An Alaska Commercial Fishing Adventure

Go aboard a fishing boat on Prince William Sound.

It was the hardest and most dangerous work I have ever done in my life.

When I was just 16 years old, our family moved to the small, picturesque town of Cordova, Alaska, on Prince William Sound. My dad was working on a road construction job, and we would only live in Cordova for about a year.

That summer, my dad came home one evening and said, “Mike, I got you a job on a commercial fishing boat. A purse seiner.” I had no idea what a purse seiner was, but I was about to find out.

A couple of days later, I was down at the docks and ready to go out to sea.

As I walked along between the fishing boats, most had a few things in common. They were fairly good-sized and had a tall mast and a power winch for pulling in the net.

Then I came to the boat I would be working on. It was much smaller than the other boats, and it had no mast or power winch. I would quickly discover that the small crew, and that included me, would pull in the net by hand.

As I stepped from the dock onto the deck of the boat, the skipper greeted me by telling me to unfasten my hip waders (those fishing boots that go all the way to the top of your legs) from my belt. Then he asked if I had them fastened on the inside around the calves of my legs. I did. So, the skipper said, “Unfasten them right now and push your hip waders down to just below your knees.”

The skipper went on to tell me that if I fell overboard with my hip waders fastened to my belt and around my legs, my hip waders would act like a boat anchor when they filled with water and would quickly pull me to the bottom of the sea.

I didn't need to hear any more. As fast as I could, I unsnapped my hip waders and pushed them down to just below my knees like a pirate wears their boots. Now if I fell overboard, I would be able to kick off my boots and make my way back to the surface - I hoped.

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And when you do, all your friends and family will be so happy that they will send you on an Alaska cruise… well, it could happen.

Just before we cast off, the skipper told me to take the wheel. He then shouted, “Hard a port.” Well, I'd heard the words “port” and “starboard” before, but I had no idea which was left and which was right.

So, rather sheepishly, I asked, “Which way is “port?”

The skipper snarled back, “Always remember this: “I left port,” so port is left and starboard is right.” From the tone of the skipper's voice, I could tell that I had better remember all of it next time. Moments later, the skipper took the wheel, and I took one last look back at the docks as we headed out to sea.

And by the way, I used the word “sheepishly” when I described how I addressed the skipper. You should know, right here and now, that no one on a commercial fishing boat should ever say or do anything “sheepishly.” On an Alaska commercial fishing boat, you'd better man up, even if you're only 16.

Once we got across the bay and rounded Hawkins Island, located just to the west of Cordova, the open waters of Prince William Sound were in front of us. I used a pair of binoculars to see where we were headed. But my eyes got as wide as half dollars when I saw huge, rough ocean waves in our path.

I nervously ask the skipper, “Are we headed out there?” Much to my relief, the skipper said, “No, we're putting into a small bay for the night.”

After a simple, basic dinner, I discovered that my bunk was on the bottom with just enough room between my bunk and the top bunk for me to crawl into bed. And the way I crawled in was the way I was going to sleep. There was not even enough room for skinny me to roll over. I chose to sleep on my back. So much for my fear of tight places.

The cabin floor consisted of nothing but two-by-fours with standing water between them. That meant I had to sit on the very edge of my bunk, slide out of my hip waders, and then slide into my sleeping bag on my bunk. But as I would soon learn, I would be so bone-tired at night that I wouldn't care how or even where I slept, as long as I could get some sleep.

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee that was so strong you could have used it to paint your house.

I had to sleep with my clothes on, so I pushed myself out of my bunk and into my hip waders. There was no taking a bath or shower. I quickly grabbed whatever I could to eat on the run, went up on deck, and went right to work.

As I mentioned earlier, most purse seiners have a mast and power winch to pull in the net, but I was on a much smaller boat, and we had to do everything manually.

First, the skipper and his first mate would look for salmon jumping in the water. That meant there was a school of salmon below the surface. Then the first mate would hop into his boat, known as a skiff, and pull one end of the net around the school of salmon. He would literally circle the fish and end up back at the skipper's boat.

Then we started hauling in the net and our catch.

Early on my first morning at sea, I saw a large case of cotton work gloves sitting open on the top of the cabin. I asked the skipper, “Why so many gloves?” His answer was “You'll find out.”

When the net is circled around the salmon, the bottom of the net has what's known as the “lead line.” As the net went out of the skipper's boat and into the water, I had to guide the lead line through my gloved hands while the line flew across my palms at a very high rate of speed and into the water.

If I held the lead line too tight, it would snag on my gloves and pull my skinny frame overboard. And while the lead line was going out across the palm of my hands, the friction began tearing my gloves apart. After we put out the net, I had to quickly get a new set of gloves. Now I knew why we had an open case of cotton work gloves on the boat.

My next job was the “plunger pole.”

On board was a round, wooden pole about 9 feet long with a metal cup like a toilet bowl plunger on one end. I was to stand against a thin bit of ship railing and, using the plunger pole, push air bubbles where the two ends of the net came together. The metal cup would fill with air above the surface. And as I pushed the long pole into the water, it would send air bubbles down into the water, keeping the salmon away from the opening and from swimming out of the net.

The skipper told me to plunge as fast as I could. “Set the water on fire,” said the skipper. “Push the plunger pole down into the water as far as you can, then pull it up fast until the metal cup can fill with air, then slam it right back down again and again and again.”

There were two rules for this job. Don't let go of the plunger pole, and try not to fall overboard.

During our first “set” of the day, when we were pulling in the net, the skipper told me to get to work with the plunger pole. I quickly grabbed the pole and started plunging as fast as I could. Moments later, the skipper shouted, “Pull in the lead line.” So, I put down the pole and started pulling the lead line. But after I started working the lead line, the skipper barked, “Get on that plunger pole!” So again, I dropped the lead line and got to work with the plunger pole. He did this several more times.

Then the Skipper yelled, “What are you doing? I told you to pull in the lead line!” Frustrated, I swung around to look at the skipper. When I did, the plunger pole slipped out of my hand, and the end of the wooden pole struck him on the side of his head. Suddenly, I watched in terror as the skipper's body shook in anger. He looked up at me with furious eyes and yelled, “What?” At that moment, I shot back with, “What do you want me to do? Man the plunger pole or the lead line?” The skipper stood there still shaking for an angry moment and loudly growled, “Both!”

I quickly got to work doing both. I would pull up the lead line, then step on it with one foot while I worked the plunger pole. It was clumsy and challenging to do both. And as I worked as fast as I could, I reminded myself that I was on a small fishing boat in the ocean, a long way from home. The water was deep and cold. I wondered what would happen if the skipper got really mad at me. It wasn't like I could walk back home.

By the end of my first day, I knew what being tired to the bone felt like.

I don't even remember eating any dinner; I just remember how great it felt to slide into my bunk, wet socks and all.

After being out at sea for only a short time, I learned two things.

First, my skipper was all business, and under pressure he was ready to fight… even me. Second, I knew that this, my first job on a commercial fishing boat in Alaska, would be my last.

Both of my main jobs on the boat were dangerous.

While letting out the lead line, the friction was so great the line would zip right through my cotton work gloves. And, if my gloves got snagged by the line, I would be pulled overboard and underwater quickly. To man the plunger pole, I had to stand next to a small bit of side railing and try not to fall overboard as the boat bounced up and down.

At the end of each day, we would put into a bay where the “tender scow” boat was waiting for us to unload our day's catch into their holding tanks.

We would come up alongside the tender scow, tie off our boat, and then “toss” our salmon into the waiting holding tanks.

This was done by using a 6-foot-long wooden pole with a small metal crook on one end. You would slide the crook through the salmon's gills, lift the pole and the salmon up, and then toss the salmon up and over into the holding tanks.

As you did, the man on the deck of the tender scow would click a metal counter. If you tossed one salmon, it was one click. If you tossed two at a time, it was two clicks.

The first time the skipper sent me down to flip the salmon into the tender scow, I was not very good. But in time, I not only improved, I became the best by almost always pitching three salmon at a time. And I was very fast.

But because I was so fast, the man on the tender scow would sometimes get confused. I would toss over three salmon time and time again. Three clicks, three clicks, three clicks. Then I would miss and only toss two salmon, but I would still hear three clicks. And since each click was worth money, the skipper loved it. So because of my newfound talent, instead of getting to rest while we were at the tender scow, the skipper kept me flipping up salmon until I was exhausted. He'd let me rest a few, then he'd send me right back to flip more fish.

One day as we cruised, looking for salmon, the skipper saw a large school of fish and told us to set the net. But we ended up getting our net snagged on a reef.

Even though it was the skipper's fault, he flew into a rage.

And since I happened to be standing in front of him, he reached out with his left hand and grabbed me by the front of my shirt, jerking me closer to him as he pulled back his right fist to punch me in the face.

I quickly pulled my right fist back to defend myself. There I was, out to sea with nowhere to go and about to get pounded by my furious skipper.

We stood there for a moment, eyeball to eyeball, with our fists ready to start pounding on each other. Suddenly, the skipper shoved me backward, and he walked away.

A week later, when I was back home for a few days, my dad told me that he had just seen my skipper. It seemed that my skipper had mentioned to my dad that he and I had nearly gone to blows on the fishing boat.

As it turned out, the skipper informed my dad that because I was in great shape, he wasn't sure he could win the fight. For the record, my dad was happy that I defended myself. So was I.

Some days later, we were back out at sea and pulling in our net after a catch. It was raining, cold, and miserable. Suddenly, my face felt like it was on fire.

When you're commercial fishing, you get all kinds of things caught in the net. And without knowing it, I had gotten jellyfish on my cotton gloves. Then when I had wiped the rain off my face, I had smeared jellyfish on my kisser. Talk about pain.

The skipper's only reaction was to say, “Keep working.”

Later that evening, the skipper told me to go below and start peeling spuds for dinner. I went below and grabbed the potatoes and a knife.

The next thing I knew, the skipper was standing right in front of me, laughing and waving his hand up and down in front of my eyes. I had been so exhausted from the day's work that I had fallen asleep with my eyes open and with my knife halfway through a potato peel. Now that's bone-tired.

When our commercial fishing season ended, I was glad. But I also knew that I had learned a lot and even grown up some. I was just 16, but I had spent the season working my tail off on a dangerous Alaska commercial fishing boat and survived to tell this story.

Plenty of people tell me they would like to go commercial fishing in Alaska for a season. To that I say, do it. But make sure you're ready to work harder than you've ever worked in your life.

And remember this…

“I left port. Port is left, and starboard is right.”

Oh, and try not to fall overboard.

From Our North Stars (that’s you)

From our Anchorage Fishing Memories edition of the Anchorage Memories Club.

Cindy had this comment:

“Misty Sunday morning, fresh cup of coffee, and some great fish tales- it doesn’t get much better than this! Thanks Mike and Mary.”

Steve remembers:

“I lived along Campbell Creek just west of Lake Otis Pkwy from 1978 to 1980. The salmon would still spawn in the creek in those days. My dog, Haida, would romp in the creek.

During the salmon run, the fish swam between her legs she would stick her face under the water to check them out. Then there would be five minutes of her snorting to get the water out of her nose. Another salmon would swim by and the process was repeated.”

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Until Next Time

Mike and Mary

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