by Memry Hamik
More than one-half of the United States population live and work less than fifty miles from the coastline, yet few have formed their lives around the sea.
Alaskan fishermen, however, have for generations built families, communities, and even the constitution of their state around the ocean.
It is a lifestyle that has remained basically unchanged for hundreds of years, but as the boats get bigger, the technology more precise, and the selling price of salmon dips lower, the stakes get higher. It is an industry and a livelihood unlike any other, and for many that is precisely the reason they devote their lives to it year after year.
When the windy weather of spring reaches the 47,300 miles of Alaska’s coastline, fishing boat captains, known as skippers, have already begun to prepare for the coming season.
Boat owners check their vessels from top to bottom for any damage done over the winter as the ice in the harbor begins to crack and slowly melt.
It is during this time that anyone not lucky enough to already be on a boat’s crew from previous seasons begins to walk the harbor’s dock and frequent the local bars in search of a skipper in need of an extra hand.
All over the harbor, nets are being mended, gear is inspected, rigging is oiled, and instruments are checked.
Crew members scrounge together the money needed to buy boots, raingear, and the all-important fishing license, which alone can cost $60 for Alaskan residents and $125 for nonresidents.
By the end of May, it is time to leave the harbor and head to the fishing grounds. Each boat’s destination depends on the permit held by the skipper.
Bristol Bay, False Pass, Kodiak, Cook Inlet, and Prince William Sound are all large salmon fishing areas, yet each vary in length of fishing season, type of fishing boat, and the price paid for salmon by local fishing processors in each region.
Some boats will be back to their home port in a few weeks, and some will not return until fall, when the salmon fishing season is over across the state.
Our trip to the fishing grounds is long and rough. We leave Homer, our home port, and travel past Kodiak Island out to False Pass, a trip that takes at least 72 hours in good weather. The constant pitching and rolling is a perfect introduction to the rest of the summer, when regardless of the conditions work must be done quickly and correctly in order to enjoy a successful catch.
When we arrive we immediately join the rest of the fishermen who are glued to the radio, waiting for an announcement from the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. Fish and Game work with seafood processors to decide and to regulate when and where fishing will be allowed, what gear can be used, what type of fish can be caught and how many at a time.
In False Pass, purse seiners and gill-netters use different gear to fish for salmon. Purse seiners wrap their nets in a circle around a school of salmon, slowly closing the bottom before hauling the catch on board. This type of fishing requires a large boat no longer than 58 feet in length with a powerful engine and a four-person crew. Gill-netters anchor down a net that stretches from shore to shore out into the open ocean. The salmon are caught by their gills in the mesh of the nets, then untangled and hauled on board. Gillnetting boats are usually between 2540 feet in length and require a crew of at least two. All fishing boats in False Pass aim to catch sockeye salmon, also known as reds. These fish are the gold of the entire industry, due to the quality of their meat and the higher prices they bring in from overseas buyers. Chum, or dog salmon are also caught, along with Pinks (known as humpies), and Cohoes (called silvers) for much less of a profit. On average, reds are sold for $30 per pound; silvers are sold for $.40 per pound, dogs for $.20 per pound and humpies for $. 10 per pound.
The announcement finally comes from Fish and Game, and we’re off. The boats stream out to the fishing grounds, some head to their registered spots and others race to horded stream openings to be the first with their nets in the water. It takes us four hours to reach our registered gillnet area, and by the time we arrive no boats or any other evidence of human civilization is in sight. It is known as American Bay, but it seems as far away from America as one could possibly get. Towering peaks capped by snow year round shadow the rocky beaches that meet the constantly pounding surf. The hills below the peaks are smothered in moss berries and salmonberries, but the fruit is enjoyed only by the bears that swarm the area, hungry after a winter of hibernating and impatient for a taste of salmon.
As soon as we drop anchor, we climb into our raingear and begin to transfer the nets, anchors, and other gear from the boat’s hold into the skiff. As the boat rocks in rhythm with the waves, the skiff bounces to an entirely different beat, so as gear is transferred it takes communication and concentration to avoid having a crewmember, or anything else, pitch into the hold or overboard into the icy water. Once everything is loaded, we all climb into the skiff to go set out the nets.
The skiff is fully loaded, and with each wave rolling in from the open ocean threatening to crash over us I am reminded of how far from any kind of help we are. Interrupting my unsettling realizations is our arrival at the beach, where we’ll set the first anchor that will be attached to the base of the net.
Once the anchor is dropped, the net begins to whip out of the boar as it is pulled by its lead line into the water and by the current out into the bay. Raingear makes moving awkward for even the most experienced fishermen, yet it is all too easy to picture the grisly fate of someone who is unable to stay clear of the net as it plunges into the water.
After the nets are dropped, and each fastened with an anchor at both ends, we return to the boat to wait while they fill with fish.
I am usually torn at this point, wanting a long rest after such grueling work but at the same time the faster the nets fill with fish the faster we’ll need to be out there picking them out to make room for more, and the more fish we bring in the more money I’ll be bringing home for the winter.
We wait an hour, then climb into our raingear once more and take off in the skiff to see what our nets have caught. The weather has gotten worse, and the wind has gotten colder, making our slow progress along the first net even slower.
We all work to pull the net up, clamp it to the skiff, then untangle the salmon from the mesh, separating each species - reds in one bag, dogs in another, and humpies tossed in the back tucked in the bow. Whitecaps on the waves crash into the skiff and onto us, leaving frigid rivers water running off our hoods onto our faces while jellyfish that have been tangled in the net sting our wrists and eyes and everywhere their goo ends up.
As the skiff fills up with fish it gets harder and harder to navigate against the waves, the current of the bay and the changing tide. We are finally forced back to the boat to unload the fish into the hold, but immediately turn back again because in changing tides the fish hit fast and furious.
It has been hours since we rested, and even longer since we were released from our raingear, but we wont stop fishing until either the fish stop hitting or the tender comes to buy our fish - the evening’s darkness offers no reprieve because in Alaska’s summer it doesn’t get dark enough to stop working, according to skippers, whose pride depends on the work of their crew.
Finally the tender can be seen rounding the point of the bay. Tenders are large boats hired by fishing canneries to collect the fish from the fishing boats once a day to ensure the quality of the fish. Once the tender is spotted, we haul in the remaining fish from the skiff to the boat, pull anchor and head out to meet the oncoming boat.
The tender is our one contact with civilization; they bring mail, supply food and water as needed, and offer the much-needed shower.
The fish are pulled from our hold with the tender’s hydraulic cranes, weighed, then dropped into a refrigerated hold for their trip to the cannery.
This is a dangerous operation involving heavy equipment and slippery decks, made even more precarious by nasty weather. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief once the fish are offloaded and we are back to the fishing grounds.
Fishing openings can last for a matter of hours to a matter of months, depending on the salmon runs, the time of year, and many other variables all carefully considered by Fish and Game.
The work is grueling, but rewarding; 55 percent of the U.S seafood production comes form Alaska, and U.S. residents ate an average of 15 pounds of fish and shellfish last year.
Perhaps the Pacific’s greatest asset is its fish, but one of Alaska’s greatest resources is most assuredly her fishermen.
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