Fishing Among Treacherous Rocks

Former commercial fisherman Ti Foltz told me this true story several years ago. I thought it might be a good one to share with Sun Break readers on this foggy morning:

Ti’s trolling boat rose and fell in the cold Alaskan water. He fished alone on that clear summer day, too busy to notice a gray line of fog building on the horizon. The twelve lines from the outriggers on his troller had multiple leaders. Lined with hooks, each leader reached out into water as far as seventy-five feet. Dozens of hooks needed to be loaded with the herring Ti hoped would lure the King salmon.

He watched for rocks as he worked. All around him spread swirling, white-capped wave broken by thousands of jutting rocks. Some disappeared beneath the waves only to pop into view again as the water receded around them. Others, tree crowned, were as big as small islands. He needed to get close to the rocks without damaging the boat or losing his lines. Bait fish schooled along the deep rock ledges and the salmon lurked there to feed on them. The lure of those big Kings made risking the treacherous waters worthwhile.

Suddenly the salmon began to strike hard and fast. As soon as Ti reeled in one line and gaffed the fish aboard, other lines filled up.

As he worked, he realized the sunlight had dimmed. Clammy fog swirled around the boat. Immediately he hauled in his lines, but already the land and rocks around him were blotted out.

Fortunately, he had a compass and charts on board. In the fog, with no landmarks visible, he had to trust them to take him back to port. Depending on his senses to steer a straight course wouldn’t work. His instincts screamed, “Wrong direction!” and he fought vertigo as panic threatened to overwhelm him. Lord, he pleaded, show me what to do.

Then he heard a mournful, muffled wail through the mist. He recognized the foghorn on the cape, right where it was supposed to be. His inner ear righted itself and he felt calmer. With his eye on the compass, he motored slowly through the rock-studded fog and back to safe harbor.

In any situation, Ti concluded, feelings can betray us and cause us to crash. Relying on God’s Word to guide us is like having a chart in front of us and a compass to steer by. Even when feelings overwhelm us and threaten to throw us off course, we can trust God’s Word to brings us through the rocks and into the safe harbor of his perfect plan for us.

Safe in the harbor

lower photo credit: gillfoto via photopin cc

top photo credit: sydandsaskia via photopin cc

Capsized!

Here's another true Alaskan fishing story by Stanwood teacher and commercial fisherman, guest blogger Jim Nash. (with Joan Husby)

At the set net site where the skiff capsized

    “God...help!” My prayer flashed heavenward as my body plunged into the breathtaking cold of Alaska’s Cook Inlet. I fought to the surface.


    A few yards away my crew mate, Chuck Barron, sputtered, treading water. Then Chuck’s brother, Danny, popped his head up. No sign of our skiff. The safety of the beach was a half mile away. None of us wore life jackets, although they would have conserved our energy. In the late 1970s, we didn’t even own them.


    At our fishing site at Coho near Kenai, cool, windy days are the norm. So at 70 degrees F., this July day had seemed hot. We wore jeans, T-shirts, and knee-length rubber boots while dragging a three-ton boulder to the water with a tractor. Such boulders made inexpensive anchors for our gill nets. I had already drilled a hole in this one for a large iron eye bolt. Then I attached a line for a buoy.


    From water’s edge, I saw my young wife, Dixie, and the rest of the crew mending nets at camp on the bluff. I waved. Dixie and some of the others waved back. We knew they’d be keeping an eye on the boat. The currents ran strong here, parallel to the beach. If something happened, those on land could quickly launch another boat and speed out to help us. But what could go wrong? We were young and in tiptop physical condition. At least Danny and I were. Chuck was a little older, the father of small children. I turned to them. “All right, guys. Time to launch.”


    The twenty-two foot aluminum skiff rested in its cradle behind a tractor. Danny hopped into the seat and backed the trailer into the surf. The water lifted the boat free. Then we splashed aboard, and, as the tide rose, we positioned the skiff over the boulder. We secured the line from the boulder to a sling suspended beneath the boat. I peered over the edge and checked the taut line. “Okay, let’s take it slow.”

 
    Enjoying the sunshine and the rare warmth, we inched away from shore, towing the boulder. I angled a couple of miles up the beach toward our fishing spot.


    Half a mile offshore, I cut the motor. Now all we needed to do was release the slipknots that held the sling in place, and let the boulder drop to the bottom. Easy, I thought. The worst that could happen might be a line binding as the big rock fell. That could cause the boat to ship water. Then we’d have to bail like crazy. No problem.


    I stood next to the slip knot at one rail, ready with a knife in case the knot should stick. Chuck and Danny stood at the opposite rail. “Three, two, one...release!” I shouted. We yanked at the knots.


    I felt mine let go. No need for the knife. Suddenly, the world flew upside down. Details registered like snapshots in my mind. I saw Chuck sail overhead, launched out of his boots, and disappear. Danny, too. Then the swells closed over my head. I knew what had happened. The other slip knot had stuck and the plummeting boulder had flipped the boat.

 Loose gear bobbed to the surface in a scatter of bubbles. In warmer waters, we would have struck out for shore. But the shore was far away and the current was strong. I shivered violently. At most we had twenty minutes to save ourselves before the blood to our extremities slowed in an effort to protect heart and vital organs from the cold. Soon we’d be unable to use our hands, arms, or legs.


    “We’ve got to get out of the water,” Danny said through chattering teeth.


    How? I wondered. Suddenly, the skiff broke the surface beside us. With yells of relief, we swam to the overturned craft.

 
    I shoved as Chuck tried to haul himself up on its bottom. The boat rolled under his weight. He fell back.


    “Here, I’ll try.” Danny made it up, but the boat slid out from under him, too.


    “Water must be leaking into one of the flotation tanks,” I said. Foam gel filled these aluminum compartments in both bow and stern. The weight of the water would destabilize the boat. We watched the gas tank and a number of small buoys float away with the current as we tried to climb onto the boat, only to slide back into the icy water.  “It’s no use,” I said after ten minutes of futile effort. The others looked exhausted. Were we going to die out here? Though lightheaded and numb, I felt strangely at peace.


    “Look,” Chuck gasped, gesturing toward a bright pink buoy floating between us and the shore. “If we can hang onto that, maybe we can kick our way to the beach.”


    We reached the buoy and clung there. Far away on the bluff, we saw our friends clustered near the net racks. “Help!” we yelled, over and over, but no one looked our way.


    “This isn’t working,” Chuck muttered. “We’re too tired to reach shore. I can’t feel my hands anymore.”


    “Hold on,” I said. “There’s one more thing we can do.” We were all believers. We trusted God every day to guide and help us. As we clung to the buoy and to each other, I called aloud to God: “Father, send help, or we’ll die. But whatever you do, it’s all right with us...Just take care of our families.” An almost physical warmth flooded over me. I knew he’d heard.


    For a moment, all sounds faded away. Then we heard the mutter of a small plane. I recognized a friend’s yellow Super Cub.  We yelled and waved, but the plane flew on along the shore and out of sight. We groaned.


    I looked back to the boat. Only the tip of the outboard stuck up. Enough water had entered the ballast tank that the boat now floated vertically, bow down with its stern a few feet beneath the surface. I swam over and pulled myself up. Holding to the outboard, I balanced thigh-deep, grateful to be partially out of the life-sucking cold.


    Still clinging to the buoy, Chuck looked toward the shore. “I’m going to try it,” he said.


    “Me, too,” Danny agreed.


    “I know I can’t swim that far,” I told them. “God be with you guys.” The two brothers kicked for shore, pushing the buoy.


    Chuck and Danny moved slowly toward the beach. Why didn’t the crew see us?


    Later, we learned that unexpected company had arrived, and the watchers on shore had gathered around to visit. Not until Dixie’s cousin, Gary, asked where I was did they come to the edge of the bluff. They looked in vain for the boat.


    From my precarious perch, I saw them. “Help!” I yelled, and waved.


    “Boy, that seagull sounds a lot like Jim. Anybody have binoculars?” Someone handed them to Gary. He scanned the inlet.  “It is Jim!  They’re in the water!”


    The other boats were nearby on the bluff, loaded with mended nets and their trailers already hooked to the tractors, ready for the next day’s fishing. In a frantic scramble, people tossed nets out of a boat. Rick Grossel, a wiry native Alaskan,  jumped on a tractor. Four people leaped into the boat for a wild ride down the dirt road and across the beach.


    Almost too cold to keep my grip on the outboard motor, I watched them launch into the water and head toward us. Chuck and Danny had stopped swimming. I saw Danny struggling to keep his brother’s head above the water.


    “I’m okay,” I yelled as the boat neared. I pointed toward the others. “Take care of them first.”

   When the rescuers reached the two, Chuck was barely breathing. The men in the boat pulled his dead weight over the side as Danny pushed. Then Danny almost leapt into the boat in his eagerness to get out of the water.

         
    Back at camp and wrapped in dry blankets, I shivered violently in my wife’s embrace as I waited a turn at the hot shower.


    Meanwhile, our friends pulled Chuck and Danny back from the brink of hypothermia. We didn’t know then that warming the body too quickly can force the cold blood from the extremities into the vital organs and cause a shock that can kill. But God protected us from that danger, too.


    He had heard and answered our cry for help out there on Cook Inlet.


    Like most commercial fishermen, I had done all I could to prepare physically and mentally for emergencies. “I’m glad I didn’t wait for trouble to strike before I prepared spiritually,” I tell people now. “Because God and I already had a relationship, I knew he’d hear me when I called. When trouble came, God gave the peace that comes from knowing he wants what’s best for me.”


    Nevertheless, after our capsizing, we bought and used life jackets.

Best Catch Ever

   Guest blogger Jim Nash and his family are commercial salmon fishermen who fish in Bristol Bay, Alaska, in the summer. He teaches high school in Stanwood the rest of the year. He shares his photos and this story about his BEST CATCH EVER:

The Kudos has an estimated 3000 pounds of fish aboard as it continues to haul in the net, preparing for another set.

by
Jim Nash with Joan Biggar Husby

  The radio crackled to life. “I’ve propped the net,” the crew heard group member Everett gasp.

  Jim Nash groaned. Propping one’s net is never a good thing for a fisherman. Backing the propeller into the net can ruin the net, the propeller, and sometimes the entire day of fishing.

  “The wind’s blowing the boat into the shallows and I’m almost in the surf!” Everett sounded desperate as well as chilled to the bone. And no wonder. He’d gone over the back of the boat in nothing but his underwear, trying to cut the net loose in the forty-five-degree water.

  Jim grabbed the mike. “The soonest we can have the net in the boat is twenty minutes. Where are you?”

  Everett gave his position, less than five miles away.

  Jim had spent many summers as a commercial salmon fisherman in Bristol Bay, Alaska. Regardless of the success or failure of the season, one reason he kept fishing was the relationship he had with his radio group, comprised of the captains and crews of six or seven boats. They fished in the same general area and shared information with each other.

  If one group member found fish, he’d radio the others on a scrambled frequency that no one else could decipher. He’d tell them which direction the fish were heading, or if he found no fish, he might say, “No luck here.” Or he might radio, "This area's already crowded with boats. Try someplace else." He might give tips on how best to set the nets in order to make the catch.

Many of the fishing operations in Alaska are family operated. This picture of the Kudos, one of Jim's boats, has Phil (Jim's son-inlaw) on the bridge, Spencer Nash (nephew), holding the little king salmon; Shea Nash (son), and Necia (daughter) in the stern. You can tell by the bouys dragging in the water that the boat is nearing being full (12,000-15,000 pounds).

  The purpose of a radio group was to help everyone catch more fish. It was assumed that all members maintained their boats and equipment well. If one was in trouble or needed a part, the others would help out, but that seldom was necessary.

  That year, Everett, a likable man in his 30s, had joined their group. Everett’s family had fished out of Kodiak for some time, but Jim had never fished with him before.

  Everett’s problem was his ancient “woodie,” a craft from the era just after sailboats and before aluminum or fiberglass boats. All he could afford, it barely held together. The fittings and gaskets leaked, fouling the diesel engine and making it smoke. The crotchety transmission balked at shifting into neutral. As a result, Everett often called for help. Usually, it was urgent.

  One day Jim had found a great spot for fishing. He hauled in a net full of thrashing salmon and set it again. Corks jerked on the surface as fish swam into the deep part of the net, announcing their arrival with exuberant splash and dance. Fishermen live for times like this!

  Then he heard Everett on the radio. He had a problem. Could someone help? Jim stared at his radio. If he went to help Everett, it could cost him thousands of dollars in lost fishing time. “There’s got to be someone closer than me,” he muttered.

  Jim picked up the microphone and held it, waiting, until he heard Dick, his older brother, say, “I’m pulling my net, Everett. I’m on my way.”

  Dick was like that. Not a selfish bone in his body.

  Relieved, Jim put the microphone back on its clip. God elbowed him hard. He knew in his gut that what he had done was not right. “Don’t worry about the money,” he felt God say. “Remember, all these fish belong to me.”

  “God, you’re right. Of course, you’re in charge. Next time Everett needs help, I’ll be there.”

  The very next day Everett called to say he’d propped the net. "We'll be right there," Jim responded. The crew got their net out of the water and on board in record time. As the end buoy bounced over the stern roller and into the boat, Jim pushed the engine to full throttle and turned toward the coordinates Everett had given him.

  Soon they saw his boat, a small dot just outside the surf line in an area similar to a place called "Dead Man Sands." Years before, an unexpected storm had blown part of the fleet onto those sands miles off shore, too far away to swim to safety. All hands were lost. It looked as if Everett was about to do the same thing–ground on a bar, with the actual shore nothing but a thin gray suggestion in the distance. Jim flipped on the radio. "Hang on, Everett. We're almost there."

  “I think I’ll be okay, Jim,” he responded breathlessly. “I dived overboard again and cut most of the line from the prop. I think I can get my net in now.”

  “That’s great,” Jim told him. “We’ll be standing by if you need assistance.”

  Now what? Jim looked at his chart of the Nushagak fishing district. It showed sand bars, channels, and water depths. He realized they were in an area they’d never fished before. With a fingertip, he traced one deep channel surrounded by shallows near the mouth of the Igushik River. “Hmm,” he said out loud. Sometimes fish school up along deep channels before moving into rivers to spawn. “Let’s give it a try,” he told his crew.

  They set the net across the channel and the net filled with salmon. Of more than 150 times they’d already set the net that season, this set out in the middle of nowhere with no boats in view other than Everett’s a mile away, turned out to be the best of the year. Jim had been worried about the money he’d forfeit by helping Everett. But the Lord hadn’t given him his dependable boat just to catch fish and make money. He could feel God smiling as the lesson sank in. The boat was his to use for God’s purposes. God was perfectly able to take care of the rest.

On F/V Seaquill in Bristol Bay Alaska. (Necia and Taylor) This was a good day.

Another Fishing Trip...

A typical Alaskan lake (Photo by Don Biggar)

    My recent blogs about our July pike-fishing trip in Canada reminded me of another fishing trip, when my late husband, Bob Biggar, introduced me to Alaska during our honeymoon summer of 1962. Since he had already worked in Alaska for a number of years, he hoped to convince me that the state would be a good place to make our home. I was convinced enough to live there for seventeen years, while we raised two little Alaskans.


    That summer Bob was a project engineer on a road-construction job near Fairbanks, where giant Euclid scrapers hauled mine tailings as fill material for the new roadbed. One day one of the scrapers’ huge tires went flat. Bob asked if he could have the worn-out inner tube. He patched the holes and blew it up. As I remember, that tube was about seven feet across—large enough for a whole group of people to play on.


    Bob’s friend, Andy Hall, owned his own pontoon plane. He offered, in exchange for the inner tube, to take us on a spur- of-the-moment wilderness fishing trip. I was so excited that I completely forgot the next day’s luncheon invitation to the home of Virginia Leih, one of my new friends. I scurried around frying chicken and collecting camping equipment. When Bob came home early that Wednesday afternoon, we headed for the float pond at the International Airport.


    The plane had dual controls, and since Bob was licensed to fly float planes, Andy let him do most of the flying. Bob was thrilled, and so was I. I’d never flown in a plane like that before. We headed south, following the Alaska Highway. Then we crossed the Tanana and Little Delta rivers that braided and twisted across the tundra. They ran silty with glacial flour—rock that glaciers had ground to powder. All across the valley we saw zigzagging lines of trees and brush marking where rivers once flowed. Beneath the dark clouds and rain squalls to our right we glimpsed the shining peaks of the Alaskan Range. There were no signs of civilization below us...we were deep into the wilderness.


    My watch read six o’clock when Andy pointed ahead. “That’s Groffin’s Lake.” Bob brought our bird in for a landing. Spray flew past the windows as we coasted to the foot of a promontory topped with tall spruce and birch. Andy tied the plane to a tree. We stepped off the pontoon onto shore and hauled our equipment up the hill.


    In a clearing stood a sturdy sod-roofed log cabin. Traps hung on an outside wall. Door and windows were boarded shut, with dozens of sharp-pointed nails meant to discourage marauding bears protruding from the boards. We erected our tents on a carpet of moss deep enough to nearly hide the wild cranberry plants that grew up through it. The moss appeared to be studded with garnet-colored jewels.


    I set out cold fried chicken and potato salad for our dinner and while we ate, Andy entertained us with bear stories. Afterward, he offered to show me how to fish. I followed him to the shore. He cast out a line and handed me the pole. Immediately I felt a tug and the line snapped straight. Seconds later a big pike lay flopping on the moss.


    A few minutes later I caught another one. Although Bob had said he didn’t care for fishing, he suddenly wanted a turn. For a guy who didn’t like to fish, he seemed to enjoy himself hugely. Andy went to bed. While Bob fished, I built a campfire. Then we lay on the hill beside the fire, watching the moon rise before we too called it a day.


    I was too excited to sleep, and the blanket wouldn’t stay put. Although it was mid-August, autumn already had come to Alaska and the night was chilly. It didn’t help that Andy had pointed out grizzly-bear scat not far from where we pitched the tents, nor could I forget his dinnertime bear tales.

    Through the mosquito netting I watched the moon travel across the sky. Loons filled the night with their weird, lonely cries. By 3:00 a.m. the sky lightened. Bob got up to brew coffee. He brought me a cupful with a couple of cookies. Then I, too, got up. We walked to the brow of the hill to watch a pair of moose feeding off shore. They’d plunge their spreading antlers below the surface for long minutes, then raise their heads to munch mouthfuls of water lilies while water poured off the shovel-like blades. A flock of wild geese flew south, honking, and the loons still called.


    We’d kept our fish fresh in the lake overnight, but the back half of one was gone. Andy told us another pike had probably eaten it. While Bob cleaned the others, I practiced casting but got no bites. Then the line seemed to catch on the bottom. I jerked and jerked. Finally it came free, dragging a big hunk of water plant which seemed strangely resistant. When I finally reeled it in, another big pike was on the line. Not by its mouth, but hooked through its back. Andy said they sometimes strike at the bait and miss, bumping the hook on the way past. So we had one more fish to put in the cooler.


    By 5:00 a.m., we’d struck camp and were skimming over the tundra, where we counted seven or eight moose within a short distance of each other. We flew closer to the mountains this time, through rain squalls and bumpy weather. We flew over a radar site which Bob had helped to build, then turned toward Fairbanks. We landed on the float pond at 6:30, ate breakfast at a pancake house, and then the men went off to work. I went home to take care of our fish and get ready for our temporary return to Washington.


    The day got so busy and I was so tired from the sleepless night I forgot all about the luncheon I was supposed to attend. Only later did I find out there'd been a surprise in store—I was to have been the guest of honor. Virginia, the gracious and forgiving hostess, continued as a cherished friend when we returned to Alaska the next spring.

Mother moose (with head underwater) teaching her babies to browse a stream bottom.
(Photo by Don Biggar)