surely has secrets that will come out with a few shots of whisky and the afternoon westerly is blowing his cigarette smoke up and out the door.  Karen and I never smoked, except for my pot habit but one keeps that in private and well-ventilated areas.  Pot treats seasick but that comes in a different story. 

Drunk in town and you feel like total seasick all the next day bucking your way out to the grounds. With my religious background, I always took those hours eating Ritz crackers and sweet pickle slices because I'm too stubborn to just barf and get it over with as pennince for the previous evening's debouch. 

Had a cat on the boat one summer, called him Pammiers after the warhorse a knight rode into battle in a series of books I read that summer. Palmer got seasick too. Gosh only knows what he had penance to earn. He got home in the small hours, often wet to the skin ears to tail, crawl down to the foot of my sleeping bag curl up next to my feet. Next day and I'm suffering on my chair in the wheelhouse eating Ritz crackers and sweet pickle slices to keep from barfing. That damned cat moped around for an hour or so then barfed his breakfast recovering to his usual spunky self almost instantly. He even barfed in the well deck, nest time she rolled the scuppers under and the mess is gone. Always a considerate boy.

Trollers always show the new kid secret knot for tieing leaders. Our galley table,  green mat and lea rail around the curved side, a couple of places where we set hooks to tie leaders.  Juggling fifty or sixty separate monofilament leaders in the water all day long, we spend a lot of time tieing those knots.

Surprised the other day when I had some light sport fishing leader to hang some art on the wall and I only remembered one knot that I used for a completely different thing on the boat, none of the fishing knots remained in memory.  Wonder if I should have forgot about drinking the whisky as well?

Once the bottle got down to the last quarter and I'm wedged into my safe place in that room and our new friend is explaining how King Salmon are gentleman fish. One has to approach them with a proper level of respect if they are going to come up over the stern of the boat.  Gentleman fish.  

Later in my career when a fat Salmon came up on a long leader. Always sang "Just a closer walk with thee, grant it Jesus let it be ..."  For some reason that song resonated with king salmon who had been minding their own business sixty fathoms down and suddenly find themself at the surface, listening to some kid singing.  Gentleman fish. 

It might be possible to have a thrill equal to getting one of those slabs over into the receiving checker up on the beach, but it hasn't happened yet in this life for me.

Time on the grounds with the gear in the water catches more fish than heavy boat coffee cups half full of strong drink back in town. But that's far above the head of a guy for whom running the boat around the cape and down to the Quileute is pushing his envelope. At that time of life, in early twenties with zero background in the fishing boats, one does not realize that it takes time and practice to figure out how to do a few things to catch fish.

Same as any business, no matter how far you take it, someone is always there to put you in your place.  Fun fact, first half of my working life in the boats, my mentor, competitor, guy who could beat me on the fishing grounds and the racquetball court, George. Get into the junker biz working for my second wife and our competitor, mentor, guy who I could never touch in the way of sales, George.  One is Pinky George, the other Crazy George. Different stories for both.

Another splash from the bottle into our cups, explanations of how to catch the gentleman fish getting a little slurred when we hear a commotion out on deck. The illusion of instant sobriety stepping out into the afternoon sun and cool clear westerly wind in the face. Never totally relax in the boat, especially in such an iffy moorage, or at anchor. Always listen for any sound you don’t instantly recognize.

Other than a pall of smoke and riding along upriver with the people tied outside us for a better look, I don’t remember anything about the fire, or the rest of that day for that matter. Probably took to my bunk and missed a few gentleman fish the next day because I’ve got a big head and can’t face the ocean.  Guy has to learn quick that the fish are out on the grounds, not in a bottle on the galley table back in town. 

Best days of our lives. Got to feel the lows to feel the highs and we had plenty of both in that business.