Taking my first deep
breath of cold sea air, the feel of my rubber XTRATUF boots on the main deck,
the rough line and cold ladder under palm. Ahh.. This is what home feels like.
This is where I belong. Seriously, I can't believe this is the first time I'm
realizing it. This boat, the Deer Harbor II, is more my home now than anywhere
else in the world. I mean there is my 'home' in San Antonio with my mom and my
sister of course, and they'll always be some of my closest family, but I spend
less time there then I do on the boat in Alaska. San Antonio has become more of
a weigh station in my life, a constant crossroads. I stop for a couple few
weeks at a time just to see my mom, my sister, and my dog Chancey (obviously
the most important). Amber and Gordon are as much my family as anyone else now
though. Me and Amber live together for the most stable part of the year for us,
those months spent working long and hard on the boat in SE Alaska. When I'm in
San Antonio it's nice, but it's like being a coiled spring, knowing soon I'll
be off on the next grand adventure, and I can’t help but anticipate what lies
ahead. Here on the boat I get to let that tension release, sit down in the
gorgeous wilderness, and focus all my energy on one thing for a period of time
taking it as an adventure in itself. Focus on working and learning new things.
Real things, not like they teach in college. Out here I get to learn about
engines, the weather, and knots.
A Working Deck
I've missed it, I
really have. I know towards the end of each season I don't want to be on the
boat anymore, but hardly anyone does when September rolls around. Everyone
leaves with a 'Thank God I'm off for a while', but then, after a month, or two,
or three, you begin to think back. And when you think back you begin to
remember all the good times you had on the boat the past season and every
season before. You remember what it feels like not to have a care in the world,
the pain/reward of hard manual labor for long hours in the cold rain, being
lost in the wilderness, and a world that hardly anyone you know could ever
understand. And so, like birds in migration, at a certain time of year, all the
previous deckhands begin to inquire about jobs for the next season, because
their internal ticker has gone off and it’s telling them 'it's been long enough
now, time to feel your world rocking under your feet again'. Because the boat
is your world when you're here. You feel the need for a little brisk sea air in
those lungs of yours and then you really start reminiscing and longing for it
all again. Missing the feel of line in your hands, thinking about the crazy
shit we do, how hilarious it all was.
A Quiet Bell
Like the day it was
so windy in Mite cove there were whitecaps, and then when Zeb, on the Hat
Trick, was offloading his fish he accidently dropped his deck hose while it was
running and the wind took hold of it spraying it all over his deck and in his
house. Me and Amber were standing up at the hydraulic stand just watching the
whole spectacle and we disintegrated into tears laughing about it, not because
it was funny that Zeb sprayed water all up in his house (it was quite hilarious
though), but because sometimes our job is so fucking ridiculous we can't even
handle it ourselves and in order to cope we just break down in hysterical
laughter for a good portion of each day. Then from those moments come the
countless, and I mean COUNTLESS, inside jokes that we run around spouting no
matter what we do which doesn't help to stop the knee slapping laughter heard
about the ship all day long.
Block in the Rain
It's amazing because
you live in your own little world for the time you're on the boat, well, your
own little world that includes 5 or 6 others (and a bunch o' dirty ol'
fishermen). No one cares about the news or anything so concrete as that. We
worry about the fish and the weather. When we wake up we look outside and it's
either shitty or it ain't, and most of the time it's shitty. We still go to
work in it though. On those days, when the wind wakes you up, you always curse
and kick yourself a little bit for getting yourself into this work for yet
another year, but then you get out on deck start packing fish, or whatever it
is that you're doing, and start goofing off with the rest of the crew, then,
before you know it, the day is over. Yeah sometimes your hands hurt. Sometime
you're sore, or just sorely exhausted from working what certainly wasn't a 9-5
work day, but you feel better for it at the end of the day. You feel like you
did something. And your creaking body'll tell you so as you gently try to lay
it's bruised and battered self to bed. After having an end of the night shot o'
Jameson with Amber of course.
Amber on the Porch
There's just
something alluring about Alaska and all it holds. Even just getting on the
wheel for your 2am drive shift. Sitting with your feet kicked up on the wheel
and jamming to whatever music taste has caught your fancy for the night. Whilst
in the midst of a sea and a sea of stars there's nothing to bring you down.
Because there's nothing like, after having had 8 cups of coffee, keeping the
boat on autopilot and stepping out the wheelhouse door where your dreads are
caught up in a windy mess by the cold sea air, looking up at heaven bleeding
through the sky at you (a little dramatic I know, haha). Waiting expectantly,
yet unknowingly, for a surprise appearance from the Northern Lights. Even the
thought of them, or, maybe, just the strain on your eyes from staring into
oblivion all night, can bring a little bit o' that good old salt'n'water to yer
eyes. Then, after being up at the queerest hours of the of the early early
morning, being allowed to retire to your own small, small but homey, estate room
(the snake pit), where the learned-to-love engine and generator roars from deep
within the bowels of the ship, along with the gentle back and forth of the
ocean, will, often times, put you to sleep before your head hits the pillow.
A Small Moon Isn't A Small Tide
It's beautiful. The
work is beautiful. The people are beautiful. The scenery is beautiful. On a
clear day with the snowcapped mountains guiding the straits up and down the
coastline there could be bears on the beach, whales in the water, eagles aloft,
porpoises, sea lions, otters, and seals. We get to eat fresh crab, or prawns,
or we stop on our way through Ketchikan for the sole purpose of purchasing the
best oysters I've had, to date, in my life. I have my little smoothie every
morning with spinach, some berries, yogurt, and a banana. I can focus mostly on
eating healthy (or trying to and failing) and getting my body back into decent
shape again. The same for my mind because often times there's not much to do
but read on the boat and nothing feels better then kicking back at the end of
the night and falling asleep mid page turn. I'm happy while I'm here because
here is inherently brilliant. And here, as many a homeless vagabonding spirit
has discovered, here in Alaska is a launching pad to the entire world.
One Lonely Cloud
And this is where I
leave you. The reason this blog is called Monday, well, there are a couple. If
you want to look at it this way, it's the beginning of my short Alaska journey,
and if you want to look at it that way, it's because I'm lazy. But, really,
this is how I would like to introduce this short blog series. I am going to
release one blog post for every day of the week, starting with Monday. There
will be 7 in all, detailing my last month in Alaska as well as some of the
other small adventures I had on the way there, during the season, and a
"what's next?" preview. They won't all be the same sort of post, they
won't all be similar if I can help it, but they will all have me behind them.
Wish me luck with this endeavor, I look forward to catching you all up on what
has just happened as well as what is soon to come. Spoiler: Stumbles is bound
to be involved.
So thanks for
reading all this y'all,
Be Happy,
Beacon
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