by Tucker Max
Tucker “Stop eating it.”
Fatty “It’s not that simple.”
Tucker “Yes, it is.”
Fatty “But candy is so delicious!”
Tucker “Are you just baiting me into jokes now? Look, if you cut processed sugars out of your diet, and changed nothing else, you’d lose 10 pounds in three months. And if you stop eating white carbs altogether—things like rice, potatoes, bread, etc.—you’ll lose 20. You could easily be 30 pounds less, changing really only those things, and not even working out more.”
Fatty “But I love bread and potato chips!”
Tucker “Yeah, I can tell.”
Fatty “Fuck you!”
From there, I spent an hour explaining eating and nutrition to her. I explained how all the common ideas behind diet and nutrition are wrong and perpetuated by a corporate machine that only cares about profit, I went over things like why humans shouldn’t eat grains and processed sugars, why organ meats and certain fats are good for you, how certain types of exercise can be counterproductive, how to use controlled fasting to lose weight, gave her a basic introduction to the ideas of Weston Price and described paleo eating, etc. I’m not sure of the precise things I said to her—I was “grenade fucking” drunk and don’t really remember, plus I’m constantly learning more about this. I can’t remember where my informational state was at that point in my life.
I do remember that it was turning her on. I don’t know if it was because she was impressed by my fancy smart talking, or because I was talking about food, or maybe I just smelled like bacon. But for whatever reason, she was very turned on by the end of my little instructional session.
Yes, I’ll tell the truth: We fucked.
I blame alcohol and testosterone.
The next morning, my buddy collected me and we left. He tried to tease me about it:
Tucker “Fuck you, this is your fault!”
Friend “HAHHAHHAHAHAA! I never said you had to actually fuck her!”
Tucker “You took so long to close your fucking deal, I got too drunk to resist. You owe me asshole. You owe me. BIG. Like her.”
Friend “It couldn’t be that bad.”
Tucker “Dude, I woke up afterwards to her eating a bag of Doritos in bed, watching ‘Gilmore Girls’.”
Friend “HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHHAHHAHA.”
Tucker “She had the audacity to claim that she was going to start losing weight, but she wanted to finish the junk food she’d bought already. She said she didn’t want to waste anything.”
Friend “HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHHAHHAHA.”
Tucker “The worst part is she didn’t even offer me any.”
THE DEADLIEST VACATION
Occurred, January 2011
[WARNING: If you are one of the few people in America who have never seen the TV show “The Deadliest Catch”, this story will make about 80% less sense to you, and you might want to skip it. The show is easy to explain—it’s a reality show about Bering Sea crab fishermen—but that explanation does no justice to the characters and situations the show reveals. You should watch a few episodes not only to help you understand this story, but also because it’s awesome. If you’re one of those fucking people who’ve never even HEARD of “Deadliest Catch” because you don’t own a TV, I’m not sure how to relate to you, and I’m not sure why you’re reading this book.]
PART 1: THE INVITATION
Because my real email address is in my books and on my website (and has been there for almost ten years now), I get a lot of email. Every possible type of email you can imagine getting, I’ve gotten, as well as a bunch you’d never even think of. I thought I’d seen everything that can come over email. Then on November 5th, 2010, I got something I never could have expected:
From: Mike Fourtner <[redacted]@hotmail.com>
To: Tucker Max
Subject: Deadliest Catch
Tucker,
Don’t know if you watch much TV or not, but in your Beer in Hell book, you referenced American Chopper, so I know you watch a little bit of Discovery Channel.
My name is Mike Fourtner and I work on Crab Fishing boat out in the Bering Sea in Alaska. I work on a boat called the Time Bandit, one of the boats featured on Discovery Channels TV show Deadliest Catch. Just wanted to let you know that we are in the middle of Filming Season 7 of Deadliest Catch right now and your Beer in Hell book was quite the topic of conversation this season. A friend of mine, a girl of course, gave it to me to read. Lets just say that at 2 am while I’m in the captains chair driving the boat to our next set of crab pots, I would start laughing out loud and very hard!! A few times Andy or Johnathan, our captains, would get up to see what the commotion was and I had tears in my eyes as I was trying to explain what I just read!!!
We’ve all come to the conclusion that you are basically a very highly educated Alaskan Crab Fisherman at heart … … the only difference between you and us is the degree you hold …and the smarts to never have done what we do for a living!!
Not sure if you’re into fishing or not, but if you ever come to Alaska we’ll take you out for a day on the Time Bandit to catch some halibut or salmon. Bring the friends and we’ll supply the Alaskan hotties. If we get enough of them, we might have a full set of teeth between all of them! Call if you ever want a trip on the Time Bandit … …..360-[redacted] Thanks for the laughs!!
Mike
I almost fucking shit myself in excitement. “Deadliest Catch” is, after “The Wire”, my most favorite TV show ever. I’ve been watching this show for six years, and I’ve seen these incredibly tough guys battle ridiculous temperatures and 40-foot waves and all that shit to haul in the delicious crab that I love to eat so much. I’d be really excited if they were fans of my book, but fuck that—they’re inviting me to fish with them? And not just any boat—this is the Time Bandit! That’s the coolest boat on the show! Are you kidding? That’s like Michael Jordan asking me if I want to play some pick-up basketball with him.
The first thing I do, before I get too excited, is make sure it’s real. This is the internet after all.
From: Tucker Max
To: Mike Fourtner <[redacted]@hotmail.com>
Subject: Deadliest Catch
OK, is this a serious email? Because I am a HUGE Deadliest Catch fan, but I don’t want to get my hopes up in case this is a spoof. If it’s real, I’m 100% in. If not, FUCK YOU, this was meaner than any shit I’ve ever said to any fat girl.
We went back and forth on email, and I gave him my number. Almost immediately, a 907 area code came up. That’s Alaska. If this is a spoof, they went all out.
Tucker “Hello.”
Mike “Hey! This is Mike Fourtner, from the Time Bandit. Is this Tucker?”
It was him. Unquestionably. That was the cheery, perpetually happy voice of Mike Fourtner, the Time Bandit deckhand I’d been watching on TV for years. I talked to him for a while, and then he told me to hold on, someone else wanted to talk to me. A gravelly voice I immediately recognized, but could barely understand, came on.
Johnathan “Hey, is that that fucker who wrote that book?”
Tucker “It’s that fucker.”
Johnathan “That shit was pretty funny. You coming fishing, fucker?”
For the entirety of this story, all quotes from Johnathan Hillstrand are approximate. It’s hard to understand what he’s saying, either on the phone or in person, because he sounds pretty much exactly like the Hamburglar. RUBBLE RUBBLE RUBBLE!
I ended up talking to both of them for like 30 minutes, and they were cool as fuck; exactly like they are on the show. We talked about the logistics of me coming up, and by the end of the conversation, not only had they invited me up in January for opilio crab season, they told me to bring friends. I immediately forwarded the email to Nils, then called him.
Tucker “This is real. I just talked to them on the phone; it’s their voices. You can’t fake 30 years of whiskey and cigarettes.”
Nils
“This is crazy! Who gets invited to go FISHING IN THE BERING SEA DURING CRAB SEASON???”
I ended up taking Nils, Bunny, and Drew Curtis (who went to high school with me and started Fark.com). I was tasked with figuring out all the logistical details for the trip up to Dutch Harbor. So I did what I always do when I have to do anything that isn’t writing, fucking, or fighting—I made my assistant do it.
He spent an entire day figuring everything out, but came to an impasse. Apparently, there is only ONE company that flies from Anchorage to Dutch Harbor. And EVERY single seat on every flight was booked. For the ENTIRE month of January. Ian looked at boats; apparently it takes four days to get there. He even looked at chartering a plane, but it cost some excessive amount that I wouldn’t have paid to drink with Jesus himself (and don’t say anything about him not drinking—the ONLY thing he drinks in the Bible is wine; you know that guy had to be awesome to drink with).
Here I was, having gotten the invitation of a lifetime to go crab fishing with some of the only people on earth who I admire, and there was no fucking way to even get to where they were. I was crestfallen. I didn’t know what to do, so I called Fourtner for ideas.
Mike “Every seat is booked? Makes sense; all the processing plants are flying their people in, plus all the Discovery crews, and they only run two planes a day. Shit—I just remembered: I haven’t even gotten my flight in here yet for opies. I live in Seattle, I just come up here for king and opie seasons. Lemme talk to Andy and John, we’ll figure something out.”
Mike called me back the next day with a plan that blew me away: They were going to charter a plane from Anchorage, and we could ride on it. They’d meet us in Anchorage, we’d all get on the charter and fly to the Time Bandit, then ride on the boat with them to Dutch Harbor.
Tucker “We get to ride on the Time Bandit? Like out to sea and shit?”
Mike “Yeah. There’s a ton that goes on that you don’t see on the show. You see, we dock the boat in King Cove between king crab and opilio crab season, not in Dutch Harbor. It’s about a day’s ride or so. Wait till we ride the charter plane from Anchorage to King Cove. There’s no airport at King Cove, it’s just a gravel runway. There aren’t even any buildings there—the one that was there blew down during a storm, and they never rebuilt it.”
Tucker “Is this a joke?”
Mike “Oh no. Look it up on Google Maps. If you’re really lucky, we’ll have to buzz the runway the first time and scare off the bears. That’s happened before.”
I got off the phone and immediately typed “King Cove Airport” into Google Maps. Holy shit. He was right—there really wasn’t anything there but a gravel strip and some utility sheds.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
I talked to Fourtner and Johnathan Hillstrand at least every other day for the next week or so as we sorted out all the details and travel arrangements. It was fucking incredible what these guys were doing for us. Granted, they had to charter the plane anyway, but they were going out of their way to help us get there, and aside from some phone conversations, they didn’t even know me. What amazing people.
I had to do something to pay them back. Since we got to Anchorage on January 6th and left on the charter on January 7th, I figured I had to take them out that night and do it up right. I got in contact with a radio guy in the Anchorage area (who was friends with Johnathan), and in return for doing a bunch of radio stuff, he helped me set up a party at a bar, got a limo for us, everything.
Johnathan “There gonna be girls there?”
Tucker “Who the fuck are you talking to? I’ll make sure the sturdiest whores in Alaska come out.”
Johnathan “There better be. We’re going out to sea, there’s nothing but ugly for a month.”
Tucker “I also got us a $500 bar tab at Chilkoots.”
Johnathan “500!?!?! That’s not nearly enough. We’ll go through that in an hour.”
Tucker “An hour?”
Johnathan “Oh yeah. Shots are $7 a piece up here.”
Tucker “So?”
Johnathan “40 or 50 over the course of the night, it adds up.”
Tucker “50 shots at $7 a piece is only $350, dumbass.”
Johnathan “No you stupid fuck, 40 or 50 per person. There’s ten of us, add in beer too. We’ve had 5 grand tabs before.”
Tucker “50 SHOTS PER PERSON?!?”
Johnathan “Oh yeah. On a heavy night, we’ll go through a bottle of Crown apiece. Sometimes more.”
Tucker “Dude—that’s insane!”
Johnathan “You sound like my fucking doctor.”
PART 2: THE ANCHORAGE PARTY AND THE $200 BEAR MACE SPECIAL
The day finally comes. We all arrive in Anchorage on various flights. I’m the last one to the hotel, and by the time I show up, everyone is already in the hotel bar drinking with the Time Bandit crew. Fourtner hands me a beer:
Fourtner “You all have no idea what you’re in for, do you?”
Tucker “Have you ever thought that you’re the one who should be worried?”
Fourtner “Yeah, yeah. Be ready—we’re going to get you as drunk as 15 Indians tonight.”
Almost immediately, Johnathan orders up a round of shots and hands one to me.
Johnathan “Here you go, pretend you’re a man.” It’s Crown Royal, obviously. And Crown Royal is whiskey. And I fucking hate whiskey, for good reason.
Tucker “I’m allergic to whiskey.”
Johnathan “Jesus Christ. Alright, get Little Lord Hayfever over here a vodka shot.”
Fourtner “And some Benadryl too.”
OK, OK. I can play that game too. Johnathan says something about what the set-up at the bar is, and how he hates big crowds or some bullshit.
Johnathan “So, is there like a VIP at this thing for us, or what?”
Tucker “A VIP!?! No one can touch the fancy crab boat captain!!”
Johnathan “I don’t mean it like that!”
Tucker “I don’t think this DIVE BAR in ANCHORAGE, ALASKA has a VIP room, but we can stop and get some velvet ropes for you if you want. We’ll have the crew rope off a four-foot area around you and carry it around as you walk, so no matter where you go, you’ll have your own VIP right there with you.”
Nils “And Fourtner can stand there with a clip board, so when people come up to talk to you, he’ll check and see if they’re on the list. If not, they can’t even speak to you.”
Tucker “But it’ll be empty. It’ll just be an obviously blank sheet, but he’ll check it for every person who comes up to talk to Johnathan or get a picture or anything; ‘What’s your name? Lemme check. Nope, not on the list.’”
Nils “No, it’ll be blank, except for two names; Moses and Rae Carruth’s dead baby.”
Tucker “And we can have someone who does nothing but yell out the rules for getting into the VIP, like ‘Do you love chain-smoking, Crown-Royal-pounding, crab-eating captains? Is the sea your mistress and the bar your slut wife? Then step into the VIP. He has only two rules: no drama and no pants.’”
Johnathan “YOU CAN’T FUCK WITH ME LIKE THIS! I’M A CRAB BOAT CAPTAIN GODDAMNIT!!!”
We gave as good as we got for another hour or so, and once everyone warmed to each other, we started trading stories. Fourtner tells one about when he got tired of crab fishing, and decided to try something else for a while, so he got a job delivering mail. He hated it, and decided to quit and go back to fishing the day he found himself chasing a dog down the street, spraying its ass with mace as it ran away. Somehow the combination of alcohol and bravado leads Johnathan to bet me I can’t get someone at the bar later that night to take bear spray in the ass.
Tucker “Are you kidding? Done.”
Nils “Seriously though—can we go seal clubbing tonight?”
Fourtner “Probably.”
Nils “Sweet! Do you think I could club a baby seal to death using another dead baby seal?”
Before we can go to the party at the bar where the tab and
fans are, we have to go to the local radio station to do an interview. Damn near twenty of us take the limo and once there, they take me and Johnathan up to the booth for the interview.
It was a pretty standard interview; I showed up way too drunk, they begged me not to curse because of the FCC, I did anyway, etc. (you can see the whole interview on www.tuckermax.com/kfat). At the end, I had to get one more joke in at the drive-time DJ’s expense:
Tucker “Hold on—you’re a black guy from Mississippi, you can read AND you have a job? You must be the star of the state. They must have a statue of you down there.”
That’s not even a line I would write about, except for the reaction that Johnathan gave. He went out of the booth and said:
Johnathan “Did you hear what he just said on the air? He’s fucking crazy!!”
Tucker “Hold on—you work on a crab boat in the Bering Sea, and you think I’M crazy?”
After that, it was on. We get to the bar and it is packed with people; I have no idea how many were there. I spent at least two hours doing nothing but taking pictures, signing shit, and doing shots with random people, progressively getting drunker and drunker. That’s all fine and dandy, but I still had a bet to win. The bar had a DJ with a microphone, and he kept yammering all sorts of gibberish. I got hold of it and got to the important tasks at hand:
