Like anyone who works on the sea, Matt is constantly surprised by human endurance and the will to survive. He deals all the time with people on the edge in extreme circumstances. Some people just give up, but mostly, he said, they fight. One man he went to rescue on the Bering Sea had caught his arm in a winch. The bone was broken, the muscles were strung out, and the pain was excruciating. The man was eerily calm, sitting on the deck holding his arm and smoking a cigarette, waiting for the helicopter to arrive. At the same time, others who are barely in any danger freak out. He reflected on serendipity, the chance of the sea. He shook his head.
I thought about the F/V St. Patrick, December 2, 1981. She was a 158-foot scallop boat with a crew of eleven that ran into a storm at night five miles west of Marmot Island, near Kodiak. She took on water in her engine compartment and listed 90 degrees, balanced on the edge of going over. The crew put on survival suits, tied themselves together, and abandoned ship; the life raft was lost. The crew, fearing that the boat would turn over on them, swam as far away as they could before exhaustion overcame them. The current and the winds did the rest. Eight crewmen and one woman drowned or died of hypothermia that day and the next. Two survived. The agony of the St. Patrick was that she had righted herself after the crew had abandoned ship; a Coast Guard cutter towed her into port. They would all be alive if only they had stayed with her.
The same was true twenty years ago of a scow that was sinking off Kodiak in a bad storm. The crew of six had five survival suits. The cook lost out. The crewmen jumped overboard, and the cook opened a bottle of liquor and got drunk at the galley table. He passed out, and when he woke up the storm had gone past, and he was alive. The crewmen who had jumped overboard died of hypothermia.
Another of Matt’s surprises, he told me, is the size and invisibility of a man in the sea. He said a human head in the water is no larger than a floating basketball. “You can miss people,” he told me, with the search helicopter flying at 200 feet and 80 knots. “You can miss them so easily it makes you want to cry.”
That is the best part of the Coast Guard. The worst is their watchdog powers over Time Bandit, its safety gear, and our training to react in a crisis. I tend to think the Coast Guard has it out for me for what I did once on a day that was blowing 50 in the harbor, and Time Bandit lost steering as we were coming in. I called the Coast Guard to tell them I had no steering, and I put bumpers and buoys over the side. But we slammed the Coast Guard’s big cutter Roanoke Island anyway. The officers in charge could not see this merely as an accident. They thought I was drunk and gave Time Bandit’s crew and me drug tests.
I can usually talk to anyone. And Andy can talk to horses. He reads people like he reads his horses. So I leave the Coast Guard inspections for him to handle. Sometimes, I see a twenty-year-old Coastie come on Time Bandit who wants only to rip me a new one. I get out of the way. They come onboard and get up our butts like rubber coconuts. They tell us we cannot leave port until we get this fixed or that fixed or this or that done. We have too many pots on deck. Andy gets out the calculator, and not only do we not have too many, we have too few. The Coastie starts arguing over pot size and weight.
When they boarded us last year, three Coasties asked for our crew’s licenses, which they inspected and noted on their clipboards. They checked Time Bandit’s papers. They counted extinguishers and flares, the Satellite 406 EPRIBs, life rings, life rafts, and the integrity and check-by dates of our survival suits. They looked carefully at our stability letter, which states how many pots we can safely carry on deck. Intentional or not, miscalculations (inputting the wrong pot weights) have in the past caused ships to capsize and now pot weight is monitored to the pound. The Coasties behaved in a formal, professional manner. Then, before they went away, they detonated a smoke bomb in our engine room and shouted “Fire!”
Photo Insert
Getting into trouble: Johnathan (left) and Andy, four and three years old
Johnathan’s (left, age four) and Andy’s (age three) first flounders
Try Again , our childhood “pirate boat”
Grandma Jo Shupert, 1945
Ice fishing on the Bering Sea, 2006
Unloading opies at St. Paul, the Pribilof Islands
Old Bandit. On deck: Dad (middle), Neal (left), Andy and Johnathan (right)
Andy and crewmate at the pot block getting ready to throw the hook
Andy’s girls: Sabrina, Chelsey, Cassie
Sabrina running the crane
Johnathan with his king salmon catch, early ’80s
Neal in the tank, 1986
Grandma Jo, Johnathan’s son, Scott, and Mom
Downtime on the Time Bandit: Johnathan (left) and Andy playing video games (© Sabrina Hillstrand)
Andy in a survival suit
Andy barrel racing (© Sabrina Hillstrand)
Andy (left) and Johnathan in Florida, 2007, with a 10 ft. 2 in. gator
Malcolm doing the survival-suit drill
Sorting opies: Johnathan (left), Richard Gregoire, and Shea Long (far right)
Neal with Bandit
Johnathan’s “cooler” Harley
Johnathan with two monster crabs
Johnathan’s Harley burning rubber
Fish camp around the oil-drum fire. Russ, Dino, and Johnathan
Taking aim: Johnathan, 2007
Fishing Fever, Johnathan’s salmon boat, on the grid
Andy with Cali and Bait
Andy (right) with Dad
Magnetic darts at fish camp set where we would fish
I hit the switch in the wheelhouse for the warning sirens, and all hands ran to their stations. We followed the smoke belowdecks. I threw on a re-breather and without triggering it, I aimed an extinguisher at the “flame,” which I soon “put out.” The Coasties stood by, watching us scurry around in utter seriousness. We did not go through the drills exactly as prescribed. We used common sense that often gets left out of the written regulations. The Coasties debriefed us. They wanted to know what we could have done better. And we talked about it. They brought up other scenarios, like a hole in the boat, abandon ship, flooding, a Mayday, the whole drill. We must have passed muster, because they then proceeded to the next tests with survival suits and deployment of our ten-man raft.
Getting into a survival suit is no mean feat even for someone agile, trim, and calm. But panic can scramble brains. The survival suit is the first line of defense on the Bering Sea. The crewmen keep them within an arm’s reach when they are sleeping. When the alarms ring and either Andy or I order the crew into their suits, they have sixty seconds to shake out the bag, lay the suit out on the floor, sit down, push their legs in, stand up, push their arms in, pull up the long lariat on the zipper, put the hood over their heads, and close the Velcro flap over their mouths. It is a struggle but beats the alternative.
We waddled to the rail. I had assigned Russell the life raft duties. He jettisoned a hard plastic chamber that was bolted to the top of the wheelhouse on the aft deck. The raft deployed automatically when it hit the water. As usual, the Coasties asked us to follow the raft in. That always gives me pause. The water is so feared by us, even a trial run triggers a feeling of dread. In our minds, Bering Sea water equals death. We balk even when we know that the dock is only feet away.
We took our positions on the rail, crossed one forearm over our faces with our palm over our mouths, and jumped. Once the water closed around me, even though this was Dutch Harbor, I imagined myself in a real crisis. The exercise took hold of me with a seriousness that surprised me. One by one, we swam to the raft and struggled in on our stomachs until the Coasties told us to come back onboard Time Bandit.
Once the Coast Guard was finished with us, we were not done. Next, we were visited by the state government in the presence of Fish & Game and the federal government in the guise of National Marine Fisheries Service, which itself is part of NOAA. Once, OSHA boarded us with the unwanted news that we were using the wrong kind of welding gear. Sometimes
these agency representatives can be adversarial, but most of the time they are trying to help. Andy and I have wondered if the space shuttle has this much oversight.
In the end, I doubt that crab fishing could be made safer than what it already is and still remain efficient and cost effective. Time Bandit is eminently stable, as I have said. We carry fewer pots than we are allowed. We use the latest firefighting equipment. We take extra precautions with the crew. We train. We treat fishing on the Bering Sea as the serious, unforgiving task that it is.
Now, two chores remained before we could leave Dutch to begin our season in the fall of 2006. We wanted to be out on the king crab grounds in the southeast Bering Sea near the Bristol Bay line before the season officially opened. For an irrational reason that has to do with our competitive natures, we wanted to be the first to drop pots on the opening hour of crab season, even though with our IFQs, the date hardly mattered. Last season we knew what we would catch. But we worried about making our delivery dates with the processors. If we missed our appointment by only a couple of hours, we would have had to go to the back of the line, risking the loss of the crabs in our holds. Sometimes the wait can be days.
Neal and I led the way from the dock in our rented SUV. He had lists. I had only preferences. Driving over to Dutch’s Eagle Quality Center in snow flurries, I noticed an unusual number of bald eagles soaring over the canneries and the hillside that runs down to the harbor. Eagles are as numerous on Dutch as pigeons in a park; they are glorious and beautiful to watch as they swoop over the road. We drove through puddles and ruts in the gravel road that leads away from the canneries toward the commercial section of the harbor. Everything on Dutch wears the cold gray coat of winter, from the sky to the land. This is not a pretty island. Like Time Bandit, its purpose is work.
Neal and I each wheeled a shopping cart into Eagle’s, which looks like a warehouse with high ceilings of structural braces and conduits for heat and ventilation. The rows of grocery shelves are spaced to allow fishermen to wheel large platform dollies for their groceries. I doubt if anyone comes here for only a quart of milk.
I ran through the aisles scooping groceries into a cart with my arms. Neal, meanwhile, checked his long list. He was hunting for “specials.” We needed to buy enough food to feed seven hungry, active men for two weeks. I concentrated on cigarettes and Copenhagen. Candy came next. The candy drawer on Time Bandit empties out first at sea; the crewmen call candy “deck steaks” because often when they are working, Snickers and Hershey’s bars are the only food they have time to eat. Next to go into the cart were snacks like Cheez Puffs and Doritos. I told Russell to load up a separate cart with drinks like Red Bull, Amp and Full Throttle and half-gallon plastic bottles of Coke and root beer. Neal selected a choice eighteen-pound rib-in roast. I scooped in boxes of Saltines. I passed the magazine racks. In the cart went Maxim, the latest Plumpers, National Geographic’s Adventure, Sailing, FHM, Vanity Fair, PC, Rolling Stone…. The next items on my list were less-quick snacks, peanut butter and jelly and bologna and salami, Poppin’ Fresh muffins, Hot Pockets. The carts were quickly getting full. Neal bought thirty dozen eggs to cook; I stacked on ten dozen eggs in my cart to throw at the crew. Neal carefully counted twenty big cans of Folgers coffee. I reached for the Tabasco and Reddi-wip. We lined up the carts, and when the checkout woman finished scanning the products, the total came to $5,488.
With the groceries packed in the SUV, we stopped to buy personal gear. Metal racks of slickers and shelves of T-shirts and sweatshirts inscribed with “Eat Crab” and “Eat Fish,” bib overalls, Grundens, gloves, knives, hand warmers, and woolen hats lined the shed. Shea bought new Grundens, and I bought an armful of sweatshirts. The personal gear is less an afterthought than a simple staple; we wear the same sweatshirt and T-shirts for days. Personal items such as shaving cream, razors, gel, and deodorants have no place on the Bering Sea and are left back in port. Some fishermen believe the superstition that shaving at sea brings bad luck. We will probably never know, because no one ever shaves on Time Bandit while she is out of port. No one in the crew cares what anyone else looks like or if they smell rank with sweat and putrefying fish slime.
Virtually every deckhand dresses in waterproof orange Grundens’ Herkules bib pants and hooded parkas, often writing their name in black marker across the backs. Baseball hats turned backward, as a practical matter, are de rigueur. Around our waists we string webbed belts to which we attach scabbards for short, razor-sharp knives; on deck the knife, cutting through a line tangled on a man’s leg, has saved lives. We wear thick warm socks in Xtratuf rubber boots and blue-lined gloves to protect our hands from cold and wet. What we wear under our slickers we choose for warmth—hooded sweatshirts over T-shirts or sweat pants or jeans.
Next we made a final stop at the Unisea Sports Bar for a last good-bye.
Sig Hansen was in attendance off the Northwestern. He is a great fisherman. I have no higher praise. Larry Hendricks off Sea Star was talking; if InSauna bin Russell wanted to torture Larry he would need only to put him in a cell with no one to listen to him. Last year when Larry and I were sharing a hotel room, I ducked into the bathroom to tell him that Andy and I were leaving for dinner. Larry stepped out of the shower and gave me a full frontal. I needed a support group to help me get over the shock. Larry told me that his strategy last year was to “plug the boat,” as if everyone else had a strategy of returning empty. Blake Painter off Maverick was looking preoccupied; this was his first king crab season as captain. Keith Colburn, captain of Wizard, was trading yarns with the bartender, and Phil Harris off the Cornelia Marie was talking about his sons, who were going along as greenhorns. Phil was telling someone, “You get out and get in fast, if you can, to duck death. You always hope it’s not your time.” I overheard one of the crewmen talking to Sarah, the Sports Bar’s cute, blond, Swedish bartender, about “the lifestyle of danger,” and I rolled my eyes at her and she laughed. We sat around a table and swapped stories and bragged. Everyone shared the same feeling of new beginnings, and what was past was past.
Sitting around a table near the bar, while Russell bellowed karaoke—I think it was the Stones’s “Satisfaction”—the captains of five boats—Cornelia Marie, Time Bandit, Northwestern, Maverick, and Wizard—proposed bets on which boat would catch the most king crabs; to make the betting fair, I suggested that the winner would have the highest numbers of crabs per pot, not the highest numbers overall, since the catch varied from boat to boat according to IFQs. We bet $100 each, which the manager of the Unisea Sports Bar kept for us until the season ended.
The bet was not over money, per se. The highest per-pot numbers would go to the captain and crew who were the better fishermen, knew where to find the hot spots for the crabs, calculated the right baits and soaking times, and in the end just got luckier than everyone else. That was what the bet was really about. Sig, who has an ego, thought he already had won. Everyone else would have raised the bet. A gathering of crab boat captains never wants for self-confidence.
We drank and bragged and smoked until we were, most of us, drunk and hoarse. We wandered in groups according to boat crews out into a cold starry night ready at last to face the Bering Sea for a share of the $60 million jackpot of Alaskan king crab.
No Such Luck
Once he had cleared the Kasilof estuary Russell discovered that Rivers End had no single sideband and the VHF channel 16 had a range of only 20 miles. Russell used his cell phone instead to call the Coast Guard while he was still in range. When he was patched through to the Kodiak duty officer and inquired whether they had heard from Fishing Fever, the Coastie told him no, he had not. Russell asked him to keep a watch on the general area where he thought Johnathan might be found. The Coastie asked him why he thought that Johnathan might be missing and Russell told him that Johnathan was his friend and he was missing, or overdue anyway. The bit about being late into harbor did not seem to move the Coast Guardsman, who recorded the information dutifully, Russell was sure, b
ut they both knew that the Coast Guard could do nothing until daylight, if even then. Normally they did not leap into action without definitive information that a boat was lost or capsized and dead in the water, and they had a general fix. Russell had nothing of that sort to give him. He asked if Russell knew whether Fishing Fever was carrying an EPIRB emergency beacon. Certainly not, he told him, adding to the list a survival suit, a life raft, and maybe not flares or a life jacket. Russell heard him say, “Sorry, sir.”
The magnetic darts that the men in camp threw in the direction of the naked lady drawing on the van and how Johnathan’s had hit the lower regions gave Russell a general direction to follow. Dino had said, “He went south of the line.” That sounded like Johnathan marching to his own drummer. He would have chosen that area, the magnetic dart notwithstanding, because he was the better fisherman among the men in camp. He would have known, for instance, the direction the sockeyes were taking toward their home rivers. He can smell the fish. He gets inside their heads. He knows even before they do what they will do. He might as well be half salmon. He would have been trying to find them as soon as they entered the Cook Inlet. That would mean fishing closer to shore and farther south toward the Inlet’s wide mouth in waters that become increasingly dangerous the farther south and west a boat goes. He would have tried to separate himself from the other boats no matter what. Johnathan’s Fishing Fever was fast, easily reaching sustained speed above 20 knots. He would have been away and off radar before anybody noticed.
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