Greetings Friends.
There are a couple things within my life I regret:
First, that class I accidentally took at the civic center concerning transgender meditation (stupid dyslexia).
Two, that I broke the first cardinal law of blog etiquette and failed to keep my blog constantly updated.
I have been in town a while now and when I first got back from Alaska it was true I was just too busy to write. Yet, I have been at home since September and now knowing that you may be asking yourself (if you have nothing better to think about, in which case I pity you) what have I been doing since and why I haven’t adhered to that aforementioned trespassed cardinal rule? For the most part, I have continued to work on the boat doing shipyard tasks and in my spare time have tried to think of a good excuse to mislead my blog readers into thinking that I am not some complete waste of space and that I really did have some pressing issue going on that kept me from writing. All this in order to cop-out of the encumbrance of responsibility which confronts me daily due to my lack of blogging discipline.
Yet, apparently when it comes to moving beyond the regular poop and fart jokes, my wits fail me. So, I could not come up with anything at all in terms of an excuse. Thus, with no other option, I have resorted to bring unto you an air of honesty and can only ask, and hope, for your forgiveness in this matter. If I can’t get that, then you can always just bite me and go visit Huffpo or something else you ungrateful pile.
With that out of the way, I thought I would take this time to reflect upon my adventures in the land of oil, Palin, and fish. Alaska is a state where the scenery runs the gamut between gorgeous and desolate, and the people run the gamut between alcoholics, drug addicts, recovering drug addicts, convicts and ex-convicts. Needless to say I felt right at home. Of course I jest. (I need to say that, for most the people up there have guns and I am planning on returning sooner or later.)
I spent 3 months over the summer working on a fine, seaworthy, 112-foot schooner, the “Sea Ern.” To clear up any confusion, the boat is named after a sea dwelling bird and not some buoyant transoceanic vessel used to store the ashes of the deceased. Its almost a perfect name because its not too cliché, and has an association with marine biology which isn’t too overbearing or tacky. I say “almost perfect” because of a superstition concerning boat names, but I will get into that later. At any rate, a lot of boat names are just stupid, or a little too esoteric, though you may occasionally run across an interesting one like the “Oh Snap,” or “The Happy Hooker.”
I worked with 4 others. There was of course Rolf, the captain who skillfully got us safely from port to port and who would sometimes yell out some not so gentle words of “encouragement“ to the crew when need be. There was Dennis (AKA “The Enigma“), the deck boss, crane operator, and avid professional wrestling fan with an itchy trigger finger. He was an all around likeable hard ass who was responsible for foreseeing that which went on upon the deck. There was Jack (AKA “Captain Jack Swallow”) the engineer who kept the boat running and whom you tried not piss off, for if that occurred, something wicked our way would surely and surly come. There was also Jason (AKA “The Social Butterfly,” and “The Main(e) Mojo”) a deckhand, crane operator, and proud New Englandish disciple of Tom Brady, who dreamed of being back home in Maine where he could sit on is porch and drink “beah’s” with his “dag.”
It was always odd listening to The Social Butterfly speak and it took some time getting used to because apparently in the state of Maine the alphabet only has 25 letters, for they seem to have no idea what an “R” is, or if they do, they only have a theoretical understanding of its use.
Then of course, there was me, Brandon, (AKA “B-Low,” and due to my ability to scamper about on deck with both grace and agility, “The Gazelle.”) a lowly deckhand. I was, along with Jason, a peon and did everything from pilot the boat on occasion, to cleaning up the galley. Since my culinary prowess can ruin Ramen, clean up usually was reserved for me. That’s okay, it turns out I would make a fine housewife someday. If I were into that. What a good wife I would be.
So did I work on a fishing boat? No. Did I work on a processor? Again, No. So what the hell did I do?
I worked on a Tender.
In case you are too lazy to Google it, I have provided some visual aids and, obviously due to their quality, they are a large part of why this particular blog entry has taken so long to complete.
Below is a chart giving a brief description of the whole fishing process, which I have labeled “Fig. F.”
Now, as before mentioned and indicated in the above diaphragm, the Tender doesn’t actually do the fishing. There are two main ways that one goes about catching a load of Salmon. The Sockeye (Fig. S), or Red Salmon (Reds for short) are usually caught using what is called a gillnet, which most of you could quickly recognize and are familiar with. It is a net designed with a certain specified size mesh, which is stretched across a body of water and into which the salmon lodge their wee little heads and get snagged by the gills. The net is hauled up and the fish are plucked out of the net into large tote bags called “brailers.”.
The Pink (Fig. P), or Humpy Salmon (Humpy for short), were caught utilizing a seine net (the net pictured in Fig F.). These nets have a smaller mesh and are not designed for catching the salmon by the gills, but rather to impede escape. The nets are wrapped around a school of fish, and are hauled up, the net, pursing and growing smaller until the fish are concentrated within the snug confines of the net. At this point is where we come in.
Sockeye are fished in the Bristol Bay region of Alaska. After the catch, the fishing boats tie up along side us, and we pluck the bags out of their hold by use of a crane. The bags are then lifted on board and are carefully weighed via a scale. Hanging from that scale, is a pelican hook (Fig. A). This hook supports the bag and has a tag line connected to it. Once the weight is recorded the bag is maneuvered over a large metal “dump box.” Attached to this box, is a chute, which leads directly to a manhole of any of the three corresponding tanks. The tag line is pulled and the pelican hook disengages, dumping the fish into the box and they then slide down the chute into the designated tank. This of course is our method of fish transfer, however, and it varies somewhat from boat to boat.
In the Prince William Sound vicinity of Alaska, large amounts of hatchery Pink salmon pour into the various fishing grounds spotted throughout the sound. Here seine nets are used and the method of madness changes quite a bit. In this instance we tie up directly to the seine and take, what is in essence a rather large vacuum cleaner, and put the hose into the net (Fig. B). The vacuum is fired up and the fish are sucked upward through the hose onto a sorting table/dewatering box. From here they pour into a “weigh box,” which directly hangs upon a scale. Once the vacuums cycle is complete, the fish are weighed and with the weight being recorded are dumped into the dump box, where they then pour down the chute into a waiting tank (Fig C).
That is just the work aspect of the experience. However, when you don’t set foot on land for about a month and a half and are confined to the same vessel with the same people, there is obviously quite a bit more about the whole venture.
First off, one should be warned that any commercial fishing undertaking has the ability and probability of completely destroying friendships. That being said, it also has the ability to create them as well. My theory though is that friendships are made and destroyed in alternating cycles with each fishing season.
Fishermen, and tender men as it were, are a very superstitious bunch by nature. So much so, I am probably trespassing against several right now, just talking about fishing and tendering in this blog. Even, in fact, as I sit here, land locked within a Starbucks sipping on a grande “shot in the dark.” I got a taste of these superstitions right off the bat, when I ignorantly arrived at the boat carrying a hard-backed suitcase. This apparently caused a couple of the crew members to look upon me with great hesitation, for it is bad luck to have such a suitcase because of its resemblance to a coffin.
I don’t know how they cleansed the vessel of such stigma, though I am pretty sure it involved the burning of sage. Not that I witnessed them burning sage, just, it seems, that this particular act is like a metaphysical aspirin, the first step and near cure all when it comes to such things.
Some other curious superstitions are that there are to be no women aboard a boat. Though it might not be tough for some people, like those in a 70’s disco band, for me it was extremely difficult and I was really only able to get by thanks to a Nancy Grace bookmark I happened to run across. Oh Nancy, how I missed your feigned tirades of supposed outrage which only serve to feed your ego and inject a healthy dose of sensationalism into the media mainstream.
Also, there are to be no bananas on board. Though, it may be extremely tough for some people, like those in a 70’s disco band, for me it wasn't difficult at all because I get all my sustenance from a extra large bottle of Centrum Silver.
(I smell a Grammy)
One of the most profound fishing (I will refer to it as fishing, though it has already been explained that we don’t fish, its just quite honestly more aesthetically pleasing to say “fishing,” than “tendering.” In addition, an argument can be made that it is warranted due to tendering playing a vital and necessary role within the fishing industry) phenomenon’s which I ran across was that upon a fishing boat, everything is rendered with the innate ability to produce vital harm upon ones person. Even the most mundane of household, or boathold items as it were, become formidable weapons. I don’t expect anywhere else in the cosmos one can manage to lacerate themselves with a shampoo bottle, but once upon the water, one should remember to exercise caution while handling bodily cleansers.
If such an incident does unfortunately occur, one would be wise to keep it to themselves, for many hardened sea-salts get rather annoyed by those who complain about injury. So, knowing this, and being a fantastic klutz/moron, I had to devise some clever ways of keeping people from knowing about various injuries (though not all as there were several) and it was by these efforts I came across the best bandage ever made as far as I am concerned: Electrical tape. I think every hospital and first aid kit needs to be stocked to the rafters with piles of electrical tape, however that is a rant for another time.
And with that I must leave you for the time being, but there is still much more to be said. Yet, that will have to be saved for a later date (not that much later for much of it written). I wanted to produce it all in a single blog entry, but found myself wrapped up in an endless tangle of tangents. Thus, I need to write it in installments. Again, thank you for reading and thank you to everyone who spurred me on to sit at my laptop once again. Before I leave you though, I would just like to say that no pelicans were harmed or molested by me personally during the production of this blog article. There may be some indiscretions in my past that I might need to burn some sage for, but that’s for me to know and its none of your business thank you.
By the way, according to my sources at the International Bird Rescue Research Center, the Pelican was treated, released, and is now living comfortably in California eating more fish than Jeremy Piven.
Until next time, Brandon clear.
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