Читать книгу Dutch Clarke - The Early Years - Brian Ratty - Страница 4

Bang!

The green, foamy water thundered across the wheelhouse with such a force that I thought the windows would explode. Two gray-painted iron pipes ran across the ceiling of the little compartment and both my hands were wrapped around them, hanging on for dear life. All I could see through the smeared glass were mountains of white/green water, all rushing towards me. The boat was rolling in every direction, first up, then to the right, then down. Other than the dim light coming from outside, a single bare lamp burned above Captain Skip, who stood calmly at the helm. Next to him, on the other side, Jack was holding onto the pipe with one hand and drinking coffee with the other. Jack’s casual posture reminded me of someone chatting at a church social. Both men were wearing yellow raincoats and hats. Outside, on the rear of the boat, Tony was checking to make sure the gear was lashed down securely.

I’d met all three of these guys just a few hours before, when we’d pulled out of the Ketchikan boat basin. It had been a wet, miserable day when we’d departed, and it had only gotten worse.

The boat rose in the air, twisted to the right, and crashed headlong back into the raging sea. Water again covered the wheelhouse with such a force that the door next to me flew open, spraying all of us with cold, salty seawater. Reaching over with one hand and using the weight of my body, I got the door closed again. My heart was in my mouth, and I was scared.

Captain Skip looked over at me. "Well, boy, how do you like fishin’ so far?" Both he and Jack laughed out loud. Then Skip turned to Jack and asked, "How’s that barometer doin’?"

"Still fallin’, Skipper," Jack replied.

Another big wave broke across our bow, and this time the boat twisted almost 45 degrees. Turning to Captain Skip, I shouted, "Do you think we should get life jackets on?"

Both men laughed out loud again.

"Look, son, you can put one on if it makes you feel better, but the facts are that you wouldn't last two minutes, floating in the cold waters up here. Only way to stay alive in weather like this is not to fall in. Right, Jack?"

"You got that right, Skipper. Hell, there's more danger in having a little fun in the sporting houses of Ketchikan than in these waters."

Captain Skip spun the wheel to turn the boat into a large wave coming from the right side. Its green foam spread again across the wheelhouse. The sound of its crash was almost deafening, its force shook the whole boat. The little windshield wiper in front of the skipper’s window stopped with the weight of the water and then began again.

Skip replied, "Come on, Jack, the boy just came aboard and you’re already talking badly about our little fishing village. Why don't you go astern and see if Tony needs help?"

"Sure. Why not? There’ll be plenty of time to show the boy how we live up here."

Jack slugged the last of his coffee, put the mug in a holder, and looked out the window for a few seconds, to time his exit with the waves.

Skip turned his head toward me for just a moment and said, "Look, Dutch, there's nothing to be afraid of. I’ve been in weather like this a hundred times, and the Pacific Lady is made of some of the finest timber man has found. She wouldn’t let us down. You go below and get some rest. I put your gear in the forward cabin. Your bunk is the port side."

At first, I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure I could let go of the pipes above me, and I certainty didn't know what “port” meant.

Skip looked over again. "You can make it. Just go slowly and hang on, you'll have your sea legs in no time. By the way, port is left, starboard is right. With this weather, it’ll be hours before we start fishing. I'll call ya if and when we start fishing, or sinking."

A broad smile crossed his weather-beaten face. Forcing a smile back, I nodded my approval. Then, slowly, I turned and climbed down the rolling gangway ladder at the rear of the wheelhouse and lurched up a dimly lit passageway to the forward cabin. There I found my suitcase sliding back and forth on the floor next to a V berth.

Closing the cabin door, I looked around the small compartment. The only illumination inside the cramped quarters came from four small portholes above me. I was sure I wouldn't sleep, but I crawled into the left bunk anyway. Here, I could feel the front of the boat lift itself out of the water and then crash down again. Each time, I’d hang on to the sides of the bunk. Sometimes my whole body would become weightless as I was bounced into the air. Then I’d fall back into my bunk with a thud.

Damn! This was not how I’d envisioned fishing when Uncle Roy had told me about Captain Skip and working up here in Ketchikan, Alaska. Maybe, as much as I would have hated it, I should have stayed with Grandfather in Fairview for my sixteenth summer.

There was another wave, another loud crash. Then, for some unknown reason, I was asleep in a few minutes.

The next thing I heard was the muffled sounds of the boat’s diesel engine as it pushed the Pacific Lady through calm waters. My eyes flew open and I saw sunlight coming from the small portholes above the cabin. Hopping out of my bunk, I stood on my toes to look out through one of the small, round windows.

The ocean was flat, the sun low in the sky, and seagulls were flying around the boat as it cut cleanly through the water. There was a rocky shoreline with tall trees growing between the rocks right down to the shore. The boat was slowly moving north, with none of the pitching and rolling of the day before.

Looking at my watch, I saw that it was 6 a.m.; I’d slept almost 10 hours! My legs were wobbly, but it was time to get moving. Swinging open the cabin door, I swayed down the passageway like a drunk. As I passed the gangway leading up to the wheelhouse, I saw Jack's legs behind the helm.

Just astern of the gangway, I entered into a small, smoke-filled salon with small windows above. This cabin served as a galley, with a diesel cooking stove on one side, which made the whole room smell of diesel, and a small eating booth on the other side. There, sitting behind the table, were Skip and Tony. They both greeted me with big smiles on their faces.

Tony said, "Hey, bait boy... good morning. I heard you wanted a life jacket yesterday. Here, you can have mine!"

He threw an orange life jacket across the cabin as he laughed.

Catching it in mid-air and turning to Captain Skip, I said, "Thought you were going to call me, sir. Sorry for all that sack time."

Skip looked up. "We didn't sink, and we’re still a couple hours from where we’ll start fishing. Thought a good night’s sleep would help ya. When we get into the fishin’ waters, there won’t be sleep for any of us."

Sitting down on the corner of one of the benches of the booth, I was still a little bewildered.

"Help yourself to the coffee, and there’s food on the stove. After you’ve eaten, I'll give you the first lesson on being a bait boy," Skip said.

The coffee was strong and black, and I poured a full mug. At the stove, I lifted the lid on a large, black, cast-iron skillet. Mixed in the grease from bacon and sausage were two cold, hard, fried eggs. The sight and smell of this mixture made my stomach turn, and I knew I was going to throw up. Turning, I staggered out of the cramped salon as fast as I could.

As I made my hasty departure, I heard Tony say, "Gee, Skipper, we won’t need any bait on this trip. Looks like the bait boy will provide all we need."

Captain Skip soon joined me at the rail. "Don't worry about it, Dutch. It will take some time to get used to all the smells and rolling of a fishing boat. Let’s get to work. It’ll get your mind off it. Let me show you all about being a bait boy."

Even though I remained seasick for the next five days, that’s exactly what he did. He showed me how to remove the barbs from the large hooks we were using and how to take a file to sharpen those hooks. He explained that if the barbs were left on, the fish would be hard to remove from the hooks.

As he helped me file my first few hooks, I really saw him for the first time. He was a tall, thin man in his late forties, with jet-black hair and graying temples. He was part Eskimo and part French, which gave him a love for nature and the temper to back it up. His face had strong features and his hands and arms were robust and thick. When he smiled, which he did a lot, he showed teeth that were white and straight. He was a man that fit his environment.

I took to him immediately. He was genuine with his instruction and had a lot of patience for all my questions. Next, he showed me how to put the bait on the barbless hooks, how to handle the lines, where to throw the fish, and other tips for a landlubber turned bait boy.

My bond with Captain Skip came easily and I worked hard for him. It was important to me to do a good job and I never made the same mistake twice. On a working boat, you need to think ahead of the boat’s needs and I took pride in being prepared to always fill those needs. There was no job I wouldn't do, no job I wouldn't try. My goal was to please him and the rest of the crew. I slept when they slept, worked when they worked, and joked when they joked. In time, I’d explored every nook and cranny of the boat. There was no part of that boat I didn’t learn about and no piece of gear I couldn’t operate. It was hard work, as hard as anything I had done in my life, but there was something I loved about it. It was the sea, the fishing, the rugged beauty of the Alaska wilderness and, most of all, my mates. By the end of this first trip, I had my sea legs and was never seasick again. I carried my weight and was by now a full-fledged member of the Pacific Lady’s crew—and damn proud of it.

Between our five-to-seven-day fishing trips, we’d spend a day or two docked at the Ketchikan boat basin. Here, we’d sell our catch, refuel, re-supply, and re-rig for the next trip. Captain Skip allowed me to stay aboard the Pacific Lady while he, Jack, and Tony went home to their families. During these times, for the most part, I’d read, write letters, and write in my journal, which was never far from me. I loved to walk the streets of this unique, rough, and picturesque little fishing village. At the time, the only way in or out of Ketchikan was by boat or floatplane, so all the food and supplies were barged in, mostly from Seattle. Here, a nickel Coke cost a dime, a newspaper from the lower 48 that cost two cents was a nickel, and you could buy a hamburger and fries and pay almost two bits. The only thing that seemed to be cheap was the beer. Anyhow, it must have been, because there was a bar on every corner and a drunk on every sidewalk. Jack and Tony had asked me to go out on the town with them a few times, but I always found an excuse to say no. At sixteen, I might have a smoke every now and then, but going to those bars and what they called “sporting houses” just didn't appeal to me.

That first summer, I met Captain Skip’s family only once, and that was when his wife had me to dinner, the night before I returned to the east. They lived in a modest house in the hills, overlooking the village and its harbor. His wife was a small, blonde-haired Norwegian lady named Louise, who cooked one of the best meals I’d ever eaten. The menu was simple—what she called seafood stew. While I can't remember exactly what kind of seafood she used, I remember telling myself it had been the best meal ever. At the dinner table that night were their two daughters. Laura, 17, was about to leave for college in Seattle, and Nancy, 20, was about to marry a sailor down in San Diego.

The next day, as Skip walked me to the ferry, he told me that while he’d miss “his gals,” Ketchikan was no place to raise a family and that most young people got out as soon as possible. Later, as the ferryboat moved slowly past the city, I stood by the railing, looking out at the little fishing village. I felt sorry that Skip and Louise would be without their daughters, as I’d found this little hamlet so unique and picturesque, but then, I didn’t have a family to raise here. With my pockets full of money and my head full of memories, I left Ketchikan for the first time. But I knew I would return.

As we moved through a small gully, I glanced up, watching the last of the blue-gray mist whisk away from the top of Thunder Mountain. Stopping my little caravan, I reached into my saddlebags for my binoculars. Through the glasses, I got my first really good look at that gigantic granite monolith.

What I saw frightened me, and for the first time in my life I tasted fear in my cotton-dry mouth. What loomed before me was a forbidding, unforgiving, massive wilderness that could swallow up my little party in one quick gulp. The trail ahead was pitted with dangers and I knew that I could count on no one but myself.

Replacing the binoculars in my saddlebag, I cussed myself for looking. Why didn’t I have a spine? Why had I agreed to this adventure? Grandfather and I were utterly different, fire and ice. I never measured any man by his pocketbook. I never expected anything from others that I wasn’t willing to give back and I never judged others, only myself. How had I turned out so completely my grandfather’s opposite? Maybe, just maybe, I was more like my father, after all.