From: William Fitts Asbury
Subject: family letter January 1997
Dear Family,
An old friend named Jim Cross did something for his family that I have
admired. He wrote a letter each week. The same letter went to every one of
his four children, and perhaps to others as well. Jim and I became friends
in the Navy. We attended the same US Naval Reserve Midshipmen School in the
Bronx, New York City. We were commissioned together in March, 1945. Our
rank was ensign, one gold stripe on the sleeve. Same as a 2nd lt. in the
other services. The Navy always does things differently. There is no
commonality between what soldiers do and what shipboard sailors do, so no
point in using the same vocabulary or nomenclature. I reckon that is the
thinking anyway.
I saw Jim Cross first in the Cathedral of St. John the Divine near Columbia
University on the island of Manhattan, the same Manhattan (but not the same
church) where your mother and I were to marry 10 years later. St. John's
Cathedral was chosen to commission the 1200 or so young (very young) officers
that the Navy needed to end the war against Japan. I sang (badly, most
likely) in the makeshift midshipmen's choir that was assembled for the
ceremonies. I think we had to learn two hymns, but the only one I remember
is the Navy Hymn -- the same hymn that was played for President John F.
Kennedy -- former Lt. Jr. grade Kennedy, US Naval Reserve. The hymn was
played during the magnificent services in Washington DC following Kennedy's
murder.
I've told your mom I'd like the Navy Hymn sung over me at the appropriate
moment. (Not too soon, please). I would also like Sousa's Stars and Stripes
Forever and the University of Washington Fight Song "Bow Down to Washington".
Pretty silly, I suppose, but the rousing nature of the UW tune and the Sousa
march with that wonderful piccolo solo might awaken any bored or drowsy mourners.
No need to assemble the Husky Marching Band, but if it is available, what the hey?
The Navy hymn goes like this: "Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm doth
bind the restless wave. Who bids the mighty ocean deep, its own appointed
limits keep. Now hear us when we cry to thee for those in peril on the sea".
I sang that song a couple of times during some busy times in peril on the
sea en route to Alaska alone.
I digressed. I almost flunked out of midshipmen's school. Mathematics was
always my weakest subject. One of the four obligatory courses at Fort
Schuyler (the name of the facility in the Bronx where we trained intensively
for 120 days) was navigation and nautical astronomy. I blamed my math
inadequacy on my instructor, I suppose. So there was a certain tension
between us. It was that tension that got me summoned to a review board, I
believe. And my youthful looks. I think I weighed about 120 lbs., if that.
I was only 20 and looked 12, I have been told. So the review board would
ascertain if I was capable of commanding a ship and being a leader of men.
You see we expected then to have to invade Japan. My middy class was trained
to command LCTs (landing craft, tanks). Those vessels were 85 ft. long,
were powered by three diesel engines, moved at about 7-9 knots, and carried a
crew of seven. You have seen these clumsy vessels in old John Wayne and other
W.W.II movies. They were used to capture Iwo Jima. The casualty rate for
those ships was above 80 per cent, I have been told. At least they were in
such invasions as Iwo Jima and Tarawa.
At our commissioning ceremony the top student in each of the four courses we
had to pass was honored. My soon to be friend Jim Cross was the top student
in three of the four courses and was consequently the No. 1 graduate overall.
Though I wasn't like the two Georges at West Point (Custer and Pickett who
did very badly academically) I was no Jim Cross. I think Jim got the best
grade in navigation and nautical astronomy, my academic bete noir. I hated
him!! (Not really). The courses I did best in were strangely gunnery and
recognition. As part of gunnery training I had to learn to load a three-inch
cannon really fast. I could do that. I think it was because the loading
process was so much like hay-baling which I had done for several years on
your grandfather's ranches before I entered the Navy. Recognition required
deciding in a split second what airplane or what ship was flashed on a
screen. Both enemy and friendly craft were shown. We had to decide in an
instant whether to shoot or not. Though I never got to use my skill in
combat, it was decided by my instructors that I probably wouldn't have killed
too many friendlies.
It was because so many LCTs were killed that I really got to know Jim Cross
and that he became a life-long friend. We were assigned to learn Japanese
together instead of going to the fleet after midshipman school. More on that
in the next installment.
If any or all of this is boring to you ... well, you donít have to
read it or even file it. Just needed to get a little of "this is your life"
off my chest. I did live in interesting times, and the Millennium approaches.
This next century will be yours, dear children. The last century was mine.
Further at the moment this witness deponeth not.
============================================================================
Date: Wed, 26 Mar 1997 20:10:01 -0500 (EST)
Subject: ALL AT SEA-Asbury style
The following are the first two communications from Bill Asbury,
aboard the SELDOVIA, in cold waters of Alaska. Forwarded by Janet.
March 21, 1997 1544 hrs (3:44 p.m.)
Sumner Strait, Approaching the Entrance to Wrangell Narrows
Dear Family (and friends)
We have been underway for 88 hours. Our two enormous Caterpillar diesel
engines have roared all day, all night. They each drive propellors 4 and 1/2
feet in diameter. Those propellors (called "screws" by sailors) are our
lifelines. If either or both had failed night before last we'd have been
miserable, at least, or in trouble, at worst. We were in Millbank Sound,
just northwest of the British Columbia native village of Bella Bella when a
storm hit us. Millbank is one of 3 places in the Inside Passage (a 1200 mile
waterway) which is open to the awesome Pacific Ocean. We were struck by 14
foot waves, a combination of swells and windwaves. Our 200 ton ship crashed,
threw spray from her bows and groaned. We all groaned, the four of us crew.
None of us, by good chance, had ever suffered mal-de-mer. But each looked
at that possibility for the first time. (None succumbed, happily.) Our
marvelous skipper, Andy Baker, changed course, so we took the combers
straight on - rather than at an angle. Then he drove out to sea until he had
created the possibility of a landward course that would put the seas directly
abaft.
Down below everything not secured had broken loose. Brian Serles, a borrowed
hand for the segment of the trip north to Sitka, scampered below to tie down
the two big freezers there. They contain the food for our voyage.We may be
away from port weeks at a time and must be self sufficient. The freezers
hadn't been tied down because the skipper apparently hadn't expected to be
hit by such a storm so early. Getting a vessel ready for 6 months at sea
requires infinite planning and detail. We would have tied off the freezers
at first opportunity. Well, opportunity knocked - literally.
Rebecca Swearingen, our 19 year old cook cum deck hand, hurried below to seal
her cupboards with duct tape. Happily I had already stowed my gear
(camcorder, radio, etc.) in an upper bunk with side boards.
Seldovia had four decks - the bridge deck where the wheel, electronics and
navigation equipment reside; the main cabin with staterooms and galley; the
main deck with generators, workshop, freezers, head (toilet); and the engine
room deck below waterline. My stateroom has four bunks, the captain has a
double bunk; Rebecca has one bunk, but she shares her room with video tapes
and books. (We have a VCR and at least one each John Wayne and Clint
Eastwood movie. Hooray for the old guys!) So Seldovia can sleep at least
seven - in luxury, by standards we sailors of small sailboats know.
Seldovia, by the by, is a Russian word. It's also the name of a small
Russian-named town near Homer, Alaska. The word means "herring," apt enough
because we are in the herring business. (Isn't there a German or
Scandinavian word "sild" which means "herring"? From that root comes
Seld-ovia," I deduce.)
I feel well today. I'm getting used to this vigorous life. I am at the
helm from midnight to 3 a.m. Then I assist the next watch officer from 3 to
6 a.m. From 6 a.m. to noon I try to sleep, because my next 6-hr. time at the
wheel, or assisting, is from noon to 6 p.m. Not only is it tough to sleep
from 6 to noon, and from 6 p.m. to midnight, nights at the wheel are hard on
the nerves. Channels are often quite confined. Navigation markers and
lights are difficult to see in the gloomy dark that is British Columbia and
Alaska in the winter. We've had rain, snow, gale force winds, fog. No way
could we get through these waters without our array of electronic anti-Alaska
weapons. We have radar (marvelous!), Loran (long-range navigation
instrument), a Global Positioning System (GPS) receiver, and a plotter. This
latter allowsn the helmsman or woman to call up a chart on a TV screen. The
GPS device will show where the vessel is. An overall picture of where one
is, where one is going, and how far to the next waypoint will be available.
Still, it is the helmsman's job to keep the ship alive, off the rocks, and
properly headed. The wind and currents are the enemy. They have other
things in mind for us. Those intentions are awful to contemplate. We have
driven over many a sunken hull, I am told. Oh, yes, we have an auto-pilot.
We tell that device where we want to steer. She steers us there
automatically until we tell her something different. Our huge steering
wheel is sheer hell to turn because we must manually control two enormous
rudders if we drive without the auto-pilot.
(Retrospective)
We left Fisherman's Terminal, Lake Union, Seattle, at 2 a.m. Tuesday, March
18. We were the only vessel in the Ballard Locks. I handled the forward
mooring line, about an inch-and-a-half diameter hawser that is very heavy. I
wore my "Ballard Stetson," a short-billed cap that is de riguer for the old
Scandinavian Salts who have fished for 250 years out of the Seattle
waterfront neighborhood called Ballard. I felt as salty as anyone, and an
older salt than most.
It was raining hard by the time we left the locks. (What else?) Fortunately
I felt comfortable with that portion of the ride north from the locks into
Puget Sound, Admiralty Inlet, Strait of Juan de Fuca, San Juan Islands. I
can run those waters without any instruments, so often have I done so with
those of you who are family members. That knowledge of the local waters gave
me time to get acquainted with the marvels of these new electronic navigation
aids.
That first day (before we left Fisherman's Terminal) was something of a test
for my creaking old body. Brian and I were given the task of lashing down
the foredeck equipment for heavy weather. We used heavy chains and some
rugged, weighty devices called "chain binders" and "come-alongs" to cinch the
chains tight between the "bull rails" along the ship's bulwarks and the
fish-handling gear. One piece of equipment for sucking herring from the fish
boats into our fish tank must weigh 2 tons. We used our crane and hydraulic
system to put it into place. But lots of the moving and lifting required leg
and back muscles. I could do it all. Had only moderate stiffness.
(Time Out. Rebecca has just put a bowl of fresh-baked blueberry cobbler in
front of me. I may get fat, just on principle.)
I should get to the bridge. I am on duty for the Wrangell Narrows, a long,
serpentine, somewhat shallow waterway that will laugh at my mistakes if I
give it a chance. (I won't) It will be dark, of course, when we go through.
The lovely Norwegian-inhabited village of Petersburg is at the north end.
We won't stop, but I'll feel at home. I've taken our tiny Scrimshaw there
to co-mingle with the Norski natives several times. (I ponder now that
Seldovia is almost 100 times as large as Scrimshaw - 200 tons vs. 2! I
ponder, too, at HOW I was able to traverse these northern, teracherous waters
alone in a tiny boat. I have, however, never had any questions about WHY.)
One thing pleases me, as I hoped it would. I was taught seamanship and
piloting of large vessels 53 years ago in the US Navy. I have since worked
at it for the last 31 years on the Puget Sound. I can drive this ship in
difficult straits and big seas. Only Cap'n. Andy does it better, but I think
he now trusts me. I am teaching Brian and Rebecca. Nice feeling.
Andy told me of an ancient fish-tender crew he'd heard of. The story nicely
allayed my concerns about being too old for all this. This crew (some now
"on the beach") had a 92 YEAR OLD skipper, hands of 84 and 82 years, and a
"young" cook/hand of only 62!
I love you all and am grateful you would give me this chance for yet another
life without too many emotional impediments.
Dad and Bill
=========================================================================
Saturday, March 22, 1997
Seven hours from Sitka
In Peril Strait, headed west
Dear Janet.
You will have arrived home from Puerto Vallarts in a few hours. In what
different climes you and I have dwelled this past week. I thought of you
every day.
All goes well for Seldovia except for one major difficulty for Andy, our
young skipper. He counts on making a large part of his profit from hauling
herring. Day before yesterday, the Alaska Fisheries Department, which
establishes opening dates and tonnage quotas, opened the season BEFORE we
arrived in Sitka - the earliest opening ever. Andy had counted on hauling at
least 100 tons of herring, and maybe 200, at $225 a ton. Now he hears via
radio gossip between other fishing tenders and/or fishing vessels that
perhaops 75% of the herring allotment has been caught. If there is another
opener before we get to the grounds, we may get no herring to carry, for a
gross loss to Andy of as much as $45,000. (I would have received about
$4,000.) Tough luck for Andy. His vessel is an enormous investment. His
insurance costs are $29,000 a year. Fuel costs for the season approaches
$10,000. We will still haul salmon, and that work for me is at a fixed rate,
not a percentage.
I may have spoken to you by the time you get this. I'll be in Sitka at least
some part of March 23, Sunday. If there are no herring to haul, we'll rush
across the gulf of Alaska for the herring season at Prince William Sound
(which includes Valdez and Cordova) . If there is no season at Prince
William, we'll do lots of waiting around for the sockeye salmon run north of
the Aleutians in the eastern segmentof the Bering Sea called Bristol Bay.
(Sarah (of Alaska Airline service) knows all these "garden spots."
I am enclosing a letter to family, etc, which means primarily you and the
kids. Can you e-mail it? I know that's asking a lot, so if you are busy,
just save it and I will key-board it someday. Meanwhile you can tell
everyone in your calls and other communications what I am up to.
As I write, sun is skittering and dancing an erratic jig across the galley
table where the crew spends much of its time. Except for the frisky seas of
Millbank Sound, our weather has been wonderfully benign. As we steam down
Peril Strait, I see lots of new snow above the waterway. The sun makes it
magical. At 5 a.m. today, while on the bridge, I saw the Hale Bopp comet.
Clear.
So much more to say - but nought more important than how much I care for you
and how I am grateful for your understanding. Brian's wife was in tears
during a radio phone talk last night. She did not want him to join the
Seldovia. He fears a divorce as a consequence. Must catch the mail. Your
loving husband - Gulliaume of the Galleons.
JANET'S post script.
I have talked to Bill once and had a message on my answering machine today.
He is doing well, and they had caught 40 tons of herring! He called from
Sitka today where they are unloading it. He said he's learned to sleep on
the ship and had gotten a full eight hours sleep the past two nights.
Aren't we proud to know him?
Love to all of you,
Janet
=========================================================================
Date: Sat, 5 Apr 1997 19:39:11 -0500 (EST)
Subject: Sea Story - Asbury-style
Forwarded by Janet from Bill
March 28, 1997 1300 hours
Icy Strait headed for open sea
Gulf of Alaska
Dear Family,
I have another hour before watch change. I'm at the helm until we turn from
228 degrees (WSW) to 196 degrees (SSW).
It is calm now. Gales forecast, but we're hoping we win the race to Cordova
- arriving ahead of the winds.
Some rich folks pay thousands for a lesser experience than this. Greatly
lesser. They have only one advantage over us: sleep. I was on watch last
night from 2300 to 0400. Up at 0800 and now on watch again. Cap'n. Andy
tells me it's bitter in the open sea. Only two things concern us there.
Some Captain Joe Hazelwood-type on a 1,000 foot long tanker out of Valdez,
and SW winds. The latter would be more or less abeam of our course. Rock 'n
Roll. I brought Bonine (the improved Dramamine) but haven't had a twinge.
If ever my old body were to give out, it would have done so yesterday. Had
to haul our 1,000 pound anchor early. No, not by hand, but by hydralics.
Then wrestled the hawsers around pilings at the "cannery." All I can do to
lift those hawsers, our mooring lines. (The "cannery" is called that, as are
all fish processing places, but it isn't. They sucked the 40 tons of herring
from our fish tanks. I was glad to see them go - millions, I suppose. That
makes me a kind of participanmt in a kind of herring Holocaust. Mass murder.
Do herring have souls and feelings? God help me.)
After that pump out, which took all morning, Rebecca and I were obliged to
scrub out these monstrous fish tanks each of which holds 25 tons. Lots of
the mama herring had exuded their eggs. Poor things. Poor us. Herring roe
is the consistency of rubber cement. It took us hours to scrape the
bulkheads with putty knives. Then we scrubbed everything with a chlorine
powder mixed with sea water. And finally we hosed it all down.
A cannery worker offered us some herring roe to try. That's what our work is
all about. Rebecca accepted and found the stuff tasteless. (Indeed this
whole mucky business is tasteless!) I declined.
On to the fuel dock. I had to hold a diesel nozzle for hours, it seemed. I
filled the starboard tank; 541 gallons. All together we took on about 1500
gallons, I believe.
Then we had to haul our heavy aluminum skiff aboard with our booms. And I
had to lash and chain all equipment to the deck and bull rails (gunwales).
Most of these techniques are new to me. Yesterday I did it fairly well -
or, as the story goes, it is remarkable that a dog walking on its hind legs
can do it at all.
Then Cap'n Andy announced we would head north - "right now." About 1800
hours, I think it was. Rain and snow. Cold and wind. Unlash hawsers from
pilings, traverse Sitka Harbor, into the dark toward the fearsome Sergins
Narrows, thence through well-named Peril Strait.
For the benefit of any dear readers who have suffered the raised voice of a
boat captain, Cap'n Andy has shouted with great zeal at his crew.
NOTE FROM JANET His turn at last!
He did so at me as we were entering Sergins Narrows. I had opened the hatch
from galley to bridge, thus letting in ambient light and making it harder to
see channel lights. He uttered something like "close that door fast - I'm in
a sensitive situation here." I have heard better or worse. Previous emphhatic
statements have resulted in post-crisis apologies. Cap'n Andy ordinarily is
a most gentle person. Ah the pressures of the sea. No apologies necessary,
I assured him. Since I am the frequent temperamental sinner I do understand
other such sinners.
I took the helm at the eastern part of Peril Strait and headed up north to
Tenakee Inlet, past the native village of Angoon on Admiralty Island. (The
Canadians call their natives "First Nation People." Nice.)
(It's 1455.
In Gulf)
Must delay writing for awhile. Seas off Cape Spencer 10 ft. The Russian
Herring is bumping and grinding, as are we, her cargo.
March 29, 1997
Gulf of Alaska
142 nautical miles form St. Elais Island
It is the enrty to Prince William Sound, the next herring fishery. Fore,
aft, abeam, port and starboard - as far as vision will reach nought but slate
seas. Just noted in log 58 degrees 51' 787N 140 degreees 16' 97W. And
where is that, pray tell? It's the wilderness water, that's where.
Fishermen call the open sea the "big pond."
I thrilled moments ago to see a couple of gulls. What are they doing out
here? What am I, for that matter?
My watch last night ended at midnight. Slept some until 0630. The problem,
you see, is a combination of swells (10 feet high) and windwaves. Small
craft warnings sounded - not for the 20 knots of wind, but for the seas.
Swells seem to be from SE, wind from N. It's a lumpy, roily, confused mess.
Not great for sleeping. Less great for moving about. Swells are not swell.
Tried reading the new Farley Mowat book about shipwrecks I bought in Sitka.
(Poor choice of reading.) Reading in the sea made me "ooozy" as one of you
kids used to say.
This watch is 0800 to 1200, then 8 hours off. It will be dark next watch.
Toward the end of last night's time at the helm, it snowed hard for an hour.
I should get back to the radar, GPS and compass. Ah, the electronic aids.
With all the above (the seas and discomforts) I nevertheless look at the
ocean and wish I were there on my own small sailing boat. I must have lived
before as John Paul Jones, or Nelson, Cook, Ahab, or Vancouver. They were
nuts too.
Weary, but thriving. And I think of each of you often.
Bill and DaD
=================================================================
Subject: Episode 4 Asbury Sea Story
(Written before the Mad Dogs episode communicated to me first by phone)
Cordova, Alaska
Northernmost harbor of the 1997 voyage of Seldovia,
affectionately known by this deck hand as "The Russian Herring."
APRIL FOOLS DAY
Dear Family and Friends,
I finally got a fix, as we say, out of sight of land. This piece of work,
you see, this voyage, may be the last chance for an old sailor to shake his
fist at the mean, magnificent, inscrutable sea.
It is spitting snow as we strain at our one-and-one-half-inch hawsers. It
has been snowing and blowing for two nights and two days. No let up on the
weather radio's electronic horizon. There is a gale warning (40 knots and
above) for Prince William Sound, 200 meters from where the Herring lies. And
at one of our next tendering waters - Cook Inlet, SW of Anchorage. Get this:
Winds of 70 knots, gusting to 110. Seas: 35 feet. The gods of wind and sea
don't want us scooping up herring in the Cook Inlet on this day. Lest one be
unaware, these are hurricane conditions in Cook Inlet.
I have oft said to myself with some bravado, and obviously very little else,
that I have never feared the sea. Respected her. Never feared her. So
long, bravado. I fear the sea.
I asked Cap'n. Andy if he had been in seas such as those described today.
Once - off Kodiak Island. He feared the 53-year-old Herring would bust her
seams, might break in two. He kept the Herring's prow into the wind, made
enough headway to be stable, and prayed for respite - which came fairly soon,
happily. I asked if he didn't worry that a wooden ship this old vessel might
not fall victim to destruction through rusted fasteners or rotted planking.
The captain is penurious with words. "Yes," he said.
On the other hand, the Herring was built before planned obsolencence came
into our commercial jargon. Her hull planks are eight inches thick. (I'm
sure I repeat myself here. I do so for reassurance.) It is hard to lift an
8-inch timber of any length. She was built with the Gulf of Alaska and the
Bering Sea as reference points. Cap'n. Andy is a Careful man. No, we won't
go out in Cook Inlet this day.
The Herring was built by real craftsmen determined to defeat the Japanese
army, which occupied the western Aleutians. They were the craftsmen of Old
Tacoma Boat Company. Their weapons, their heroism were in their
craftsmanship. We old ones know about that quiet passion that pervaded this
nation during the Second War. And to reinforce all the above, these 8-inch
planks were fine grained first growth Douglas fir. Those trees were
seedlings when Columbuis found the eastern shore of this continent. They
grew straight and true, took their time to become strong, perhaps for the
purposes of the 'Aleutian War - and Herring's mission this summer.
The entire fleet is tied up fore and aft at diagonal piers. I'm scribbling
this in the wheel house. I'm listening to the VHF radio (ship to ship
channel). One skipper tells of a lot of leaks in this storm. Another, out
in the stream, is dragging its anchor. I'm looking at vessels named Triton,
Nushagak Spirit, Mickey H., Lady L., Cape Calm, Polar Star, and Northern
Spirit. Our fleet is made up of tenders and seiners.
There is sadness among the tenders. One of our sister ships - the Alaska
Star, I believe - ran on the rocks and sank in the ship-killing Wrangell
Narrows. Lost also was the $100,000 herring cargo - 100 tons. Nothing
salvagasble, we hear. The lives and fortunes of several families were done
great harm by a rogue current in the swift-flowing Narrows. Or - more
likely, I believe - some sleep-deprived helmsman lost his focus, misread the
navagation lights, or just plain lapsed into sleep. That is the enemy out
here. Exhaustion. Judgement fails. Senses dim. I traversed the Wrangell
Narrows half a dozen times with little 2-ton Scrimshaw. Studied the chart
carefully. Had to go at night to catch the tides. Current of many knots.
Navigating between and among the red and green channel lights was like
navigating a fore-and-aft Christmas tree. I always smiled and sighed when I
reached Petersburg, the northern terminus. I drove the Herring through part
of the Narrows a few days ago. Had to summon the skipper at one point to
explain some range lights. Almost missed the turn!
Last night our crew was invited to a birthday party for the skipper of the
Eigil B, a tender owned by Cap'n. Andy's dad, Chuck Baker. The skipper, Lyle
Foster, has sailed these waters many times. He likes to read sea stories, of
course. Said his palms sweat when, in the off season, he read Farley Mowat's
"Grey Seas Under," about a salvage tug in the North Atlantic. I'm reading
the book now. Lyle advised against it (that is reading it now).
Had an early April Fool's trick played on me. As I stepped off the Eigil B.,
in a blizzard, I was attacked by a pack of ravening dogs! I was! The dock
planks were icy. I couldn't escape the attack. I was bitten on the backs of
both legs by a nine-month old Belgian-Australian Shepherd. The owner, Jay
Nelson of Kodiak, was the musher in this case. I came back to the Herring,
dropped my long johns. Indeed, the aft-portion of my port-side leg, halfway
between groin and knee was lacerated. I found Nelson on the tender Togiak.
He now lives in Cordova and had a car. He drove me to the Cordova ER where
a Dr. Ermold was on duty. Rabies? Unlikely, but Jay must watch his dog for
rabid symptoms. He must also provide rabies immunization certificates to Dr.
Ermold. I will go to hospital for verification. Swabbed teeth marks with
peroxide and came back to my bunk about midnight. Nelson paid full ER bill.
(Janet's note: Thye fact that he could not provide immunization certificates
set off the panic about which I wrote you all.)
Dr. Ermold has practiced in Cordova for 23 years. Alcoholism is a major
problem. Bar fights, domestic fights, wrecks. "It's better now," he said,
"since they started an AA meeting." Used to be the bars were open until 5
a.m. They now close earlier, I inferrred,
About my dog bite, Dr. Ermold chuckled and said I was lucky it wasn't a human
bite. "Human bites always get infected." He treats lots of human bites
resultant of domestic violence.
Dr. Ermold said "minding one's own business is the most dangerous thing in
Cordova." Always, he said, when he asks a victim of a barroom brawl what
happened, the answer is "Well, doc, I was just minding my own business...."
I'm to watch my wound for signs of infection. Otherwise, as Mark Twain said
of the threat of being tarred and feathered for something, he wrote , I must
say of being bitten by ravening monster dogs: "Except for the honor of the
thing, I'd just as soon have skipped it."
Better get this in the mail. I'm well rested, finally. No work in this
weather. Learned to splice lines yesterday and to prepare fender lines. The
splices are for "taglines," we use to tie the big seines to our sides while
we suck the herring into our 100 ton holds. At age 73, I may yet have some
value as a sailor. I'm pretty modest about that at this point, however.
Know that I think of and miss each of you - special wife, 5 wonderful
children, sons- and daughter-in-law, partners, 3 marvelous grandchildren, and
friends - every day. Until we "talk" again, as the poet R. W. Service
observed, "There are strange things done in the midnight sun..."
Oh yes, watched the comet Hale-Bopp and the Northern Lights in a cloud -free
night at the helm in the Gulf of Alaska.
Your Bill and Dad.
=============================================================================
Cordova Harbor, Alaska
April 5, 1997
To Whom It May Concern
I write this while seated in the Captain's setee overlooking the electronic
marvels of the old Herring. I have come to know that her marvels are largely
confined to the wheelhouse. This otherwise stout vessel shows her age. A
couple of days ago I pointed out a couple of huge, loosened bolts to Cap'n.
Andy These bolts attach the steel bulwarks to our wood deck planks. Andy
directed me to a set of socket wrenches designed, I think, by Olympic
weight-lifters. I found the socket wrench that would fit (a socket the size
of a small coffee cup) and went to work. Happily there were not too many
footloose fasteners. The bolts couldn't find footing. Rot had done its
work. I gave my official report to the skipper. "Don't tell me that," he
said with a slight smile. He knew before I went for the wrench, I surmised,
that these bolts are problematic.
It is blowing hard. Weather radio reports gales and storm warnings along our
next courses to Cook's Inlet and Kodiak Island. We will remain in Cordova
today, and perhaps several days. I don't mind. It is raining. Don't mind
that either. Otherwise today I was scheduled to grind rust from the half of
the bulwarks I could reach from dockside - then prime, then paint. I don't
mind the work. The cold does bite.
A sea otter frolicks off the starboard bow. Swear to God they were designed
and created by Walt Disney. Either that or the sea otter was the pattern for
half of the critters one sees on Saturday morning TV. When they move through
the water, mostly they do the backstroke. It's good to see them here, in
Prince William Sound. So many of them were killed by Joe Hazelwood, the
besotted captain of the Exxon Valdez. Remember the film of good salvors
trying to save oil drenched otters by wiping them down on the beaches? The
Herring, along with all other tenders and seiners that live or die by the
goodness of Prince William Sound, has a pending claim for money from the
Exxon Oil Company. (I know it won't happen, but I would like to live to see
the last barrel of this ghastly goo called crude oil pumped from beneath the
earth's crust.)
On the topic of oil, I see good things here and there. I usually handle one
of the diesel nozzles when we fill the Herring;s several mammoth tanks.
Before pumping I must place large absorbent pads - around the base of the
fuel intake pipes. We try not to spill a drop of diesel oil. To foul these
or any waters could bring a large fine - $15,000, per incident, I believe.
Progress. I'm sure the Republicans will try to do away with such rules as
unnecessary intrusions into private enterprise.
As I was saying...before being pounced on by five mostly wild dogs: the
playing out of that story took from March 31 when it happened until
yesterday, April 4. I have worked less hard gathering necessary information
for a banner-line news story. First, the emergency room doctor admitted he
knew little about rabies. Second, the owner of the five dogs prevaricated
about the dogs' rabies immunizations. Supposedly I was bitten by a 9-month
old half-Australian, helf Belgian shepherd. The only vaccination certificate
the owner could produce was an out-dated one for an older dog named Jack.
Jack was from Texas, an area with lots of rabies. I called Janet. She went
to work with her investigative reporter's skills. She got Dr. Mike Beller of
Anchorage involved. Dr. Beller is the head epidemologist for the state of
Alaska. He called my Cordova doc and taught him Rabies 101. Then, since I
didn't know which dog, or dogs, bit me, I went to the police chief to
express my wonderment that only one dog had been quarantined. I ran into the
chief's supervisor, the city manager (Scott Janke, by name). Told him the
story. He instructed the chief to quarantine all 5 dogs immediately. Turns
out Mr. Janke had been been bitten hard by a Pit Bull while jogging. Janke's
jogging companion, a 100-lb., 10-month old Rotweiler pounced on Janke's
attacker, took the Pit Bull's skull in its jaws and crushed it. The Pit Bull
died on the spot. After getting medical treatment, he called the police.
The offending dog was never found. Presumably the owner disposed of the
carcass to avoid prosecution. Janke, however, had to go through the rabies
treatment. Made him sick for three months, he said. He also told me his
uncle died of rabies. So I had a friend in court with Scott Janke.
I was able to reach Dr. Beller late yesterday. He reassured me. Rabid dogs
usually show symptoms in four days. It had been four days. If dogs show
symptoms later, Dr. Beller would make sure I was treated no matter where the
Herring might be working. Thank you, Janet. You did a good piece of
investigative work. Tiny Cordova's bureaucracy went on high alert when the
big boys in Anchorage moved in. Thuis endeth the rabies scare saga except to
say every vessel in the fleet knows the story, I am called "Mad Dog Bill"
and worse ( "His bite is worse than his bark," etc.) Cap'n. Andy threatened
to quarantine me in my stateroom and slip my food in, in a dog dish. It's
funny - today.
Just asked Andy: "If the herring opener is called today, would we go out?"
I asked with an eye on the anemometer (30+) and an ear to the NOAA weather
station. "What?" You mean in this? Of course we would! " he said. "What's
the water temperature," I asked. He went below to check some gauge in the
Herring's mysterious visceral cavity. "36 degrees," he said. "Oh," said I.
An overboard crewman might live five minutes unless he or she was wearing a
survival suit. I've got such a suit in my stateroom. Tried it on in
survival practice. Not hard to get on. But the instructions about how to
handle one's body in the near-freezing water made me shudder, even in our
usually overheated main cabin.
My question about going out today (Please, little herring fishes, take today
off and dive deep!) prompted a sea story by Cap'n. Andy.
On April 15, during a recent herring season, an "opener" was called in the
labyrinthine waters of Kodiak Island. Some of the meanest waters in the
world, even on a good day, I'm told. On this opener it was 15 degrees F,
blowing 60. The seine boats went out first. Their nets froze as they pulled
them in. They jammed in the high steel blocks (pulleys) of the net hoist.
Deck crew had to smack the net with their pike poles to free them. Andy's
job was to take the Herring to the full seiner nets and suck his load of 100
tons of herring tinto our 3 huge tanks. It was not to be. Ice formed on the
Herring's decks and house. Andy turned tail and found a deep, protected
cove. Few, if any, fish were taken anyway. "But when the fish are there, we
go, " Andy said, not so reassuringly to this rapidly aging salt.
No fisherman or tenderman was lost during that Kodiak opener. Miraculous, I
say. Good seamanship too.
To show the size and scope of the Herring' s mission, one year she hauled 5
million pounds of fish. Mostly salmon. I learned that it costs Andy about
$200,000 just to put to sea - insurance, fuel, food, crew wages, engine
maintenance. Hope he has a good year. He is a most worthy young man - April
and Sarah's age.
Tomorrow is Rebecca's 20th birthday. We'll do something, I'm sure. Tonight
she has invited the crew of the tender Cape Calm (where is Cape Calm? I want
to go there.) for a prime rib dinner. Cape Calm, nicknamed Keep Clam, of
course - is tied up off our port side. There are two nice young men aboard
for whom our blonde Rebecca is a magnet. I have told them with a straight
face that I am Becca's grandfather, and any hanky panky will be punished most
strenuously by me. They took me seriously despite my gimpy, dog-bitten legs.
Enough for now. Health is fine now that the rabies fright is over. Main
threat to health is the huge meals. I'm ready for the next exertion. I must
take the cold on a day-at-a-time basis, however.
Love you. Miss you. Cherish you.
Mad Dog Bill
=================================================================
Cordova Harbor, Alaska
April 7, 1997
You all,
A spring day! Temperature in the 40s. Snow line is two or three hundred
feet above the town's rooftops.
We're still here. That's bad news for Cap'n. Andy and the other fisher folk.
There are thousands of tons of herring in Prince William Sound. They are
too small, immature. The fish in the sound now are the first hatchlings
after Joe Hazelwood almost killed the fishery here. He soaked this vast
waterway with his poisonous cargo in '89. The herring the small spotter
planes are seeing are 7 years old or younger. Most weigh less than 100
grams. Ocean Beauty, the company we are contracted with, won't accept
anything under 140 grams. Captain Hazelwood's debauched grounding continues
to do great harm to many good people - my Cap'n. Andy and his young family
among them.
News items from the frozen North:
Day before yesterday two sailors stole a motorized skiff at knife point.
They drove the skiff to another vessel, boarded her and stole many things,
such as a VCR, tapes, CDs and presumably other things. How they expected to
make their getaway is altogether mysterious. There is one short road to
nowhere out of Cordova. The only other exits are by air or boat. Those
are'nt promising. Of course the miscreants were caught quickly. They now
reside in Cordova's small lockup. Let us presume that at the time of their
crimes they were "impaired."
Alaska Fish and Game has announced a "2-hour notice" starting tomorrow
morning. That means all vessels must be prepared for an "opener" within two
hours. Again, our fear is fish too small. No market for them.
Let me explain what's at stake with an opener. The Fish and Game people
study the herring population using airplanes and sonar. They then estimate a
total "biomass." They establish a percentage of that as an allowable catch.
Some openers last only 20 minutes. With the number of vessels involved,
that's how long the fish and game experts estimate it will take to catch the
limit. Twenty minute openers are sheer frenzy, I'm told.
The total estimated catch here (if we go out at all) will be about 3,200
tons. In Sitka it was more than 11,000 tons. Each ton is worth roughly
$1,000 to the seine boats, about $200 to the tenders. Thus, in Sitka, the
seiners got something more than $11,000,000 worth of herring. The tenders
got $2,200,000. There are fewer of us. The Seldovia only hauled 40 tons - a
disappointment. Cap'n. Andy earned only $8,000, and I earned 9% of that.
The Seldovia's $15,000 deductible insurance costs $29,000 per annum. That's
a lot of herring required just for insurance.
We interrupt this rhapsody for some cautious opitmism. The Ocean Beauty
agent, Mark Carpenter by name, just stopped by to bring the Herring its
herring documents. "Kinda looks like there're fish," said Mark. The state
fish guys will make an announcement at 1600. The airplane spotters found a
12,000-ton "biomass" in Port Fidalgo Inlet. Looks promising. They are
looking at fish samples as we speak.
And I must say -
Herring, herring in the inlet
To be too small would be a sinlette!
Janet has taught me to write poetry. Not much of a student, eh?)
Us crew of the Herring have been frantic since the news above. Had to
rearrange the heavy equipment on deck. Almost ready. I am learning to do
things I never thought I needed to know. (And things I may never use again.)
It is satisfying, though.
Cap'n Andy said, not so gently: "If you want a shower or want to do laundry
(washer-dryer on a boat? Yes!) do it now!" So I did one - a shower, that is.
Put on clean long johns. Great feeling. I had been grimy for a few days.
Reason for the water consideration is that we expect to be on the fishing
grounds for several days - perhaps a week. Our "tendering" involves "tender
mercies" for the seiner crews. We provide food, fuel, water, showers.
Though we carry 11,000 gallons of water, apparently that must be rationed
as far as the Herring's crew-usage is concerned.
Must get this into the mail. Rebecca just returned from errands to say
Cap'n. Andy has decided to leave the fishing grounds right after the 4 pm
report.
MY AFFECTION FOR YOU ALL HAS NOT DIMINISHED SINCE LAST I WROTE. THE ORIGIN
OF THE NEXT COMMUNICATION IS QUITE UNCERTAIN. Dad, grandad and Bill
==================================================================
Correspondence from Bill Asbury forwarded by Janet
April 9, 1997
Snug Corner Cove
Prince William Sound AK
To all Correspondents South of Desolation Sound:
Just dropped the anchor in 40 feet of water in this pretty little cove. It
is a sparkling day, 52 degrees. The gods of dirty weather in Alaska are all
sprinters. They go all out for a day, or two or three, then, exhausted, they
stop their huffing and puffing and then allow the dieties of calm and sun a
few moments of dominion.
We have been waiting - tied up or anchored in this eastern portion of Prince
William Sound for three days. Our flotilla of tenders and seiners rushed
frenziedly from their anchorages about 11 a.m. We were told then that at 1
p.m. (1300) there would be yet another announcement. We were warned to be
ready to take fish by 1400, what they call an hour's notice.
So Cap'n. Andy and Rebecca and I relinquished our tie up between the tenders
Rolfie and the Uminak in Landlocked Bay. They are sister tenders on contract
to Ocean Beauty Seafoods. I was assigned to finish readying our fish box.
I'll spare details except to say I'm working with machines and mechanical
concepts completely new. I also had to chain down our foredeck equipment
(pumps and other heavy gear for salmon) with lengths of chain I can hardly
lift. But I did it! I actually like the work. Makes one feel useful.
First, I love the magnificence of Alaska. God was having a good day when he
made it. Second, I like the work. I feel like a 73-year old Freddie
Bartholomew in the movie Captains Courageous. That's about a rich kid who
falls from a luxury liner into the Grand Banks waters. He is picked up by a
cod fishing schooner and forced to work in the cold and wet. Good story. By
Robert Louis Stevenson. Cold and wet I have come to know.
Our 1300 announcement brought a 1/2 hour delay and news of a tragedy. Two
small float planes - spotter planes for herring, I assume - collided. One
crashed into nearby Galena Bay. Two aboard. One died, and the other
seriously hurt. The other plane's condition and whereabouts unknown. So
sad. This is dangerous work - all parts of it. Yesterday a young pilot and
his female spotter tied up aft of Seldovia. They were looking for gas, which
many tenders carry. Not us. But I spoke to the young couple. He was a
downy-cheeked, exhuberant young fellow. Flying a Supercub float plane.
Plane looked so fragile. Hope it wasn't those two who went down.
We cruised out of Landlocked Bay and idled in the vicinity where we guessed
the herring would be if Alaska Fish & Game opened a brief season. The
delayed announcement came at 1405. Every ear in the flotilla was attentive.
One hour notice cancelled. Not enough fish seen yet. Stay tuned at 1830
hours.
Rebecca and my new roommate Sue Moore, have taken the skiff to the beach to
play. They invited me. I chose to remain in the comfort of the Herring. Ah
youth! Oft I don't miss you.
The day (April 7) we left Cordova for the 5 1/2 hour run to this potential
Prince William Sound herring fishery was a tough one for Cap'n. Andy. There
were nasty crosswinds as we untied the Herring inside the breakwater. Andy
could not prevent Seldovia's clipping the bow of another ancient tender, the
Nautilus. Our port side shroud shackle struck the Nautilus's bow anchor. No
damage, we believed. Then, while we were steaming toward Two Moon Bay, where
we were to anchor, the Nautilus hailed us on Channel 16, the emergency VHF
frequency. The Nautilus's skipper said he was taking on water where the
stern and planks met at the waterline - "two garden hoses' flow." He had
decided that our modest collision at the top of his prow had somehow caused
the leak. Cap'n. Andy was both angry and humiliated - angry at the thought
that Nautilus's captain was trying to get free repairs to his ancient vessel
for problems that pre-dated our small mishap; embarrassed that Nautilus made
its claim of bad seamanship for the entire fleet to hear on Channel 16.
Coast Guard was summoned. Insurance companies will be involved. Andy's
anguish is caused by his $15,000 deductible. Any damage to a large vessel
is expensive. If Andy is found to be at fault, a very large part of any
fishing profit would be lost.
About Sue Moore, my roommate. She is called a "roe-tech," as in roe
technician
She will do sample tests on each ton of herring we suck from the seine nets
into our fish tanks. She will do C-sections on the female herring to see the
quality and incidence of roe. That's all we're here for - herring roe for
"sake parties" in Japan. Sue has the authority to tell us to stop taking
fish - if the quality and size are inadequate.
Sue is perhaps a typical Alaska woman. She has four teen-age children, and
scratches and scrapes to feed them. She is divorced from an alcoholic
husband. Her job as a roe tech is seasonal and short. During the 30-below
winter months (she lives at Clam Gulch, a bar, hotel, laundromat and grocery
store on Cook Inlet west of Anchorage) she makes fur and fleece garments.
She sponsored a musher in the Iditarod sled race. Her furs? Foxes, wolves,
an occasional wolverine. Tough lady. She is Daughter Sarah's age (but not
nearly as sweet or pretty.)
As I was writing this, Andy alerted me that the tender Dorthea is headed our
way with a two ton seine. We are to haul that to one of our next ports of
call. So our sea-going truck has many uses. Don't know which seiner it's
for.
Back to the collision with the Nautilus, a few minutes earlier Andy had
snorted a bit at the near-miss of the Nautilus by the Eigil B, the tender
Chuck Baker, Andy's dad owns. Skippered by Lyle Foster, the Eigil B. also
fought off crosswinds and clumsily, drunkenly got past the tied up tender
fleet and past the breakwater. Andy had a rare smirk about the near-miss of
the Eigil B. It occurred to me that the sea disdains pride and does not
accept arrogance at all. Andy is neither prideful nor arrogant. His lapse
was ephemeral. The sea got him.
One bit of unnerving information appears on our charts of Prince William
Sound. There is a short paragraph that says don't trust this chart too much.
Seventy-five percent of the area charted has not been surveyed since 1964.
That was the year of the 9.2 earthquake (Yes! 9.2!) that demolished
Anchorage and most towns and villages in this part of Alaska. What appears
as a 35 foot depth on our chart may, in fact, be a rock 6 inches beneath the
surface - that new rock forced upward by the gargantuan force of that '64
quake. Or what appears as a reef on our chart may in fact be a 35-ft. sink
hole. Not so comforting. The rule again, is caution.
===========================================================================
April 10, 1997
Friday, enroute Stockdale Harbor on Montague Island
Almost time for this ancient mariner to go to the anchor windlass. Our
company, Ocean Beauty, decided there would be no herring in Eastern Sound, so
they sent us south. Montague Island is probably the size of Delaware.
We've been dodging ice bergs today - some were that indescribable light blue.
A few were large enough to sink us. Glad we didn't travel the five-hour run
last night. Somehow the Titanic Herring (or Herring Titanic) doesn't appeal,
and, besides is self-contradictory.
I have been at the wheel for awhile now. With the whole fleet headed for
Montague Island, our radar seems to have come down with chicken pox, the
blips are so numerous. Counted about 50 on our four mile range-settings.
If (and I hope to) I write an article or book on this whimsy I find myself
involved in, how about the title: "In Search of the Pregnant Herring, the
Logbook of the Seldovia?"
Yours, Dad, granddad, Bill
=============================================================================
THE URCHIN HEAD'S SONG BOOK - a work in progress. a photo copied
bound version complete with history, interviews and photos will be
available soon to our fans FREE! apon request. IN THE MEANTIME SAVE
THIS ON YOUR HARDDRIVE.
WARNING! CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE, NOT MENT FOR YOUNGER FANS OR THOSE
EASILY OFFENDED.
Cowboy Paul
Jeff Asbury, 1996
Drivi’n south of Isabella one day,
I found a little place that was out of my way.
I took a little drive right over the hill,
and found an old cowboy named Paul De Fonville.
You see we saw the sign at the Dam Corner Store,
we drove a little further and we saw some more.
We followed those signs right over that hill,
down into Walker Basin till we almost felt ill.
Well there it was on the side of the road,
a very special place, part of California’s Gold.
A Memorial to the Cowboys, just like all the signs read.
So we went on up the driveway where this cow girl said;
“Can I help you boys?”
I said were looking for a cowboy, one that’s not dead.
She said “hold on a minute i’ll get him out of bed.”
“Well howdy this old cowboy said,
what brings you out here are you out of your heads?”
We said we saw the signs. He said “well your here.
He said “you want a cold drink?” We said we’ll take a beer.
I only got pepsi the cowboy said.
Drum Machine
Jeff Asbury/Todd Riesau, 1995
Who ever said you can’t play the blues,
with a drum machine was born to loose.
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
It Don’t need crack, it don’t need coke.
Mechanical drummer’s won’t bum your smokes.
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
They don’t skip beats, they don’t have feet,
after a show they never have to eat.
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
They set up quick, they don’t drop sticks.
and they never steal the singer’s chicks.
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
No lawyers to fight us, no carpelitus.
We got to say it dose excite us.
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
Drum Machine
Poop Jelly
Jeff Asbury, 1986
I’m Living in poop jelly,
I’m Living in poop jelly,
I’m Living in poop jelly,
and that’s the way I want to be.
I got four cats and I open four cans.
And I get the poop jelly all over my hands.
I’m Living in poop jelly, and that’s the way I want to be.
All covered in poop jelly.
I’m Living in poop jelly,
I’m Living in poop jelly,
I’m Living in poop jelly,
and that’s the way I want to be.
There’s Almond Rocca in the litter box.
I step in some and it sticks to my socks.
I’m Living in poop jelly, and that’s the way I want to be.
All covered in poop jelly.
Trailer Trash Girl
Jeff Asbury, 1993
She’s got Tayna Harding’s hair.
She wares dirty under ware.
She’s on food stamps and welfare,
But I don’t care.
She’s my trailer trash girl.
She’s my trailer trash girl.
In my trailer trash world.
We always get a stare
from the people who stare at her hair.
But I don’t care,
She’s my trailer trash girl.
She’s my trailer trash girl.
In my trailer trash world.
The Boxcar Bedouin Believers
Jeff Asbury, 1993
Onion ovals around Hussain’s Hide away
bring the Boxcar Bedouin Believers.
The desert was their home.
The desert was their home.
The dogs of war are on the track,
and the Boxcar Bedouin Believers are go.
And the desert was their home.
The desert was their home.
The milk of man is viscous and salty,
like goat cheese, Lima cream and Split Tail Pie.
Only the Boxcar Bedouin Believers know why.
Saddle Back Butte
Jeff Asbury, 1984
Its not a mountain in any way.
Its a place far from the highway.
Where lizards and cactus die.
You think its cute,
its Saddle Back Butte.
Saddle Back Butte.
Saddle Back Butte, yall.
Saddle Back Butte.
Saddle Back Butte, yall .
Saddle Back Butte.
Saddle Back Butte.
You think its cute,
its Saddle Back Butte.
Its never cloudy, its never gray,
when you get there, you’ll want to stay.
Every one farts in this Church,
even my lizard, his names Lurch.
Saddle Back Butte.
Saddle Back Butte, yall.
Saddle Back Butte.
Saddle Back Butte, yall .
Saddle Back Butte.
Saddle Back Butte.
You think its cute,
its Saddle Back Butte.
Domestic Serogate
Feline Mother Blues
Jeff Asbury, 1993
Domestic Serogate Feline Mother Blues
Its 2:45 am and that’s what spews,
something about Domestic Serogate Feline Mother Blues.
Prop to Turbo Prop,
Rip-stop parachutes too.
Why do I rhyme, wasting my time,
on something so contrive and over used,
something about Domestic Serogate Feline Mother Blues.
What is this crap,
I’m writing in wrap,
something about Domestic Serogate Feline Mother Blues.
That’s what spews
Timothy
Jeff Asbury, 1992
He won’t philosophize with me.
He likes to take things a little seriously.
He’s always been one of my best buddys to me.
All his friends call hin Timothy.
He knows how to apply any tool to any job.
He’s strong and cool, he’s no fool.
He’s got the heart and soul of an Apache!
He’s Timothy!
He’s always been on of my best buddys to me.
Timothy, your what a friend should be.
This ain’t a love song or anything like that.
He’s just my friend.
Its not like i’m a Ferry or little Mary Ann,
or anything like that.
Its a mutual respect song.
Timothy
Eight Inch Problem
Jeff Asbury, 1984
I got a problem here,
I got a problem here.
Eight inches of the most grizzliest stuff
you’ve ever seen.
And it smells like this:
Piss and decrepit shit
Herpes and bugs, snails and slugs, and fungus!
I got a problem here,
I got a problem here.
Eight inches of the most grizzliest stuff
you’ve ever seen.
And it smells like this:
Piss and decrepit shit
Herpes and bugs, snails and slugs, and fungus!
I got a problem here,
I got a problem here.
I got a problem!
Indian Voices
The Urchin Heads, 1984
Indian Voices,
what do they say?
Indian Voices,
what do they say?
They say:
“Woo woo woo woo woo woo woo”
That’s what they say?
Indian Voices,
what do they say?
Indian Voices,
what do they say?
They say:
“Woo woo woo woo woo woo woo”
That’s what they say?
Indian Blankets, what do they cost?
Indian Blankets, what do I pay?
>From the land of sky blue waters,
comes the beer refreshing.
Hamm’s the beer refreshing,
Hamm’s the beer refreshing,
Hamm’s the beer refreshing,
Hammmmmmms!
LA Independent Baby
Gary McCarthy, 1996
LA Independent Baby, its your community.
LA Independent Baby, Its your neighborhood magazine.
Ice Cold Blue
Todd Riesau/Tyler Burgess, 1986
Ice cold Blue
With all the remnants left for you
Ice cold Blue
I made so many mistakes, but so have you.
Here we are, locked up and frozen
All we got to do is decide,
we were the ones who were the chosen..
Ice cold Blue
at a theater near you.
You with your eskimo pie and me with my big stick
watching chilly willy cartoons in an air conditioned room.
Just me and you in your grocers in your grocers freezer baby
Ice cold Blue, i’m in Siberia with you
Ice cold Blue.
Fuck You Up On A Mountain Top
Todd Riesau, 1984
Fuck you up on a mountain top.
Fuck you, fuck, you fuck you.
Fuck you up on a mountain top.
Fuck you, fuck, you fuck you.
That was back in Sixty Four before I knew you was a whore,
balled the Band and Roadies too,
and I thought it was your first screw.
Fuck you up on a mountain top.
Fuck you, fuck, you fuck you.
Fuck you up on a mountain top.
Fuck you, fuck, you fuck you.
Took a piss the other day, had them drips, would not go away.
Told the Doc bout my decrepit dick,
he said penicillin wouldn’t do the trick.
Fuck you up on a mountain top.
Fuck you, fuck, you fuck you.
Fuck you up on a mountain top.
Fuck you, fuck, you fuck you.
499
Todd Riesau, 1984
I want you like I want the sun to rise another day.
Not that I try but I cant seem to tear my eyes away.
You need me like you know the moon goanna shine on us tonite,
and I would die if you said you couldn’t see me in that light.
We cant keep ignoring that magnetic force were feeling,
cause each time were together our hearts roll around the ceiling.
I’m just shy, so sometimes I neglect to let you know,
each time you drive away I pray someday you’ll never go.
I want you like I want the sun to rise another day.
Not that I try but I cant seem to tear my eyes away.
You need me like you know the moon goanna shine on us tonite,
and I would die if you said you couldn’t see me in that light.
THE FOLLOWING ARE URCHIN COVER SONGS
Round & Round
Chuck Berry
Well the joint was jumping, goin' round & round.
Yeah reeling and a rocking, to the crazy sound.
and well never stop rocking, till the moon goes down.
Well it sounded so sweet, I had to take a chance.
I rose out of my seat, cause I had to dance.
I started moving my feet and a clapping my hands.
And we kept on a rocking, goin' round & round.
Yeah reeling and a rocking to the crazy sound,
and we’ll never stop rocking till the moon goes down.
About twelve o’clock, I said the place was packed.
The front doors were locked, I said the place was packed.
When the Police knocked, those doors flew back.
But we kept on a rocking, goin' round & round.
Yeah reeling and a rocking to the crazy sound,
and we kept on a rocking till the moon went down.
Ms. Pinky
Frank Zappa
I got a girl with a little rubber head.
Gets around every night just before I go to bed.
She don’t talk back like a lady might do,
and she looks like she loves it, every time I get through.
And her name is P I N K Y, P I, ain’t no lie.
P Y, me oh my, sixty nine ninety five boy give her a try.
Her eyes are all shot with an extasy face.
You can cram it down her throat people, any old place.
Pull the little switch on the battery pack.
You can plook her, you can chew her, till your wife gets back.
And her name is P I N K Y, P I, ain’t no lie.
P Y, me oh my, sixty nine ninety five boy give her a try.
I got a girl with a little rubber head.
Gets around every night just before I go to bed.
Her eyes are all shot with an extasy face.
You can cram it down her throat people, any old place.
You can cram it down her throat people, any old place.
You can cram it down her throat people, any old place.
I Wanna be Sedated
The Ramones
Twenty, Twenty, Twenty, four hours ago.
I wanna be sedated.
Nothing to do, nowhere to go.
I wanna be sedated.
Get me to the airport, put me on a plane,
hurry, hurry, hurry before I go insane.
I can’t control my fingers, I can’t control my brain.
Oh no, oh no, oh nooo!
Twenty, Twenty, Twenty, four hours ago.
I wanna be sedated.
Nothing to do, nowhere to go.
I wanna be sedated.
Put me in a wheel chair and get me to the show.
Hurry, hurry, hurry before I go loco,
I can’t control my fingers, I can’t control my toes.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Mow mow, pa pa, Mow mow, pa pa,
I wanna be sedated.
Mow mow, pa pa, Mow mow, pa pa,
I wanna be sedated.
Just Wanna Make
Love to You
Willy Dixon
I don’t want you be no slave.
I don’t want you to work all day.
I don’t want you to be sad and blue.
I just want to make love to you.
I don’t want you make my bed.
I don’t want you bake my bread.
I don’t want you to be sad and blue.
I just want to make love to you.
I can tell by the way that you switch and walk,
I can tell by the way that you baby talk.
I can tell by the way that you treat your man,
I can love you baby its a crying shame!
I don’t want you to make a home.
I don’t want you to cry alone.
I don’t want you to be sad and blue.
I just want to make love to you.
I don’t want you be no slave.
I don’t want you to work all day.
I don’t want you to be sad and blue.
I just want to make love to you.
I don’t want you be no slave.
I don’t want you to work all day.
I don’t want you to be sad and blue.
I just want to make love to you.
==================================================================
From ???@??? Sat Jul 18 18:07:54 1998
X-POP3-Rcpt: sarah@datapro
From: Jwa0228@aol.com
The following letter was written by Bill on Monday, April 14, and is being
forwarded by me today, April 22. Bill says to thank all of you for your
letters. He says the Cordova postmaster is surprised to have an "ordinary
seaman" with so much mail coming in. Janet.
Cordova Bay
Cordova, Alaska
Monday, April 14, 1997
Family and All'
Were John Steinbeck alive I would persuade him to come to Alaska. He would
know how to describe it all. I write that as the Herring lies at anchor,
burdened by at least 89 tons of herring, looking at a collection of tin
buildings called "Cannery Row." Herring - sardines - what's the difference.
Now hear this. Fewer than 600 tons of pregnant herring were taken in
Stockdale Harbor yesterday. By great good fortune the Seldovia was able to
suck 15% of the total - nearly 90 tons - into our warehouse-like tanks..
Eight tons of those were in effect mine. I made between $1500 and $1800
yesterday - my crew share. Most money I ever made in a day in my 73 years on
this planet.
Let me tell you of the day. Started yesterday at 0700 in Stockdale Harbor,
Montague Island. I finished my on deck work at 0500 today.
In the morning, the Montague, an Alaska Fish and Game vessel, announced an
"opener." Only twenty minutes! Herring could be netted only during that
moment. No one said "ready. set. go." But it was like that. "The seine
fishery is open -- Now!" Yes. We HAD synchronized watches. The area of
tjhe fishery was described in latitudes and longitudes - and away went the
seiners. The squadrons of spotter planes overhead reminded of the Battle of
Britain. The speeding, water-thrashing seiners were like Iwo Jima invasion
craft because the spawning herring were hugging the beaches. The whole
noisy, confused mess was like the Oklahoma Land Rush.
Reason we got almost a full load is that we were directed by our company
representatives to the well-named seiner, Lady Luck. She had found "gold."
Her big purse seine rounded up nearly 200 tons of the
pink-green-electric-blue sided fish. That was one third of the total day's
catch. It filled two tenders, the Northern Mariner and the Seldovia with
maybe ten tons for our sister ship the Unimak, captained by Swede. More
about him later herein.
As I write crows and ravens are peck-pecking our fish-handling machinery,
removing bits of roe skins and other fish parts. When the fish spilled out
of our over-filled tanks, I shoveled them back in with a huge red scoop
shovel.
The fish are sucked out of the nets in a combination of fish and sea water.
That creates a watery slurry of blood, roe, unsavory things. The slurry is
removed from the fish through a giant strainer - and the residue from the
strainer goes overboard through a pipe the size of a sewer outfall. (Not a
bad comparison.) In my busy-ness, when we had a fish spill and I was
rescuing same (1 of 11 was mine!) , I somehow got my head and whole body
under the slurry pipe. My wool watch cap was knocked off. I was wearing
foul weather gear, but scales, fish eyes, blood and guts went into my hair
and under my rain collar into my clothing. It meant nothing to me, so
frantic and exhilarating was the hour. My clothing is in the wash, but I'm
told I will be picking herring scales from my clothing and body for days.
Herring scales are about the size of color contact lenses. Contact-lense
wearers beware of losing one aboard a fish boat.
We left the fishing grounds at dusk to haul our valuable load to the Ocean
Beauty "cannery" back in Cordova. I piloted the vessel much of the way to
give Cap'n. Andy a little rest. He pulled a muscle during the rush. My
principal value to him, I believe, is my ability to read charts, navigate,
and in short, drive the ship. She was not enjoying being driven last night.
The 90 tons of fish, added to 200 inherent tons, made her clumsy even in the
moderatee seas we had.
But we made it. Drove until 0300 when we dropped our mammoth, rusty anchor
and 4-inch-each chain links into Cordova Bay. But sleep would be elusive.
Something had happened to our chillers, as the equipment to keep the herring
cool is called. The hatch covers had been forced open by the circulating,
chilled sea water, and our precious cargo was being spilled on deck. So, I
again old-manned the scoop while Cap'n. Andy fiddled with valves and pumps.
To bed at 0500.
Rebecca prepared breakfast at 1100. It was good, but it should be classified
a cardiologist's nightmare. Egg, t-bone steak and a bacon-lettuce-tomato
sandwich slathered with mustard. The bacon ( delicious though it was) was
about the thickness of the National Geographic World Atlas.
Guess what we had for supper that night after scooping herring all day?
Fish! Red snapper, I think. Fish! After being up to our armpits in fish
by the ton the whole day! Our Rebecca had traded two heads of lettuce for a
couple of snapper fillets off a seine boat. (I have discovered that during
time off - fishermen, well - they fish.)
4-15-97
Still at anchor, Cordova Harbor - I was too bone tired to finish this
yesterday. It's 0700. No one is about. Andy and 'Becca stayed up watching
movies. (We have a pretty good VCR, but not much of a selection of films.
Unless you like Eddie and the Cruisers II. Heck. I didn't even like Eddie
and the Cruisers I. )
News items: We got word via the marvelous fleet party line (VHF and single
sideband radios) that the Alaska Eagle that sank after hitting the rocks in
the Wrangell Narrows has been refloated and saved. No word on her 100 tons
of herring. (I had misunderstood her as the Star)
Heart-breaking news about the crash of that spotter plane in Galena Bay. One
of the two aboard died when the plane hit the water, as I reported. The
second was taken alive by helicopter to the hospital at Valdez. He or she
died there. No, they weren't the young couple who had come along side of us
earlier. Those two came again to buy avaition gas. (We hoisted a 55-gal.
barrel from the Unimak tied up next to us at Stockdale Harbor.) I looked at
their spotter plane closely. In fact I held it off by the wing while it was
refueled, to keep the waves from dashing it into our hull. So small. So
fragile. Like a large model airplaine of the kind I made of balsa wood as a
boy.
About those deaths in the other little plane, it is a family thing. Each
vessel is a home. The tender and seiner fleets, and the squadrons of little
spotter planes are villages. I will forever after prowl the Seattle
waterfront, until the end of my days, looking for Al "Swede" Plancich, or
Mike, Trish, and Margy (eq) from the Rolfy, or Chuck Baker, Lloyd Wetmore and
Learned Lyle Foster from the Eigil B. I will know the Northern Spirit, the
seiner that came to us like asking its mother for a drink of water. And I
can never forget the Lady Luck and her teeming net. And I've only been out
here a month. I don't believe these men and women come out here for wealth.
Some may. Sure. But I think they come back to the blizzard-blown decks,
the fearsome sea, the 22-hour days, the ancient power scows that shouldn't be
on the water at all - they come here because they are a community. And they
come for the beauty of Alaska. I asked Lyle Foster of Eigil B. if he ever
grew accustomed to the beauty such as we saw out our portholes east of
Cordova Harbor. "Never," was his swift answer. Lyle has been skippering
scows for a long time. He calls the quiet days between the frantic ones
"book-a-day time." He reads good books. He loaned me a marvelous little
tome called simply "Longitude," about the search for a reliable way of
determining longitude at sea. Latitude was easy. Longitude reckoning didn't
become accurate until a carpenter named John Harrison crafted a chronometer
out of wood. He used lignum vitae because it contained its own oil and was
virtually friction free. The Harrison chronometer is still running
accurately in Greenwich 270 years later. Anyway, that's Lyle - a reader of
good stuff.
Al "Swede" Plancich skippers the Unimak. He is the most creative cusser I've
ever known. Most people use the "f" and "sh" words in rather straightforward
ways. Not Swede. His cussing invents adjectives, adverbs, gerunds, nous,
pronouns, past-participles - every grammatical construction possible - of the
two aforementioned vulgarities. He won't cuss around women. About his
nicknbame Swede. That, I take it, is high praise. He isn't Swedish but
Slavic. Plancich. But there is prejudice, bigotry, racism of every variety
up here. White, anglo-saxons are accepted as normal and tolerable unless
they do dumb things consistently. Al Plancich has become an honorary
non-bohunk. His badge of honor is the nickname "Swede."
A couple of days ago after I doubled in laughter during one of Swede's
marvelous body-languaged, curse-laden stories, he turned to me and said,
"You're all right, Bill." It wasn't I hope, just that I laughed at his
soliloquies. I believe he meant acceptance. The fleet is perplexed by
having the former editor of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer as a deck hand in
the fleet. Most of them have read the P-I all their lives, wintering as they
do in Seattle. Swede has seen me try hard to learn the trade and to help
Cap'n. Andy. Maybe by the time the last fish is hauled ashore at summer's
end someone will call me Ole.
We had to anchor out for the second night because Swede on the Unimak radioed
in that his chillers were "acting up." So the cannery agreed to unload him
first. Andy patched up our chillers and never told anyone he had trouble of
his own. So here we wait, burning fuel, and working (Andy is) while Swede
unloads. Andy said having a spasm of mechanical trouble when you've got a
load of fish is "de riguer" for some vessels. By pleading mechanical crisis
they get unloaded early. They avoid the cost and effort of keeping 100 tons
of fish at 31.5 degrees F, and thus can get back to the fishing grounds for
another load. I'm hoping Swede didn't play that game. Andy suspects he did.
Oh, for the life on the rolling sea.
My early morning dreams yesterday included herring eyes. Thousands of them.
Each looked at me accusingly.
Your Bill, Dad, Grandpa.
========================================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:07:56 1998
X-POP3-Rcpt: sarah@datapro
Return-Path: fiver555@nbn.com
Homer, Alaska
April 20, 1997
Hello, Lower 48, and west (SW) to Hawaii, too,
I cannot well remember when I wrote last and I certainly cannot recall
what I put down on my yellow pad; I get a little loopy from lack of
sleep.
This communique may be foreshortened. We rolled and crashed through
beam seas into Homer yesterday afternoon. Our ride from Cordova was
over glass-smooth waters until we turned the corner into the oft-busy
water of Cook Inlet which separates the Kenai Peninsula to the southeast
from the Alaska Peninsula to the northwest. The Alaska Peninsula sweeps
with a westward flourish to become the Aleutian island chain.
I scribble quickly because we are on 12-hour alert for another herring
“rush”. We faced the possibility of having to leave last midnight.
Glad we didn’t have to. All of us are weary. And, besides, Homer is
the home town of Rebecca Swearingen, our cook/deck hand. She is at
home, and, of course loving it.
Before another word: thanks one and all for the treasure of letters,
cards, photos and other celebratory items for my birthday. They eased
passage into my 74th year. Also making the event special was being
hosted by the Ocean Beauty Seafoods manager at a marvelous birthday
dinner. The host--Mark Carpenter--is a former restaurateur. He managed
at the Abigail’s restaurant in Edmonds before going to work for Ocean
Beauty. We used to go to an Abigail’s somewhere. So, Mark knows good
food. He took us to the Chart Room of the best hotel in Homer. I had
(besides a real green salad and sourdough bread) a massive chunk of
herb- and butter-baked halibut covered with Dungeness crab and a Bonne
Femme sauce. Then a large wedge of chocolate-raspberry (Asbury) cake
illuminated by a candle. Last nights’ was the first meal off the
Herring.
After our big haul of herring out of Stockdale Harbor on Montague
Island, we raced to the Ocean Beauty Cannery at Cordova. Other tenders
beat us there so we lay at anchor or tied to the dock for four days
before the cannery could take our scaly cargo. Then the taking took two
nights. Turned out we had 61-plus tons in our new, main tank which is
only rated for 50. Probably had 24 tons or more in each of our two
foredeck tanks. Thus our haul from the seiner Lady Luck was 109 tons
when our supposed capacity is only 100.
A 24-hour interruption: It is now April 21. The superb weather
yesterday--sunny, in the 40s--“allowed” us to manufacture new hatch
covers for our forward tanks. Simple thing, right? “Not!”, as recent
(probably outdated) slang would put it. We had the lumber. We had the
tools--saws, drills, router. What I didn’t have--or had in an
inadequate amount--was the strength. The boards we used were 2-inch by
12-inch by 12 feet. And in our storms of passage they had become heavy
with rain and sea water. I estimate the weight of each board at 100
pounds. I had to manhandle five of them from the top of our house where
they were stowed to the cabin deck. There I halved them and wrestled
the 50-pound pieces to the hatches. I’ll spare you any further
vicarious agony except to say I had to carry them up and down the ladder
several times from the cabin deck to the main deck. Measurements had to
be precise. Edges had to be routed smooth. Each end had to be opened
with a 1 and a half inch hole so we can get a finger in to remove the
planks when we take on or off-load fish. I did most of it. I fell
several times without remarkable result. Those falls were caused by
having to wrestle the hatch covers across half a hundred clumsy, spongy
bags of gillnets. The old Herring is trucking those for a group of
gillnet fisherman to the red salmon grounds north of the Aleutians. (I
have spent time during our two days in Homer helping Cap’n Andy load
those ugly nets.) The concept of catching fish with gillnets has always
turned my stomach, but don’t tell anyone. What do gillnets look like?
Money. And what do fish smell like? Same answer. Andy ran our big
hydraulic boom hoist. The gillnet owners would hook their bags of nets
to our mammoth hook and shackles. I would hand the bags to a stowage
area just forward of our main fish tank.
Only once did I have a modest fright. I fell into our port-side fish
tank. Our rickety aluminum ladder slipped on a slick of herring eggs.
It and I clattered to an abrupt stop both nearer to God and nearer to
the bilges than I wanted to be. Once I decided that everything still
functioned, I repositioned both ladder and body for the climb back to
daylight. All’s well etc. Happily, no one was around to see my
“lubberly” mistake. Less speed. More care--from now on.
Janet has asked me to describe Andy and Rebecca:
The “Skipper”, as I call him, is small in the deck-to aloft
measurement--perhaps 5’7”. But he is stout, short-coupled?, very
strong. He has blue eyes, light brown hair and an unobtrusive matching
mustache. He moves quickly as skippers must. His main qualities are
quietness, gentleness and, more than anything, magnificent competence.
He is an excellent seaman, in so far as my poor expertise allows me to
judge. He reads the wind and water well. He can turn this 200-ton
amalgam of iron and planks on a dime and give a nickel in change. (We
actually weigh more than 300 tons when fully laden.) But most of
all--and let me lay stress here--he is a master mechanic. There is
virtually nothing about the enormous collection of massive diesel
engines (4 in all), refrigeration compressors, electric pumps, pipes,
ironwork that he does not fix and maintain himself. His shop, aft on
the main deck, is probably better equipped than Mr. Goodwrenchs’. When
he’s not at sea, Andy is an aircraft mechanic. He rebuilds small and
not-so-small general aviation aircraft--replacing fuselage skins and
overhauling larger radial engines. But being a tenderman is Andy’s
life, and, I think, love. His father, Chuck Baker, is still a
tenderman; Chuck owns the Eigil B. as reported earlier. Andy was born
to this work. He is much respected in the fleet.
Rebecca Swearingen is probably an inch taller than Andy. She, too, is
strong and muscular. She may well match his physical strength and
endurance. Rebecca (she likes to be called ‘Becca) has honey-blonde
hair and a peaches-pink complexion that gets more pink when she’s on
deck in our cold times (which is to say always). She’s a good cook.
Talks often of going to culinary school. She, also, is a good seaman
and deck hand. This is her 2nd season on the Herring. But more than
just “knowing” how to do things, she “sees” to do things. She is smart
at figuring out mechanical things, and simply doing them. She is a
better and certainly stronger, hand than I. She has brown eyes, is
Germanic in appearance and work characteristics. She goes at any task
like she “is killing snakes”, as my father was wont to say. Of course,
she is young--so young. She turned 20 on April 6. If she can avoid the
pitfalls in the path of the young at this turn of the millennium, she
has a happy future. I deeply wish that for her. I call her my
granddaughter. A wave of young, male deck hands from other tenders have
learned that the Herring carries and houses Rebecca. I tell each male
visitor, with his sideways glances at ‘Becca, that I am her grandfather
and that any transgressions toward her will bring an accounting from
me. Several of the downy cheeked lads (in fact, most) have believed me
and have treated me with a combination of deference and trepidation.
The latter attitude is quite amusing give that the smallest of these
strapping seamen could hoist me with one hand and drop me without a
trace into the saltchuck.
Breakfast time. Still hoping for our opener. And good weather. From
here on, Andy says, weather is a hazard. What, pray tell, has it been
so far?
I love you guys, each and all.
Bill etc.
=========================================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:08:07 1998
Rcpt: sarah@datapro
From: Jwa0228@aol.com
Forwarded message:
From: April.Asbury@experian.com (April Asbury)
To: fiver555@nbn.com (April at Home), jwa0228@aol.com (Janet Asbury)
Date: 97-05-05 21:58:02 EDT
Forwarded 5/5/97 by April Asbury
April 23, 1997
Kamishak Bay, Off Cook Inlet
Anchored Between Chenik Head and Nordyke Island
Dear Family and Honorary Family,
The Herring is creaking. (And so am I, I suppose.) We are looking out
at a spot more reminiscent of some ugly blemish on the dark side of the
moon than anything else. Ugliness is not a word I have been able to
apply to any part of Alaska. Until yesterday. That's when we anchored
(at 0200) in this lifeless place. Well, it's not really lifeless
because Kamishak Bay produces large and abundant herring--fish in the
200+ gram size vs. the 130-gram fish we hauled out of the seine nets
near Sitka and off Montague Island. And we're here for the herring.
The unpleasant mien of this place is its lack of verdure. That and the
gray murkiness of the shallow waters. The landmasses I look at between
scribbles on my yellow pad are barren. The hues are tans, grays,
blacks. To make it all the more gloomy, today the ceiling has ranged
from 100 to not over 500 feet. Snow patches go down to the beach. Last
night it snowed hard.
We had a passenger from Homer to here. We left Homer on a sunny, crisp
Monday. Kamishak Bay glittered and rippled. I wanted a day off shore
to buy some different long underwear. The cotton things I brought are
quite useless. I was able to buy a long-sleeved Helly-Hansen
(Norwegian) top in Sitka made of a wool-poly blend. It is so efficient
I hardly need anything else. The fishermen's store was out of the
bottoms. We were quickly ordered by Ocean Beauty to come here. No
respite. No long johns on the nether end. Back to our passenger. He
was Don Rollins, a long-time executive with the large Peter Pan Seafoods
Co., now owned by Nichiro, the second largest Japanese fish company.
Turns out Mr. Rollins and I were U.W. classmates, and we have friends in
common. He needed a ride to the Peter Pan fish processing ship, Stellar
Sea, anchored in Kamishak Bay.
The Stellar Sea is a former freighter--300 or so feet long. We arrived,
as I said, in the middle of the night. Heck, folks. We seem to do
everything in the middle of the night. It was blowing, gusty. Heck,
it's usually blowing, gusty. Our task was somehow to get the estimable
Don Rollins from our rolling and pitching deck to the main deck of the
Stellar Sea. The latter appeared as high and impregnable as the Wall of
China. I was on the bowline, but no one had told me what was to
happen. Quite suddenly, here came a large cage made of rope. (Okay,
"lines", if you must.) The large, awkward thing was on a collision
course with my Ballard Stetson. We have almost no open deck space
except a few square feet between the port hawsehole and the
anchor--right where I stood. I grabbed the cage at the same moment a
wave lifted us toward it, then steered it to where Mr. Rollins could
board--and away they hauled him aloft. Cap'n Andy gunned our two big
Cats and we eased away from that floating hazard to seek a safe and
quiet anchorage. We were not to find it.
It has been 24 hours since I started this. Except for a few hours
respite yesterday afternoon until about 0100 today, it has blown, and
blown hard at times. I was awakened at 0400 by Andy. It was my turn to
stand the anchor watch. That is a process mostly of making sure our
anchor doesn't lose its grip on whatever is down there. Of course we
can't see the bloody thing, so anchor "watch" is a wrong-headed phrase.
Rather we watch our radar to make sure our relationship to the blips
showing other anchored vessels and land masses remain constant. More
common is the problem of other vessels dragging anchor and drifting into
us. We've had that happen twice, once early yesterday. The Seldovia's
heavy anchor and over-size chain make us fairly secure. Andy a good
thing that was last night. When I went to the wheelhouse at 0400 it had
been gusting to 40. Before I left the bridge, our anemometer was
showing a steady 47 with gusts to 55 and probably higher. On the
Beaufort wind scale, 47-54 is a Strong Gale; 55 and above is a Whole
Gale. The only two higher readings are Force 11 and Force 12, Storm and
Hurricane winds. Jeff and Sarah will recall our daylong quarrel with
the wind and sea between the southeast corner of Revillagigedo Island
and Ketchikan. No anemometer aboard our tiny, 25-foot sloop Scrimshaw,
but the federal weather forecasters had predicted a Force 8 (fresh gale,
39-46). I'm quite sure it was that much. That strong wind churned the
sea water in the mean-spirited Dixon Entrance between Prince Rupert, BC.
and Ketchikan to seas of 14 feet. Actually our sailing vessel, though
small, took that fairly well. Though we raced to port on our working
jib alone, in that much wind even one small sail provided lift that
eased us somewhat over those breaking waves.
Speaking of breaking waves, as today's cold, rainy morning broke and I
could see beyond our forecastle, I saw--only for the second time in my
life--the phenomenon called "spindrift". It is a pretty word for a
scary event. Spindrift happens when a breaking wave explodes by force
of the wind into mist.
What has made this last 36 hours especially uncomfortable is what I will
call the Cook Inlet phenomenon. Kamishak Bay where we lie is a rather
unprotected bulge in Cook Inlet. Cook Inlet, named, I'm sure, for that
most intrepid sailor, Captain James Cook, has the second highest and
lowest tides on the planet. The Bay of Fundy off Canada's NE Coast has
the largest tides. Tidal variation here is in the 30-foot range. Big
tides mean big currents--and we've got 'em. So, when the wind is coming
from the NE and the tide is flooding from SW, the Herring assumes the
attitude of "Well, if you guys can't make up your mind, I'll just sit
and roll in the troughs". The troughs of the big waves, that is. Sleep
is difficult. Cooking and eating likewise. One can read, if one
doesn't tend to mal de mer, and one can scribble. We roll until it
seems we may just roll over. But we do not.
All the above is most likely more meteorological and geographic
information than anyone needs. I record it because I suspect much of
what I see and feel and have learned are unique to The Great Land, which
is how the word Alaska translates from Inuit, or Kuskokurin, Haida,
Tlingit or Aleut. (Sarah must know which language "Alaska" is part of.)
I don't recall telling you the final chapter of the incident whence my
fleet nickname "Mad Dog" Bill derives. I went to the arraignment of the
owner of the dog pack whose members bit me, one Jay Nelson. Turns out
his resources are limited to just about enough to buy dog food for his
pack. And presumably he dines at that same table. So he had merely
promised the Cordova Hospital to pay my $150 emergency room bill. The
judge ordered him to pay $10 a week until that bill is satisfied and
then pay off his many hundreds in fines for not having dog licenses and
leashes. It gets better. I met the Cordova police chief after the
arraignment. Nelson's five dogs, you'll recall, were all unprovided (?)
for rabies observation and quarantined at the Cordova dog lock-up.
Well, Mr. Nelson became so lonely for his pooch platoon that he tried to
enact a canine version of The Great Escape. He broke into the dog
pound--and, of course, was caught. He now faces breaking, entering and
destruction of city property--felonies, I believe.
A final anecdote for this sitting: the original use of the Herring and
her sister power scows was as small freighters. They were used to
supply the troops during the Aleutian Battles in the war against Japan.
Recently a sister tender of the Herring--Wide Bay, by name--was hauling
people and supplies to the Aleutian fish camps in December. One of the
crew had long hair. During one awful night his hair froze to the
interior bulkhead of his stateroom. And it was so cold, the captain
created a galley stove watch. If that once source of head had gone out,
it could have been life threatening. My personal stove is still aflame.
I love you all.
Dad, Bill, Grandpa
=======================================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:08:10 1998
Rcpt: sarah@datapro
From: Jwa0228@aol.com
NOTE from Janet
April in Larkspur is now typing all of Bill's letters onto the email to me
and I am forwarding to all of you (and photocopying for several other folk
who are not on email.) She types 100 wpm and I am much slower, so say thank
you to your new intermediary. Janet Asbury
---------------------
Forwarded message:
From: April.Asbury@experian.com (April Asbury)
To: jwa0228@aol.com (Janet Asbury)
Date: 97-05-06 20:25:44 EDT
(Mom, once again sending from the office. Please forward to all
concerned. Thanks. April)
April 26, 1997
Still at Ugly Kamishak Bay
Salud!
I saw perhaps important history made yesterday. It was a little sad in
a way, quite personal to Cap'n Andy.
The fishermen-seiner captains-staged a boycott. They simply refused to
fish. The price they are getting this year is only $200 a ton. A few
years ago they got $2,000 a ton (and they got rich).
The Alaska Fish & Game Department declared a 30-minute herring opener
yesterday for 1600 hours. But the fishermen had convened on the tender
Zone Five's broad deck and voted 36 to 7 not to participate. The said
they were "sending a message to the Japanese," the only consumers of our
herring roe.
The boycott was honored fleet-wide even though not every captain was
present to vote. I'll estimate the seine fleet at about 70 vessels.
The state fish boss yesterday said his equivalent of "on your mark,
go." Nobody moved. It was eerie. That frenzy I saw during a short
opener near Cordova gave way to utter silence. No spotter planes
droned. No propellers churned. The seine skippers had all agreed to
lower their booms as their "on strike" symbol. The power blocks at the
upper end of a raised boom are used to raise and lower the big bags
(also called "purses" on "seines"). The raised boom thus indicates
fishing in progress.
According to Cap'n Andy, this kind of boycott has never happened. Its
success seems dubious to this old Japan hand, y'r. hm'ble. Crrspnd'nt.
No. 1, Japan's economy has waned of late and $110-an-ounce (or whatever)
herring eggs are too expensive in the new economic reality. No. 2, the
taste for herring roe is reportedly yielding to across-the-board changes
in the Japanese diet. No. 3, the two factors above have created a
holdover glut of 2,000 tons of herring-roe skeins. And, No. 4, the
waters off the Russian Far East (Vladivostok, Magadan, Khabarovsk,
Sakhalin) and Estonia are yielding large amounts of roe herring. How
does one send a message to a glutted market with other availabilities?
We are to get another possible opener announcement at 1300, 50 minutes
from now. Ocean Beauty's herring boss, Mark Carpenter, just came by in
his big tin skiff to say he expects a fishery. Cap'n Andy is less
optimistic. What makes all this sad for him is that he will be deprived
of perhaps many thousands of dollars if no fishing happens here. We
would then go SW to Kodiak, re-fuel, re-water, buy supplies, mail and
receive letters and parcels, then on to Togiak Bay. If the herring runs
are good there, Andy will be in good shape. If not, his season will be
damaged. He needs a total of two loads of 100-tons each to meet his
money target. So far he has hauled between 120 and 130 tons, a
shortfall of between 35 and 40%.
So we wait. We have been here in generally mean weather, rolling in the
troughs, for five days. Dispositions are tested. There are lots of
long silences among our crew of three or four. We had another
roe-technician aboard until yesterday. Again, she shared my
"stateroom", a lovely misnomer if I ever heard one. For unknown
reasons, she, the Roe Tech, was shanghaied away from us just before
yesterday's aborted opener. She--Pat with an unspellable last
name-attended The Evergreen State College for some time. So we had
things to talk of.
Hooray and huzzah! The wind has slowed. The rolling has lessened. I
see a patch of blue, however elusive. Have the sprinting gods of wind
and sea exhausted themselves? I do hope so.
Kodiak. The town (5,000?) and the island are anticipated with some
joy. Standing erect without leaning against a bulkhead for balance is
appealing. Getting mail (forwarded from Cordova as it will be) is a
happy prospect. Maybe I can buy some warmer undergarments. And maybe I
can phone Janet. I will try.
Kodiak is a diverse place, I am told. Lots of native people, especially
Aleuts. Yesterday for the first time I heard Aleut spoken. Two Aleut
fishermen were chattering on the ship-to-ship radio. Rather a pretty
language. Lots of soft, aspirated sounds.
1250 hours. The fishermen just announced they will fish today if there
is an opener. Okay. Now the questions are: are there fish available
and are they of good quality, meaning is there an abundance of roe? The
Seldovia has been assigned a seiner, the Janet Lynn. (A seiner just
steamed past our stern--boom raised, power block [pulley] poised.)
Looks serious.
Three hours later. NO FISHING TODAY. Because of the confusion created
by the boycott, Fish & Game didn't get the necessary information from
the seiners to determine the number and quality of the available
herring. The state fish boss depends on the seiners to test the
waters. That didn't get done. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe it's on to
Kodiak, thence north through the Aleutians to Togiak Bay, the biggest
herring fishery of all. The fish there weigh 400+ grams on average
versus 130 elsewhere. The quota will be 20,000 tons versus 3,200 tons
at Prince William Sound and here. Maybe we'll get our own quota there.
Supper is cooking. I'll get back to you later-
With much affection in the interim and best thoughts for each.
(Special note to Clark Sykes. I got the photos from Japan.
Thank you, friend. Marvelous memories.)
Bill.
==================================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:08:19 1998
Rcpt: sarah@datapro
From: Jwa0228@aol.com
---------------------
Forwarded message:
Subj: Hi grandma... here's that Erma Bombeck piece we spoke of awhile ago.
Date: 97-05-07 14:33:23 EDT
From: AlienJazz
To: Jwa0228
Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice, and a few by
social pressures and a couple by habit. This year nearly 100,000 women will
become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how mothers of
handicapped children are chosen?
Somehow I visualize God hovering over Earth selecting his instruments for
propagation with great care and deliberation. As he observes, he instructs
his angels to make notes in a giant ledger.
"Armstrong, Beth, son, patron saint, Matthew.
Forrest, Marjorie, daughter, patron saint, Cecilia.
Rudledge, Carrie, twins, patron saint.....give her Gerard, he's used
to profanity."
Finally, he passes a name to an angel and smiles, "Give her a handicapped
child."The angel is curious. "Why this one, God? She's so happy."
PERFECT PICK: "Exactly." says God. "Could I give a handicapped child a
mother who does not know laughter? That would be cruel."
"But has she patience?" asks the angel.
"I don't want her to have too much patience or she will drown in a sea of
self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off, she'll
handle it. I watched her today. She has that feeling of self and
independence that is so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the
child I'm going to give her has his own world. She has to make it live in
her world, and that's not going to be easy."
"But, Lord, I don't think she even believes in you."
God smiles. "No matter. I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has
just enough selfishness."
The angel gasps, "Selfishness? Is that a virtue?"
God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally,
she'll never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child
less than perfect. She doesn't realize it yet, but she is to be envied.
She will never take for granted a 'spoken word.' She will never consider a
'step' ordinary. When her child says 'Momma' for the first time, she will
be present at a miracle and know it! When she describes a tree or sunset
to her blind child, she will see it as few people ever see my creations.
NEVER ALONE: "I will permit her to see clearly the things I
see....ignorance, cruelty, prejudice...and allow her to rise above them.
She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day
of her life, because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my
side."
"And what about a patron saint?" asks the angel, pen poised in midair.
God smiles. "A mirror will suffice."
======================================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:08:20 1998
Rcpt: sarah@datapro
From: Jwa0228@aol.com
NOTE FROM JANET
I'm back on line as the primary typist again, but only temporarily. Bill
sent his last letter to me because April is in the process of moving to her
new home in Corte Madera and he didn't yet have the new address. Since I
know she is busy moving this weekend, I decided to type this one onto the net
and give her respite. I appreciate the acknowledgements from Al and Carl and
don't always respond to their kind notes about Bill's letters, but I always
print them out and mail them on to him, so both he and I know that these
tales of the sea are appreciated.
======
May Day
(Ooops, I retract that)
May 1, 1997
False Pass and the Bering Sea
Dear extended family-
Janet, I'll address this one through you. I'm apprehensive not knowing
April's new address, nor whether she has moved. I haven't had access to a
phone for two weeks. We haven't touched land in that period and in this
remote place, we can't seem to raise a marine operator.
I'm at the helm for the next five hours. It's 1000 hours. We just exited
False Pass. That is a white knuckle experience. The pass itself is narrow,
rocky, unforgiving. But it's the northern outlet of the pass that is
hazardous. There is a kind of bar that shallows to only 15 feet. We draw 9,
or 11, when fully burdened. The bar channel is marked by green can buoys to
starboard, red nun buoys to port. (How can a nun be a buoy [b-o-y], get it?
One gets sillier than usual out here. ) On either side of the buoys there
were breakers reminiscent of Australia's Barrier Reef.
We are now in the Bering Sea. I have mixed feelings. I've always been
haunted by thoughts of these waters. It is calm now, but right after we
cleared the "sea buoys," the last port and starboard buoys in the seaward
channel, the fog closed in on us. Visibility 1/4 mile. Not to worry with
radar and Global Positioning System equipment. With my GPS fixed on the Amak
I. "waypoint" (13.14 nautical miles to go) I can steer a perfect 24-degree
course just by lining up a couple of electronic diamonds on my GPS screen.
Of course I watch the radar for other vessels. (Fog just thickened.) After
I get us to Amak I., I will punch in the Round I. waypoint, probably 250
miles of open Bering Sea ahead. That is our next destination in our
day-after-day quest for the pregnant herring. Round I. is in Togiak Bay.
You can headline this chapter "Follow The Whales."
A sister tender, the Cirus, was picking her way cautiously through False Pass
on a recent spring day when her skipper, Jim Johnson, noticed something awry.
As his vessel entered that hazardous shallows, he saw the buoys were gone!
These waters are frozen over much of the year. Likely the floes had carried
away the buoys. Coincidental with his learning of the buoys disappearance,
he saw a pod of whales ahead of the Cirus. They were on the same general
course, the same approximate speed. "Well," Jim concluded, "those whales
won't run aground." He followed them to the safety of the deep water. May
we say he was "buoyed" by the presence of whales? We may. And guess what?
There was a whale, probably two, 500 yards ahead of us as we threaded the
channel needle this morning.
We are out of fresh fruit and vegetables except for cabbage. Is scurvy on
the horizon? Our water and fuel are low. We are hoping a fuel and water
barge awaits us in Togiak Bay. And speaking of food, my lifestyle at the
moment is a cardiologist's nightmare. During these many days at sea, we are
mostly sedentary. The run to Kodiak Bay will take 30 hours. Not much
exercise watching an auto pilot and a radar. And what is our dining fare
during these long crossings? Examples: for breakfast on recent morning we
had an omelette made of sirloin steak chunks and cheddar cheese. Yesterday's
lunch was a monster sandwich made of a slab of cheddar, slab of ham, topped
by thick-sliced bacon! I put half of it in a baggie, telling Rebecca I was
saving it for a midnight snack. Can't be too careful about feelings in these
ever-so-close quarters. Fact is, I'll just have to feed a crab with that
gazillion cholesterol-unit "snack." (Just chucked it overboard. No seagull
came to fetch it.)
I was on my customary 2400 - 0400 watch last night. Skies were clear. Stars
blazed. The Bebop (or is that Hale-Bopp?) comet was brightening the northern
horizon. So were the Northern Lights. The North offers its compensations.
NEXT DAY.
We survived May Day without a "Mayday." It's 1000. Slept fairly well since I
left my 2400 - 0400 wheelhouse watch.
I didn't know there was anywhere on the planet where one could be without
communication. There is. It is here. In the small hours this day the only
voices - or at least the preponderance of them - were Russian ones. Russian
fishermen, I assume. They came in on our big radio vs. our two VHF radios
used to talk to neaby vessels or shore stations. The big radio - a single
sideboard, whatever that means - is the one on which we picked up a "may day"
from a yacht near New Zealand . Hearing those Russian tones, I have
concluded we have probably passed the Kamas state line. Yes. Russia is just
over there.
Among the English conversatiuons I overheard yesterday was one about a
fishing vessel in our area who was anchored near where we will anchor
tonight. An ice floe, half a mile wide and a mile-and-a-quarter long
descended on her. She weighed anchor and dashed to safety, that being
awfully near the beach, I gathered.
No communications, I say. No AM or FM radio. No television. No mail for
two weeks. No newspaper for the same period. Except for missing music (I'll
bring my tapes and a player next time.) I find the lack of news marvelously
invigorating. That from a person who devoted much of his life to collecting
same. How many news items in a year are essential? I've tried to put a
number on them and decide which ones. Would make a good parlor game. I
haven't heard the letters "O.J." for six weeks, and I haven't missed them. I
guess that prolonged consideration of Timothy McVeigh's insantiy is underway.
I am doing nicelyt without that. Maybe poor old McVeigh was a victim of too
much news - stuff he didn't understand, ghosts and goblins of
blackhelicopters and fluoridated water - who knows what his neurons had to
absorb and obviously could not sort out.
I don't know whether Clinton has been impeached for one or another of his
transgressions. Neither Jennifer Flowers nor Paula Jones has interrupted my
sleep. Newt Gingrich's daily assertions of how he and he alone, saved our
Republic from something or other have blessedly not reached The Herring. But
I have lied a little. I did bring a small, cheap,
made-in-China-by-slave-labor short-wave radio. Up here in the northern
latitudes I get the following: Radio Cuba, Radio Beijing, Australia
ocassionally, Dutch National Radio, Radio Moscow (loud and clear) and if
I've been good, the World Service of the BBC. On the latter in the midnight
sun I learned two things: John Major, the Bob Dole of Britain, has been
ousted by someone with the very non-British first name of "Tony." Tony
Blair. The empress Victoria would not have been amused. And Prime Minister
Tony is the youngest first minister in 200 years, which must mean something
ominous. Then I learned that Chelsea Clinton has decided on Stanford and the
nation is abuzz with that revelation. Clinton devoted much of a press
conference to Chelsea's decision and that her tuition will be $28,000 for the
year, Harvard, Princton and Yale, by inference, may very well start
impeachment proceedings against the First Freshman. AND, OH YES, I did
learn something of significance day before yesterday on the boat VHF gossip
line: the Seattle Super Sonics were one game from elimination in the
National Basketball Association playoffs because, apparently, Shaun Kemp,
superstar, was spending too much of his salary on hooch and came to practice
hung over and late. So that's what I know. Haven't heard a thing about how
Nathan Yahoo and Yessir Hairy Fat are cohabiting. I don't miss either of
them. (You see, my dear family, that either sanity is slipping away or has
come my way in a new and better form. Take your pick. And, since you asked,
the subject of sanity brings us right back toTimothy Mc Veigh, mass murderer
and Boy Scout. Seems that McVeigh blew 168 people to bits to protest the U.
N.s sending black tanks to whack some Waco Wackos whose leader had said it
was noble to die in a great fire. That fits in nicely with the high-pitched
(the men were all castrated, right) decision of that group in San Diego to
escape the surly bonds of earth on a one-way trip to the Hale-Bopp-A
-Ree-Bopp comet. You think I'm nuts out here on the cruel sea? Nay. To be
really nuts is to be where you all are tuned to the news! Let's hear it for
silence. Pray for ignnorance, and rejoice.
Some silence, however, I would be happy to relinquish. I miss the sounds of
your voices, and all you have to say, and what is YOUR news. That is
important. Maybe there will be mail in Togiak Village.
Bill, Dad, and Grandpa
===================================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:08:23 1998
Rcpt: sarah@datapro
From: Jwa0228@aol.com
Subject: Bill's new address
The run for herring is completed (and very successfully) and Bill has a new
mailing address in Alaska while he and the crew regroup for the salmon phase
of this summer's fishery. He phoned me and said he might be able to get home
for the weekend of our wedding anniversary on May 20, but whether he does or
does not, he will still use this new address instead of the Cordova, Alaska
address. It is:
Bill Asbury
c/o M. V. Seldovia
c/o Ocean Beauty Seafoods
Box 162
Naknek, Alaska
99633.
He's one happy fella!
Best to all of you, Janet
==============================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:08:24 1998
Rcpt: sarah@datapro
From: Jwa0228@aol.com
Subject: Fwd: Daddy's 4/29 update...
NOTE FROM JANET
April is the typist back on duty now, but she's asked me to do the
forwarding, so don't let all this "tracking information" confuse you. It's a
very roundabout way to deliver news from Alaska. Love you all, Janet
---------------------
Forwarded message:
From: April.Asbury@experian.com (April Asbury)
To: jwa0228@aol.com (Janet Asbury)
Date: 97-05-13 19:34:39 EDT
**Hey Ma. Here's the latest scoop on the old man and the sea. Please
forward to all parties as I'm at work. No computer set up at the new
house yet... ;-) April**
April 29, 1997
Kamishak Bay, Alaska
Dear Family et al,
The horrid weather of this horrid place took its first life early this
morning. In 45 knots of wind and consequent seas, a small grey bird was
blown into one of our booms. The tiny body fell next to the hatch cover
of our large fish hold. Rebecca gently retrieved it, hoping it would
revive. It would not. Life--any life--out here seems precious.
In terms of weather, this day and early morning have been our worst.
The wind and confused waters punish the fleet without surcease. The
Seldovia is well anchored, our flukes deep in the mud at five fathoms.
We are attached to that life-saving mechanism by 30 fathoms of chain.
During my anchor watch, which began at 0600, the radio crackled with
fear and anxiety. Many, many vessels dragged anchor. Once an anchor
loses its grip, in winds and seas of this strength, the freed vessels
move fast,and their striking other nearby vessels is prevented only by
the speed and skill of some deck ape who must don boots and rain slicks,
and brave the wind and cold and slickened decks to,first raise, then on
captain's command, re-set the anchor. That, by the way, is one of the
jobs of your ancient mariner. I'm only tolerably good at it.
Let's talk of plumbing. As the Chinese immigrant might say, The
Herring's plumbing is "damn fine seldom." Which is to say, we have one
head ("toilet" to the land-bound). Its location is on the deck below
our living quarters. It is accessible only by going outside, then down
an always-wet ladder. Now, it may be a revelation too personal, and in
questionable taste, but the fact of the matter is that 73-year-old males
must on occasion arise in the dark hours and find that distant head
under threat of dampened skivvies--if you get my drift. It's okay most
nights. It is not pleasant in 40 knots of wind with waves breaking
alongside.
During my midnight excursions I cling to the hand rails of that ladder
like a slug to a zucchini. What keeps my mind focused is the certain
knowledge that if I should slip into those grey seas under, my last
breath would be just moments from when I entered the froth. Picture if
you will being afloat somehow on the red-orange molten stuff of an
erupting volcano. The deadly character of that molten super-heated
volcanic environment is identical to but opposite of what I look upon
while on my midnight excursions to Seldovia's distant head. Of course
death in the volcano would be by French-frying and in Kamishak Bay it
would be by flash-freezing. Our water temperature is quite close to 32
degrees.
Why are we still here? Why am I not going to Kodiak as I had longed to
do? First, a certain number of seiner captains still hope for a herring
opener. (They are, in a phrase, out of their minds. No one can find
herring in this weather. No tender would be willing to risk a vessel in
these seas. The transfer of the herring from the seine to the tenders'
tanks requires an alongside snuggling up of the two vessels with the
herring-filled seine carefully positioned by a tie-up between the seiner
and the tender.) Second, we might have been on our way out of
here--empty of course--had we not been struck by this gale. Two of our
sister tenders left last night only to find 60 knots of wind and 30-foot
seas in the outside. They were the Unimak, skippered by aforementioned
Swede Plancich and the Balaena, skippered by Leland Daniels. We just
heard on our radio that the weather was too much for Cap'n. Leland, even
though his vessel is substantially larger than the Herring. Leland
decided "to hide," as they say, behind Shaw Island en route to Kodiak.
Noting that this is the next to the last day of April, I asked Cap'n.
Andy why we had to suffer such weather. He said without a trace of
mirth that April is still winter here. So when is summer? "Between
July 7 and July 14," he said. Putting it another way, I say Alaska has
only two seasons--July and winter. Come on July!
I learned to my satisfaction yesterday why these daring young and old
men in their floating machines do what they do. Just last year the
seiner Captains got $2,000 a ton for their herring. Had the Lady Luck,
which caught more than 200 tons a couple of weeks ago in Prince William
Sound, caught that tonnage last year, her gross income from that
30-minute opener would have been more than $400,000. (Lady Luck, you'll
recall, transferred 112 tons of her catch to Seldovia.) Actually last
year, one seiner captured 600 tons in what is called, "one set," that is
one setting of the net. That vessel's moment of fishing brought her
captain $1,200,000. And he probably also took herring at Sitka, here,
perhaps Kodiak and certainly our next fishery, Togiak Bay. And he also
caught hundreds of tons of salmon. He became a millionaire in just one
season.
Togiak Bay is why I don't get to stop at Kodiak. While we have been
wallowing in and trying to survive the awful Kamishak troughs for more
than a week, the monster herring of Togiak have been spotted. These
herring weigh nearly a pound apiece on average, with heavy skeins of roe
to match. They are three times the size of the Sitka and Prince William
Sound fish. So, when the weather eases a little, and when our company,
Ocean Beauty, decides there can be no catch here, we will bypass Kodiak
and truly race along the south fringe of the Aleutians, then through
that archipelago at False Pass, and on north and east to Togiak Bay. It
will take six or seven days without stopping if our diesel fuel and
water suffice for the whole voyage.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Huzzah, hooray,
Adieu foul Bay
Just about 1930 hours we pulled our deeply imbedded flukes from the
mud. The Herring came fully awake. Both big Cat engines throbbed to
life and readied themselves for many days of ceaseless effort. Smiles
on each of our three faces, Andy's 'Becca's, mine. We know we face some
lumpy seas, especially as we pass Cape Douglas and Shaw Island en route
to the north shores of Kodiak Island. Cap'n Andy tells me it may get
worse as we sail through Shelikof Strait between Kodiak Island and the
Alaska Peninsula which becomes the Aleutians. The Peninsula is like a
many-syllabled sentence. The Aleutians are a prolonged ellipsis that
ends with ". . . .Russia."
Great news. My rough calculations of the distance and time to Togiak
Bay were flawed. It is a little less than 800 miles. I had estimated
1,000. Cap'n. Andy thinks we'll do better than my estimated seven
knots--more like 7.5. Thus, we will be under weigh (yes, I think
"weigh" is the better usage) for four days versus six or more. At least
we're moving. That useless, miserable time at Kamishak Bay was a Great
Depression.
Learned some seaman's lore. I learn a bit every day. The dean--nay,
the admiral--of the tender fleet is Cap'n. Leland Daniels on Balaena.
He is my age, I'd guess. He's the one who hid at Shaw Island early this
morning. He judges wind speed by the look of the sea. On the radio he
estimated wind at "at least 35 knots because I (he) saw wind streaks on
the water." Any seaman will know what he meant; the reaches of the
water between troughs look like wind prints on ripe wheat. Also, I
learned that flags unfurl at seven knots. White caps form at 12 knots.
Were Columbus or Magellan still at sea, I could help them. If that
isn't anachronistic, what is?
We're bouncing hard. It's 2215. I'll take the helm in the early
hours. Better find my bunk for a wink.
Love to all-B.
==================================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:08:26 1998
Rcpt: sarah@datapro
From: Jwa0228@aol.com
Subject: The latest from Barnacle Bill
NOTE FROM JANET
I just got three letters in one day and April writes me that she has two she
hasn't put on line yet, so there should be a flood of news from the North
Pacific within the next week. I have to confess that I broke down and cried
with disappointment when I learned that Bill will NOT be able to be here the
week of our anniversary, May 20. I've had just about enough of this
semi-widowhood. I MISS him! Imagine that! And when he writes about his
years dwildling down to a precious few I wonder why we are spending so much
of this, one of those precious few, apart. But he sounds a bit weary too,
and now faced with not getting home until after June 2, he is especially
missing all the favorite foods that he has so bravely done without. He
mentions artichokes, avacados and asparagus so longingly. I'll have an
absolulte orgy of his favorite foods when he finally comes home for his break
between seasons in June. Count on it.
===========================================================
May 9, 1997
Pederson Pt.
Off Kvichak Bay
Alaska
To Whom It May Concern,
During the long days and nights of taking herring in Togiak Bay, and racing
to unload them, I got behind in my correspondence. This letter is to try to
catch up on a few items of news.
In a recent communication I mentioned some adventures I should report, with
sadness for those involved. But lest one believe that Alaska is unyielding,
hard and excessive in its human costs, let me begin this with a happy report.
It concerns my vessel M.V. Seldovia, AKA The Herring.
As I write, with the Herring riding the pilings up and down on the big Kodiak
tides at Pederson Pt. Cannery, we are carrying our third full load of fish.
Third plus, I am delighted to say. In fact, I make our tonnage to date of
the pink, blue, silver, iridescent herring to be around 325. That means
between $70,000 and $80,000 "for the boat," another phrase for "gross
income." I think. Best herring season ever, Andy tells me. I exult for him.
$70,000 in herring with the lucrative salmon season still ahead!!
We will haul sockeye and a few chum salmon from the area beginning early
June. Then we go to Southeast Alaska - Sitka, Juneau, Petersburg, Wrangell,
Ketchikan - for kings, silvers, chums and perhaps pinks. For those
unfamiliar with Alaska's salmon offerings, king salmon are huge. They will
weigh 20 pounds each and more. Thirty and 40 pounders are not uncommon.
Kings weighing more than 100 pounds have been caught. Silvers are smaller,
feistier critters - seagoing rainbow trout in their fighting, sport-fishing
characteristics. They weigh 18 - 15 pounds. (I caught a 7-pound silver on
light trout tackle once. Took me 30 minutes to boat it. Great fun!) Chum
salmon are also known as dog salmon - because they grow in abundance and are
fed to the working husky and Malamute dogs. Pinks are the small fish that
you often see canned. Pinks are also called "humpies," because during
spawning the males get a huge, quite unsightly hump just aft of a long,
hooked snout. More than you ever wanted to know about salmon. Go ahead.
Astonish your friends with trivia.
Now, to those problems at Togiak Bay:
The first involved the seiner-gillnetter Emerald Sea. She summoned us with
what her captain said was a good "set." We tied her to our side, and just as
we were readying our pump, the three crewmen, and the captain, emitted
fulsome and emphatic language. Loudly. Seems that the breastline, which, as
reported, makes a purse of the seine by cinching closed the bottom part of
the net, had popped. Broke in two. Some of the fish began swimming away.
Don't know how many escaped. Emerald Sea's captain and crewmen and our
Rebecca risked their bodies trying to manipulate that net by hanging over the
bulwarks between the restless ships to keep fish from escaping. We saved a
few tons. We'll never know how many escaped. That isn't just a day's work
lost- plus time and expense to drive a seine boat to the grounds. The
Emerald Sea came from Kodiak.
Then, on May 4 or 5 (I was on duty so many hours I cannot recall which day
for sure) came an even sadder story. The seiner-gillnetter Ten came
alongside to deliver a small catch - 7 tons - to our tank. Her skipper
looked to be mid-20s. Smart. Hard-working, he seemed. Had the makings of a
full black beard. While I was keeping his cork lines adjusted (those being
the floats and ropes that hold the seine tops above water) the young captain
told me that the day before he and his crew had made a huge set - estimated
at 120 tons, $24,000 worth. They were close to the beach, as usual. The
seine snagged, tore open. The entire catch swam away.
A net-full of herring can actually overturn one of these small seine boats.
As the nets are pulled in, the fish become more dense. In their crowding
and thrashing to get away they will be so compact that there is no oxygen.
They will die by the thousands. That creates dead weight, which, because
the seine is attached to a high boom for hoisting, leverage can pull the boat
all the way over. That's one reason the seiners want us to unload them
quickly.
Just after we filled out the load we still have aboard, the seiner Sukoi Bay
of Homer came alongside. She was headed back to Homer and needed us to take
her big skiff to transfer to the Gulfwind next morning early. The Gulfwind
was going to Homer. We would intercept her near Constantine Point. On the
afterdeck of the Sukoi Bay was a red Piper Cub, a spotter plane. Seas were
lumpy. After we hoisted her skiff, the Sukoi Bay started backing away.
Somehow a wing on that spotter plane got caught on the big fuel tank we
carry on our afterdeck. The wing bent back, snapped its struts, engaged the
tail assembly and twisted that badly. Andy's principal specialty is
rebuilding small aircraft. He thought that spotter plane might be a total
loss. Ah, the mischief of the relentless water. We heard "No, no, no" from
the spotter plane's pilot owner on the Sukoi Bay.
Earlier in the day, during the opener that gave us our load, our VHF radio
told of yet another aircraft incident. Togiak has a small dirt runway next
to the beach. A herring plane, pilot and spotter aboard, apparently cleared
the runway on takeoff only to plunge into the bay 100 yards into its flight.
A skiff got there quickly. We heard later the people aboard were rescued.
The plane? Maybe lost.
It's Saturday, May 10
Happy Mother's Day where pertinent. It appears I can spend a few days in
Tumwater before the salmon start running. Good-O. Sarah's airline lands at
King Salmon 17 miles from Naknek. (Come save me Sarah!) By the by, because
it is the red salmon capital of the world, Naknek will soon become the site
of a kind of gold rush. This gold rush is a perennial. Naknek's year-round
population is 1,500. When the salmon come in June, the sein boats, tenders,
cannery workers engorge this homely place to at least 30,000. And they don't
even have a chamber of commerce or rotary club here to make it happen.
Love to all,
Bill
==========================================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:08:29 1998
Rcpt: sarah@datapro
From: Jwa0228@aol.com
Subject: Fwd: The latest of the adventure...a little late.
---------------------
Forwarded message:
From: April.Asbury@experian.com (April Asbury)
To: jwa0228@aol.com (Janet Asbury)
Date: 97-05-20 15:00:19 EDT
Forwarded by April Asbury, May 20, 1997. I apologize for the delay but
I didn't receive the mail right away as it was forwarded from my last
address...aa
May 6, 1997
Togiak Bay, Alaska
Dear All,
I had no idea what day it was until I looked at my calendar wrist watch
which kept the time and date for me while I wasn't sleeping.
I just survived--emphasis here--the longest sleepless 100 hours of this
extended life of mine. How so? We ran without stopping from Cook Inlet
(Kamishak Bay) as reported. Night. Day. Mostly day as the summer
solstice nears. Four days.
Almost across Bristol Bay, heading to our last herring grounds in Togiak
Bay, our several radios competed loudly for attention to the news there
would be seine fishing allowed this very evening, May 2nd. I think we
learned that at about 1830 hours with the opener expected at 2000.
Cap'n. Andy poured the diesel to our two big Cats. We had previously
chained and roped-down all our deck gear for rough seas, always
anticipated in Bristol Bay. We had to release appropriate items, hoist
our 10-inch herring suction hose and pump into place, and re-set our
"buoys", the big orange fenders we use in special places on our hull to
protect the little seine boats' bows when we come alongside to take
their fish.
None of us had had much sleep in that many days' run from Kamishak.
Though it was supposedly four hours on, eight off, it never quite works
out that way. And though I have done things at this age I never thought
possible at any age, sleeping on demand is not that easy. So I was
tired--we all were. It was to get much worse.
I chastened my inner self for hoping we might not get to the fishing
grounds in time. Then we could drop the anchor, sleep the night, and
wait for the next opener, which was sure to come in this greatest
herring fishery in Alaska.
About this Togiak Bay. Though there is a small native village of the
same name here, mostly the shoreline and landmasses are lifeless, except
for tundra. It is, for Alaska, rather flat terrain, marshy, pocked with
lakes and seamed by slow streams.
Lifeless though the beaches and lands may be, the waters are something
else. The Alaska Fish and Game Department had forecast a bio-mass
(fish-cop jargon for "lots of herring") of--get this!--120,000 tons. We
had been dealing with herring aggregations of a few thousand tons in
Prince William Sound. The quota here was for 21,000 tons versus about
3,000 in the Prince William waters.
Our Ocean Beauty command people directed us to the seiner Myra Jean.
So, we were going to take fish. I wasn't tired after all.
One problem with Togiak Bay is its shallowness. Herring spawn near the
beaches, and that's where we found the Myra Jean. In fact, she was so
close to the beach that the tender Saga, probably 400 tons, had run hard
aground trying to get abeam the Myra's frothy seine. Cap'n. Andy did a
masterful job maneuvering us between the grounded Saga and the Myra, and
getting our wallowing vessel into position to pump fish. I watched our
depth sounder. It dipped below 9 feet as we prepared to tie Myra's bow
to our midship. We draw at least eight, probably eight and a half. We
were so close to joining the Saga in immobility that our four and a
half-foot tall propellers stirred mud and sand quite visible aft.
We could see right away the Myra had a good set. The area between the
"cork line" and the Myra's hull looked like feeding time at a fish
hatchery. It was a bubbly confusion that made a continuing "shshshsh"
sound.
The Togiak fish are true kin to the Great Land. They are huge. They
average almost a pound in weight, and their roe skeins are like the big
shad skeins from the East Coast.
Andy lowered our pump, which looks like a small version of the
hydroelectric generators at Bonneville Dam.
Here came those huge fish. Into our ton box. That is the mechanism
that keeps track of tonnage as we put the fish into our tanks.
Rebecca womans the ton box by letting it fill and at the right moment
pushing a big lever that sends a ton of herring down a spillway into our
tanks. We have already put water in those tanks to ease the fall.
As the herring cascade into the ton box and then into the spillway,
transparent scales fly. Lots of them attach themselves to Rebecca's
watch cap and hair, making it appear (if you don't look too closely at
other parts of her attire) that she is wearing sparkles in her blonde
hair in preparation for the Grand Ball. One gruff deck hand on another
seine boat made the comparison with obvious approbation.
While Andy managed the pump, and Rebecca the ton box, I tied and re-tied
the cork line as the seine was adjusted to keep the fish moving toward
the pump. I did that, and made sure our fenders were properly placed to
protect Myra Jean.
The Myra's captain, also named Andy, as his wheelhouse name told me,
looked like a Sumo wrestler. Huge--from deck, aloft, beam to beam. He
smiled a lot. The big set didn't hurt his mood. Turned out to be 77
tons, which filled our two forward tanks and partially filled our big
top-deck container.
The Myra Jean carried a crew of five, including her captain and the
skiff driver. That word "skiff", by the way, can mean anything from a
tin boat with a modest outboard engine to a heavy aluminum or fiberglass
vessel with a powerful diesel inboard. Such as the latter can weigh
several tons. Skiffs are mini-tugboats. They make the sets by creating
a circle of the corked seine top and the net below. If the seiner crew
is good and lucky, it will encircle and entrap a monster school. The
entrapment becomes final when the breastline is hauled taut. The
breastline draws the bottom of the seine to closure creating the purse.
Thus the term "purse seiner."
The skiffs are also used to hold the sterns of the seine boats away from
the tenders. And in the case of the Myra Jean, since she was in such
shallow water, our Cap'n. Andy asked that she ease the seiner and us
into deeper water--which she did.
About Myra Jean's crew. Except for her skipper, they showed what seemed
Asian facial characteristics. I heard one of the men referred to as
Chang and assumed he was Korean-American. But their English was
beautifully slow and precise and their vocabulary was economical and
clear, like that of native people. Or "first nation" people, as
Canadians more appropriately call their--well, their first nation
tribes. The reporter in me prompted my asking their heritage. "We are
Aleuts," their Captain Andy said. "All of us. Including me." To which
I lied, "Well, I thought so. You are all good-looking guys. Not ugly
like those Tlingits and Haidas." The latter are tribes in the southeast
portions of the state. Laughter and approval. Big smiles. From then
on my mistakes in handling the cork lines were mostly overlooked. As
were other blunders and lack of strength.
Actually they were good-looking men. Their captain's looks, however,
would improve by several years on the Weight Watchers program.
Aleuts are dispersed throughout Alaska. When the Japanese invaded the
Aleutians, every Aleut--all--were relocated, against their will in many,
if not most cases. Our troops took over their homes, villages,
everything. When the Aleuts were allowed to return after Wold War II,
they returned to devastated islands. Only recently did they gain
federal compensation. It was modest.
The Aleuts have Russian surnames for the most part. Russians wed and
bred the Aleuts in those pre-"Sewards' folly" days of Russian occupancy
of the Great Land. Pure Aleut blood is in short supply and the language
appears to be dying.
I'll finish this chapter later--how we topped our herring load with 31
tons from the seiner Ocean Pearl, how we didn't finish our taking fish
until the early hours of the next day, how we steamed straightaway from
Togiak to the Ocean Beauty plant at Naknek, a 15-hour run. Then at
Naknek--well, later. All that plus a variety of tragedies large and
less large, as Dan Rather might say.
A veritable bag full of mail reached me in Togiak. Belated birthday
cards, letters, e-mail copies. Thank you. Thank you. You know who you
are. I cherish your words and thoughts.
Were about to drop anchor in front of Naknek Village. Herring season is
over. We're burdened with our second almost full load of fish out of
Togiak waters.
More--much more--later.
Bill, dad and grandad.
* Just how that mail reached me is a thing wondrous to contemplate.
Jet, float plane, skiff, tender, dog sled. Well, perhaps not all those
vehicles, but it's not impossible. From now on, faithful
correspondents, write me at:
M.V. Seldovia
Ocean Beauty Seafoods
Box 162
Naknek, AK 99633
====================================================================
Date: Tue, 20 May 1997 17:44:45 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: Bill's May 12 episode
Note from Janet: This installment is being forwarded on May 20, our wedding
anniversary. Bill sent a wonderful floral tribute that arrived this morning.
It is full of live, blooming plants and is crowned by a jack-in-the pulpit
nodding his head over the bounty of blossoms. So even though I am blue
without him, I am reminded of his sensitivity and generosity from the wastes
of the far waters. What's not to love?
Monday, May 12, 1997
Tied Alongside the Unimak
at Ocean Beauty Dock
Naknek River, Naknek
Alaska
You, Out There -
Can you handle more tales of the North Pacific?
We are four hours into our ebb tide. We perforce do the tide's bidding in
all things here. I just felt the Herring's skegs touch the muddy bottom.
Soon our generator must be shut down. We depend upon water under our hull
to cool all our four big diesel engines. Pipes run along our bottom planks -
a set of pipes for each engine. Pumps on each engine circulate the water
through the engine block and along those under-water pipes for cooling by the
sea water surrounding those pipes.
We are high and occasionally (weather permitting) dry every six hours in the
enormous tidal variations at Naknekin this outer reach of Bristol Bay. On a
big tide, the Herring is 30 feet higher than at low tide. If one could
instantly erect a three storey building on the tide flats at low tide, six
hours later that building would be under water.Think of the power of the tens
of thousands of square miles of water in Bristol Bay moving up and down/ in
and out.
We depend on our small (50 kilowatt) generator to ru all our electrical
apparatus. No coffee (except instant) without that generator. No video
movies. Though we will still have residually hort water between tides, we
must use it sparingly.
Those video movies are big events in this otherwise media-free life. Each
tender has a video library. Cassettes are exchanged ritualistically with
each skipper's admonition that films must be returned under threat of
keel-hauling.
A big day yesterday for this ancient mariner. I was entrusted with the
starting, stopping and maintainence of our 50 kilowatt John Deere diesel
engine and attached generator - known as a "gen-set."
Cap'n. Andy is getting ready to go south, to Auburn, WA to be with his family
for several days. I will be defacto captain. And the Herring must have
periodic infusions of "juice" for her freezers and 32-volt batteries. Those
provide our lighting at low tide.
Now, running an engine should not be complicated. It isn't. But it is
detail-intensive, especially the handling of the generator switches. There
are four switches. They must be turned off or on se The diesel motor must
run precisely at 1800 revolutions per minute to produce a 60 (not 59- or 61-)
cycle electric output. And the engines must be started and stopped within
narrow time periods re the ebbs and floods of tide. Not to do it right -
well, it's out of the question.
Andy's leaving means, perhaps, I too can leave - upon his return. Hip hip
hooray! I'm ready for a strong dose of Janet, Alex and Jacques, David,
Jul;ia and Lucy, Jim, Sarah, Blair and Blake - and I can call April and Terry
and Jeff. All my close family, you non-family readers have deduced. I hope
to be in downtown Tumwater sometime close to Janet's and my 42nd anniversary
on May 20, which coincides more or less with Lucy's 3rd birthday and Jim's
and Sarah's what, 15th anniversary?
Then there is food. Asparagus. Artichokes. Avacadoes. Fresah lettuce.
Beefsteak tomatoes. And pass the fresh fruit, please, with a side dish laden
with cheeses of all nations. With dreams such as this, can scurvy be far
behind?
Speaking of food, there are two grocery stores in Naknek. But the prices!
(C-size batteries, $4.45 for two. Potatoes, $1.26 a pound. Four and a half
small cardboard boxes of food cost $326.69. (At 50 cents a pound for red
salmon, it will take about 100 tons of nice fish just to pay for that dab of
groceries. "Dab." That's a fisherman'word. It means a small set, as in a
small catch of fish in a seine.
And speaking of fish, I figure we killed 660,000 pounds of herring during our
work in Sitka, Prince William Sound and Togiak Bay. I figure too that given
the average herring size we hauled to the factories, we did in about
1,860,000 individual fish. Can Togiak Bay and those other fish-producing
areas sustain that size annual herring massacre? The Aloaska Fish and Game
people seem to think it can. My last thought, however, as we joined the
Herring's sister tenders steaming out of Kodiak Bay - each deep in the water
with 100 or more tons of fish - my thought was, "Now dear Togiak, you can
start healing. Go back to your eons-old ways, big water. Herring fish, you
that escaped the net, rejoin your friends and family. Have your babies and
be happy." Gosh, that's sentimental, isn't it? Call me the reluctant
fisherman.
I remember how my father became similarly sentimental as his days dwindled
down to a precious few. My father, Joe Asbury by name, had once been an
ardent hunter - deer, elk, pheasants, ducks, geese, sage hens, doves. If it
walked or flew, he shot it to death. When he was my age, follow8ing his
series of heart attacks, even though he recovered and could have hunted, he
chose not to. Life - all life - became precious, he said. I'd best get off
this mordant subject; salmon season begins in five weeks, and the death toll
there will be enormous. The Herring willo take and haul salmon 24 hours a
day, I'm told. Lots of fish.
About depleting the resources of the Great Land: of our roe-techs, a
half-Samoan, half-German who lives in Kodiak and does crab fishing when he is
not testing herring for roe content, told me that the waters off Kodiak
Island once teemed with that great crustacean, the red king crab. An excess
of capitalism almost destroyed the king crab fishery. Now the Kodiak waters
are on a 15 year restoration program. There is uncertainty about whether
even 15 years will be long enough for restoration, so mindless was the greed
to take all the valuable crqab possible when crabbinbg technology became
efficiently rapacious.
My roe-tech friend was my roommate during all our Togiak Bay work. Wonderful
young man named Willy Hagedorn, from Western Samoa, that part of the Samoan
Islands not possessed by the U.S. He helped me with my deck work when he
wasn't slitting herring bellies to sort males from femailes and weighing roe.
He could heave our heavy bow hawser a long way to a small target on an
alongside seiner. I watched him and may now do better.
Willy is a case in point about Alaska workmen. Cordova was filled with
immigrants - from the Philippines, Peru, Honduras and Guatemala. Anchorage
and Kodiak have a fair number of Samoan families. These people come here
because they are willing to work in the cold and fish slime and during the
awful hours that fish work requires. At Cordova - in the middle of the night
in a snow storm - Carlos, Oscar, Martin and Miguel worked in the cold and in
the small hours to pump our Prince William Sound fish into the plant. I was
on deck, removing our hatch covers and helping a bito move their heavy gear
into place. I've never been so cold. I had four - no five- layers on my
upper body, and yet the cold stabbed me to my core. From my hispanic friends
there were pleasantries, good conversation in English and Spanish. They
liked my banter in modest Sapanish, and I liked the chance to try. Nary a
complaint from them about the cold, the work or the hours. I was to meet
Martin and Miguel here again in Naknek. They were brought her by our Ocean
Beauty company to process the Togiak herring. During that difficult
grounding and slamming into the cannery barge, Martin was on the barge deck
to handle our lines. When he saw I was having trouble heaving our midship's
spring line, he jumped on our declk, tossed it efficiently to Miguel and then
greeted me like I was his "abuelo" (grandfather). Thank you Martin. Bonifac
is his last name. He's from Lima, Peru.
I must end this effusion to catch the mail. I must end it also to prevent
April or Janet from getting E-mail cramp and eye strain.
I will end on this. Our first order of business in Naknek is a massive clean
up. There is herring roe, and other herring unmentionables everywhere.
Yesterday I was literally knee-deep in gore scraping roe, scale, etc. from
inside our watering box over which all herring pass en route to our holds.
Sight to see. Sou'wester aloft because it was raining. Grimy, scaley rain
gear on the nether parts. I worked three hours, just on that watering box,
mostly on my hands and knees. It wasn't all that unpleasant. Physical work
has its soothing quality - something I'd forgotten because editors are not
all that physical. And while I worked I palyed a dream on my mind's cassette
player. You'll be astonished, perhaps, as frankly I was. The dream was to
go to sea! In my own small sailboat out to the channel islands off Santa
Barbara, and from Mexico's Cabo San Lucas to the Bahia de Banderas in the
glittering water and warmth of the Sea of Cortez and southjeast. The best
sentence in Norman Maclean's "A River Runs Through it," is his last one: "I
am haunted by waters." I am. Why do we say "mother earth?" It should
always have been "mother sea."
My affection for you all abounds. Your letters sustain me. I read and
re-read them.
Bill, etc. etc.
======================================================================
Note to all: Dad mentions his vessel now has a cell phone "in case of
emergencies". That number is: 907 439 3678.
May 9, 1997
Anchored in Kvichak Bay, 3 miles off Naknek
There is sunshine on the riverine waters that feed this vast bay. It is
cool but welcome sunshine at 0930 as I pen these observations alone in
the galley. Captain, Rebecca still rest. As well they should.
I slept 12 hours and feel I need more. I'm grateful.
I glance from time to time at my Alaska Atlas and Gazetteer purchased
before daughters April, Sarah and I went to the outback of Baranoff
Island in Alaska's southeast. That trip deserves a chapter one day. We
hiked in mid-September, got caught in a cold, dreadfully wet storm at
nightfall, a mile from our cabin. Could not move in that treacherous
country at night. So we made a cold camp on that wet, spongy, mossy
turf called muskeg. Baranoff Island is so rugged it was difficult to
find level space even for three sleeping bags. More on that another
day. We lived. But it was a close thing.
My gazetteer (what, learned friends, is a gazetteer?) shows me that
Kvichak Bay, which protrudes NE from Bristol Bay, is at the confluence
of lots of big rivers. All are spawning places for the world's greatest
eating salmonid--the red sockeye salmon. There are the Naknek, the
Kvichak (pronounced KWEE-jack), the Egegik, Nushagak, Igushik and
Ugashik. Many more, I'm sure.
The red salmon is a small fish. Six pounds is mature average. Their
flesh is deep red color. It is rich, oily, delicious. It is the
sockeye that is preferred for lox, a kind of pickled fish--as in bagels
and lox. The Alaskans make of the sockeye fillets something called
"gravadlox" using brandy, dill and other spices for brine. I plan to
make some. Our next fish quest is the sockeye runs.
I am told (to be confirmed by experts such as salmonid specialist and
fly fisherman of note, John de Yonge) that unlike other salmon, the
sockeye do not eat flesh. They are plankton eaters. They have no
teeth. So their flesh is--well, less fishy tasting. (Cap'n. Andy tells
me to help myself to a good amount of sockeye salmon so that I can
fillet them and pack a goodly amount in one of our two large freezers.
I'll do it!)
Speaking of words, when anything is full, the fishermen say it is
"plugged"--as in a "plugged" freezer, net, fish tank, even cannery when
it is backed up with fish. And the word up here for "tourist" in towns
such as Homer where tourists come to catch halibut on charter boats--the
word for "tourist" there is "puker." Lovely.
About the sockeye I will take, let me be clear that we won't cheat the
fishermen. The fish we take will have been weighed and credited.
Still, the price for us will be only 60-70 cents a pound. "Go figure,"
as my grandkids might say. $6-7 in market, and not very fresh there.
So, herring season is over for us. Well, almost. Just got the word
that we will unload tonight at high tide at Pederson Point, NW of
Naknek. Oh, I'll not be sorry to see our monster Togiak herring go into
the cannery. They have spawned all over the Seldovia. I must help
scrub that spawn off all our equipment, decks and our three
container-sized tanks. You should see me, folks. My yellow rain gear
is hopelessly dirty, but still functional. I wear it, and a green
sou'wester, my xtra-tuf sea boots and orange neoprene gloves. The
individual herring eggs pop when we scrape them with wide putty knives.
The popped eggs exude a salty liquid which oft squirts into my eyes.
And what title did I give myself for this work? "Executive officer,"
said I. Hah. I am now simply "deck hand," euphemistically; "deck ape,"
honestly.
At the moment I am most likely the oldest deck hand in the tender
fleet. The word is out out there that I was once editor of the Seattle
Post-Intelligencer, newspaper of choice for the Seattle-based tender
crews. Once upon a time, my beloved P-I covered Alaska and had same-day
delivery in many Alaska towns and villages.
Well, about my journalism background. It gets two kinds of responses.
The first is an unbelieving "yeah, sure." The second, more common but
unsaid, is, "yeah, but can you tie a bowline with an iced up
inch-and-a-half line, and do you know to avoid tying half-hitches on a
cleat with a hawser?" The answer to the first is, "maybe," to the
second, "I now know." Any knot--even a hitch--on a cleated mooring line
will jam so hard it will have to be cut to be released. That laid
hawser costs maybe $2 a foot, probably more.
I promised more information about that final Togiak Bay series of
openers. Yes, we got our full load from the Myra Jean and Ocean Pearl
seines. We raced from the grounds to Naknek where Ocean Beauty has a
cannery. We were by sheer good luck the first Ocean Beauty tender to
get a load at Togiak and the first boat of the season at Naknek.
Andy expressed his passionate hope that we could catch a good tide and
unload quickly and return for a second load--to be worth in total about
$45,000 "to the boat," as they say. The gods of moving water had other
plans for us--lamentably.
Kvichak Bay is shallow. The tides are large up here anyway, but the
shallow water makes the water move swiftly. As I write we are anchored
out. At full ebb or flood, we joke that we wish we had water skis. We
could ski in the current. More precisely, it is--for Washington State
readers--like being anchored at the center of Deception Pass or the
Tacoma Narrows during a big flood tide.
So, on May 3, I think it was, we pulled the anchor after waiting an hour
for higher water. We hadn't waited long enough. Andy eased us into the
rather narrow mouth of the Naknek--one eye on the charts' shallow
readings in feet, not fathoms; the other eye on the depth sounder.
A bit of perspective may be in order here. In the U.S. Navy, a captain
who grounds his vessel may as well turn in his resignation. End of
naval career. You've heard the expression "A collision at sea can ruin
your whole day." Groundings. Collisions. All the same. In the Navy a
skipper's professional life as a sea-going officer is over. So
groundings, on principle, are to be avoided by all who drive ships, no
less than collisions.
The above said, as the barge we headed for--the barge with two big fish
pumps aboard--loomed to our port side, bump! Not a big bump, but a
grounding nonetheless. Our wake showed color but we floated free. Andy
still had to make a full 180 degree turn to port, so we would be
starboard to the barge. Current appeared to me to be at least seven
knots. This maneuver would put us bow-to the racing current, as need
be.
Then, a scare. We were probably 30 degrees off perpendicular easing
forward, on a good angle to toss a bow line to the bargemen...
(Dad asked I bold or italicize the following but the Internet doesn't
support that yet so I've just blocked it off... The suspense is killing
me! April)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hold on, here. Call on VHF Channel 16, the emergency channel. "Man
overboard" reported three quarters of a mile ahead of us, current our
way. We are nearest vessel. The seiner El Dorado out of Astoria, OR
lost a man they think at about 1400. It was 1530 when we were alerted.
Current--fast as reported. Water temp, 39 degrees. One hour and a half
in water. Andy grabbed his binoculars; I, mine. Searched hard. It's a
very close, very personal thing. No one would say it. All knew. We
were searching for a corpse. The cold had won again. Four-engine Coast
Guard plane circles overhead. A rescue helicopter chops the air around
us. We, and several other vessels, zigzagged in area where El Dorado
was anchored and where possibly the body would have floated. There will
be a new young name, in raised bronze letters on a fishermen's memorial
somewhere. "Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the
sea."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
Still May 9. We just tied up to the pilings at the Pedersen Point
Cannery. Cannery boss said he would take our fish at 0400. So I must
be up at that hour--again. Whatever happened to the 8-hour day, the
40-hour week, 8 hours of sleep?
Back to our approach to the Naknek barge, at Naknek cannery: at an
altitude of 30 degrees off fore and aft line of barge, I heard the awful
crunch. Then I heard Andy shout at Rebecca who was on the bow line--I
couldn't hear what he said, but I knew what he wanted. And I knew what
happened. We are deeper aft than forward, of course. Our skegs--two
keel-like protrusions--and our screws hit bottom and held our stern.
The current caught our bow. It was thrown with a crunch and shudder
against the black iron. Nothing Andy could do. We were, however, on a
flood tide. In moments our stern lifted. We had our bow tied to the
barge cleat. And soon we secured stern and spring lines (a "springer"
being a midship line for security.) That whole mess probably involved
hundreds and hundreds of tons of force as the current moved us into that
pig-iron barge.
Looking for a mailbox.
More Avon. Affectionately. Me.
=======================================================================
Naknek, Alaska
May 14, 1997
Dear People,
A long night is in prospect, I fear. After a lovely quiet day yesterday, and
my second meal away from the Herring's galley in two months, this mid-morning
opened with a whoosh: Our rigging had to be tightened down - the rigging
being the lines cables, blocks and booms that control our hoisting machinery.
We had been tied either to the M. V. Unmiak, Swede Planich's scow, or to the
M. V. Rolfy, an Ocean Beauty-owned tender skippered by Mike and his wife
Trish (last names often hard to come by out here.)
About 1100 the Unimak moved into the increasing, windy turbulence of the
Naknek River. We were tied to Rolfy, double hawsers at bow and stern, and
double spring-lines as well. Wind was 35 knots and building. Cap'n. Andy
decided to get us out into the stream, because of the pounding the Rolfy and
the Herring were inflicting on one another.
It is now 1700 hours. Wind just registered 50 on our anemometer. That's
close to 60 statute miles an hour. Sea is wind-streaked. There is
spindrift. It is very cold in the galley. The old Herring has fought this
weather for 53 years.The eroded insulation around her ports and hatches is no
match for the penetrating wind chill. The Seldovia's history includs, I
find, service to and around Point Barrow, Alaska's northernmost point.
Probably lost her airtight qualities there.
We are anchored on the far side of the river, just west of South Naknek, a
small collection of pre-fab dwellings and tin buildings that serve the
canneries on this side of the river. We dropped the anchor in about 30 feet
of water at a near high tide . Low tide is a few minutes away. Today's low
is a "hold up tide" meaning it doesn't drop to zero or minus water.
Both Unimak and Rolfy had been tied to the Ocean Beauty cannery docks. One
problem in remaining there was that the combined forces of wind, waves and
river current might easily snap one of the heavy pilings at dockside. The
rule is: break a piling, pay the $3,000 replacement cost. Last year the
Herring broke three.
So here we lie. The weather forecast is for gales through Sunday. We'll
doubtless have round-the-clock anchor watchers tonight.
Aboiut this Naknek. Desolation sort of covers the subject. Aggressive
desolation is a better term. There are no trees. There are no mountains.
There are no high points. There is tundra. Oh there is some brushy growth
here and there of what appears to be a great effort by scrubby twigs to
become either birches or alders.
Freezers in the dwellings - such as the dwellings are - are filled mostly
with moose and caribou. Downtown Naknek is two bars, a hotel and restaurant
where we dined last evening, two grocery stores, the ubiquitous NAPA auto
parts store and a liquor store. Soon 30,000 fishermen will converge and
convene here.
Naknek and South Naknek - not to be conbfused with Chicago and South Chicago
,
Boston or South Boston - are connected only by what I'll call Air Naknek.
You see, there is no dependable way across the river. Not enough depth for
ferries except briefly during the day's two high tides. So a little Piper
Cherokee Six (for six seats) goes back and forth during daylight hours to and
from the dirt strips on either side of the river. It can't be further than
500 yards across the river. Thus Air Naknek may have the shortest routes of
any airlines anywhere. No flights today in this wind.
Just confirmed by the captain. We will have anchor watches tonight. There
goes my chance for a full night's rest. But salmon won't run for a full five
weeks, so maybe the wind will ease during somne of those 35 days. And, great
news: I WILL get a chance to leave Naknek for King Salmon for a few days in
Tumwater come June 2. The captain has his own reservationsto leave for
nearly two weeks this coming May 19. He is, however, disturbed by this
weather. Can he leave the Herring in my charge in conditions such as these?
I'll answer "no." I could, in a pinch, move the ship from here to there in
normal waters, easier conditions. And I could drive her in any conditions in
a real emergency. Maybe do that and live to scribble about it. But to quote
Bartleby the Scrivner in Melville's story of that name, "I would prefer not."
Bulletin: Swede just hailed Andy on our ship-to-ship channel. He heard a
forecast for 90 knot winds at Kodiak, "only" 50 knots at Naknek.
TWO DAYS LATER - May 16
Stood my midnight to 0400 anchor watch yesterday. It snowed. Wind hit
various high marks - spindrift again. The Unimak and Rolfy had joined us in
the river channel. All the scows spun the night away on their anchor chains.
We caught the morning tide as soon as the wind eased to 10. Tied up at the
pilings at the Ocean Beauty Cannery. Captain let me start each of our big
Cat diesels. Gave me a good feeling that in a bad situation I could take us
out of harm's way, I believe.
Speaking of harm's way, one of your cherished correspondents told Janet that
my coming here is surely a suicide plan. Nay. Tis the opposite. I've
mentioned my exhuberance about the waters, however mean. Oh, sure, I've had
days and nights (that anchor watch yesterday was one) when I have had to
handle the time in the way of the Twelve-Step programs. "Let me get through
these twenty-four hours." But upon a night's rest - or even a few hours - I
resume that other planet feeling, that fascination with what is new to these
old eyes.
Then there is my physical self, if you will allow me. I started this quest
of the other world of Alaska with all the body weakness that 50 years of desk
work imposed. My first physical fright was in Sitka where I had to climb a
high iron ladder in a snow storm. That was at the fuel dock, at low tide. I
had to go hand over hand up to a very slippery landing. Fifty feet ? Maybe.
Well, now I can scramble up an even higher, wobbly ladder without much fear
at all. Oh, I'm respectful of both the threat and my antiquity. But with
care and focus (and not looking down) I feel no fright. My arm and chest
muscles are taut, strong.
However, One of the few newspapers I've seen carried these ominous
statistics:
Alaska has the highest death rate from accidents every year. The
occupational death rate from accidents is five times the average in the lower
48 plus Hawaii. The death by fire rate is likewise five times the U.S.
average. And the fire injury rate is more than double the national average.
It's not difficult to understand the whys of these morbid numbers. The two
most hazardous jobs are commercial fishing and logging. As for fires, let's
ponder Naknek's winters - 30 below zero with minus 70 windchill night after
long night. Takes big fires to stay alive. Then there is alcoholism.
Alaska's alcoholism is most certainly the highest in the nation, perhaps
equalling that of Russia. One reason demon rum takes such a toll here is the
large percentage of First Nation people. There existed for these natives of
Alaska no barley or hops or beer, no sloe berries for gin. no corn for
bourbon or venefre grapes for wine. Thus when the Europeans arrived with
their beverage alcohol, it was instant addiction. Whole villages were wiped
out by alcoholism. They are still being devastated.
And now? Not surprisingly Alaska has the highest rate of death on snow
machines. And about half of them are from drunk snow machine driving.
Unreported as a generality, prohibition has come to Alaska. (and British
Columbia) in a big way. Many First Nation leaders created dry - completely
dry - villages. Story in recent days up here was about how a young man
tried to smuggle lots of alcoholic beverages into a village where prohibition
had been declared. His penalty will be severe.
A problem in acquiring ship's crews is finding those without alcohol and
other drug problems. Andy had a deck hand on the Seldovia a few years ago
who had his problem manifest itself right here in Naknek. The hand went to
one or both of Naknek's bars, the Fisherman and the Red Dog. Got "wasted, "
as they say. Decided it would be fun to hijack Naknek's only tow truck. The
truck owner demurred. In an ensuimg scuffle Naknek's Finest were summoned.
Andy delivered his hand's personal effects to the jail to end the
relationship. Sobriety is cherished in a crew.
On a sister tender, the Dagney, one of the crew was returning late at night
after several too many. In traversing one of the aforementioned high, cold,
wet ladders from dock to deck, the hand lost his grip. They found his broken
body on deck the following morning. He was dead.
It's a hard land - with waters to match. Best to stay clean and sober.
So, I'll be home in (Let me count the days) 17. And then I hope to talk
Janet in to coming back with me for a few days before the red salmon start
travelling into the rivers.
Yesterday was sunny. Today is overcast but warmish - in the 50's I guess.
Got a bit of sun on my face from a long day of unloading our herring gear
and scrubbing eggs, eyes, scales. Call that work, "the herring's revenge."
Despite the two days of good weather, I found myself harkening to this:
I should like to rise and go
Where the golden apples grow -
Where below another sky
Parrot islands anchored lie.
And, watched by cockatoos and goats,
Lonely Crusoes building boats.
I think that is from a poem called "Travel," by Robert Louis sStevenson.
I miss all of you. I thank you - sop many - for letters forwarded from
Cordova. I'll write individually when my deck work is finished.
Ever yours. Bill
====================================================================
May 18, 1997
Naknek
Bristol Bay Burrough
Alaska
Dear Forks,
That's how a cherished Japanese friend begins his annual Christmas letter.
Trying last evening to watch the video of "Lone Star," which son David sent
me, the sound track was overwhelmed by bird sounds. When the tide completes
its ebbing, there is a vast sandbar between Herring and the Naknek River.
And imprinted on that bar are tide pools.
Well, it's rutting season for the Bristol Bay seagulls. Spring and warmth
are brief. Rut when you can, they have perforce decided, these snowy gulls.
There is nothing noisier, I've discovered, than a seagull in heat. What is
remarkable is that gulls by the hundreds convene in one tidal pool or another
to pounce on one another. It's an orgy.
At the perimeter of this racous assembly, the eagles look on in splendor and
disdain, white manes fluttering in the breeze, quite unwilling, it would
seem, to admit any kinship with the shamless gulls.
I love to watch the eagles walk. Their drumsticks are heavily feathered to
their knees. They give the impression of being 17th century lords and ladies
in knee britches and pantaloons. And their movements are graceful, slow,
deliberate, well - lordly, to the manner born. They make us fisherfolk seem
like vulgar peasants.
Left to its own possibilities, nature produces its beauty and grace
everywhere, even on the cold Sahara of the Bristol Bay shores.
Yours,
Bill
===========================================================================
Saturday, May 17th, 1997
Naknek (ahem)-by-the-Sea
Alaska
One and All--
A big day for the Elderly Salt. My mailbox runnethed over! CommuniquÈs
from Laton Holmgren, Mary Ward, Lee & Carol Ward, Gail Ratley, Ward
Hower, Jim & Sarah Sherman, Ellen Asbury, David Asbury, Jacques
Michel--thank you so very much. All were forwarded from Cordova. From
now until further notice, use my Naknek address. Oh, yes, letters and
copies of e-mail items from Carl Trendler, Al Gunther and John de
Yonge. I'm grateful.
One of our sister tenders, the Cailie, has a computer and cellular phone
hookup. Her skipper, Pat Leaky of Everett, WA, transmits his own e-mail
via cell phone. Somehow I find that amount of electronic
civilization--well uncivilized. Why come this close to the north pole
only to be connected?
Today the Seattle Supersonics were to play the Houston Rockets in a
divisional basketball championship game. I wanted to see it--the
seventh and deciding contest. So I walked the mile or so to downtown
Naknek. And, by the way, my previous report about Naknek's commercial
activity was erroneous. The "town" does not have two bars and two
liquor stores. It has three of each. It's the only business with three
of anything. So I tried all three bars looking for that Sonics game.
"Cable is out," each barmaid reported. "Trouble at the graveyard." I'm
guessing that a gravedigger chopped the cable.
Other fishermen came into Hadfield's Bar and Liquor Emporium likewise
looking for the game. It might be seen in King Salmon, 17 miles up the
Naknek River we were told. I hitched a ride with Charlie Gordon who
owns the gill-netter Equinox out of Seattle. Tim Smedberg, a deck hand
on the Equinox, was with us. He's from Denver, in his 7th Bristol Bay
season.
We raced to King Salmon, to the King Ko Inn, where they had a big
screen. All was good, except the Sonics lost.
I learned from the Equinox deck hand, Tim, how some of the fishermen
manage to survive the beyond-rigorous conditions during the summer of
18-20,-24 hour fishing days. They work only six month. They play six
months. Here's how it works. Aboard the seiners, gill-netters and
tenders, all expenses are paid. Unless one is a drinker, not much to
spend on. So at seasons' end, there will be a good-sized lump sum
payoff. These exhausted sailors head for the beaches of warm, low-cost
places. Favorite destinations are Honduras, Thailand and Mexico. Then
it's six months of tequila or Thai beer with muchachas and dancing girls
to hold their hands, then back to the hazards, the cold and the
relentless work of the North Pacific come March. Then the cycle
repeats.
Crabbers do even better. Or, much worse, depending on one's
perspective. Awhile back I met a young crabber on a flight from Dutch
Harbor (on Unalaska Island in the mid-Aleutians) to Anchorage. He had a
check in his pocket for $63,000. He was 23. He had worked only 100
days. But what days! He was fishing for opilio, Latin, I believe, for
snow crab. Big market in Japan for opilio. Well, the 100-day season
for snow crab is smack in the middle of winter--December into March.
The sea conditions, the cold, are of catastrophic quality. I recently
saw pictures of crab boats at work. They were encrusted with that heavy
rime of wind-driven saltchuck. A major threat to those crabbers is that
their vessels will turn turtle from too much ice above the water line.
The crab pots (traps) they use at Dutch, as it is abbreviated, weigh 700
lbs. each. They are hoisted by hydraulic gear and dropped with an
anchor at the nether end, and a long line tied to a buoy for retrieval.
Reason my young acquaintance made so much was that his share of the
catch increased by circumstances fortuitous for him, not for his
shipmates. First, a senior hand got drunk and was fired. My young
friend moved to his bigger percentage. Then the next crabber up the
line had one of those one-third-ton pots fall on and shatter a leg. My
acquaintance moved to yet a higher percentage. My take on all this is
that the last sober man left standing on deck gets rich.
It is May 18 as I continue. Cap'n. Andy departs early tomorrow for a
couple weeks in Seattle with his wife, Mary Lou, and daughter, Summer
Ann, 20 months. I am glad for Andy. I have never met a harder working,
more decent fellow. And my happiness perhaps equals his that he has had
such a good season with herring.
Come salmon season, about June 25, the Seldovia goes on contract with
the Ocean Beauty Company. That means she gets so many hundreds of
dollars a day for tendering, regardless of the amount of salmon she
hauls.
I'm told that the salmon time is frenetic. First, there are not just
brief "openers" as with herring. After several 12-hour openers,
gillnetting for salmon is 24 hours a day. The Seldovia becomes big
momma to a fleet of gill-netters, all small boats, not exceeding 32 feet
in length by Alaska law. More on the why of that length in a moment.
I am told that at almost any time of day or night during salmon, we will
have gillnet boats alongside and a string of them tied at our stern,
fore and aft in the current. You see, not only do we take their fish,
delivered in braillers (big net-like bags) but we also sell diesel fuel
and gasoline, candy bars, cheese, canned goods and soda pop. And we
provide showers and make available our washer and dryer to these tired
men and women soaked in the juices of fish. Of course, our crew (we
will soon be four with the addition of Bryan Serles, a mechanic-engineer
of great skill out of Seattle) works as long as there is a boat to be
unloaded or tendered. Lots of 24-hour days, they say, with 3-hour naps
if lucky.
About the 32-foot rule for gillnet vessels. The first gillnetting done
up here was, of course, accomplished by sailing vessels. The big
dories, with one large sail on a modified gaff rig, were hauled up here
from San Francisco or Seattle on the decks of sailing ships. Thirty-two
feet was a convenient length for deck stowage. I'm guessing here, but
it is possible that the minimum space between masts on a 3-masted square
rigger of the kind that sailed through the West Coast storms to get here
was 32 feet. When wise fish administrators finally learned that,
however abundant, Alaska's fish are not infinite, the 32-foot rule was
imposed to control the size of catches.
Perhaps one day Alaska--and the world--will outlaw mammoth factory
trawlers that drag the bottom of the sea to take one marine species or
another. In the process, the entire seafood productivity of thousands
of square miles of sea is lost for years.
About those gillnet dories. They are called Bristol Bay gill-netters.
They are wooden, of course. Double enders. Wide of beam. Double sets
of oarlocks. And what a thrill I felt yesterday. For me it was like
coming upon the Mona Lisa and Michelangelo's David undiscovered in a
dusty warehouse. Coming back from King Salmon, next to a driveway, were
the almost complete remains of an ancient gill-netter. How I would love
to bring her back to life, put a cuddy on her, and sail her from here to
there.
What is gillnetting, some desert dwellers may ask. The term is largely
self-explanatory, perhaps. The boats put a weighted net of specified
length into the water, usually in or near a river. The net mesh is of a
size to capture a salmon's head, but not to allow it to retreat. It is
held by its gills which become like barbs. Once the net has captured an
adequate number of fish, it is hauled back aboard. The fish are then
shaken or pulled out of the net--by hand--into the braillers in
1,000-pound or greater amounts. Then we will haul the wiggly mess--100
tons at a time--to the cannery.
Oh, yes. There's another lovely part of handling salmon. Up here at
the Naknek, Egegik, Kvichak and Nushagak river systems, some chum or dog
salmon run at the same time as the reds. We--the faithful crew of the
herring--must separate the dogs from the reds, by hand, on a rolling
deck. How I look forward to that. Day at a time, old chap. Day at a
time.
Swede just called. Wind drove him to the middle of the river again
yesterday. His call was to say he heard a storm warning--winds of 48-55
knots. Well, we're tied to the barge which is tied to the pilings.
Andy and 'Becca spliced several new hawsers yesterday while I watched
the game. So we're tied up with double lines everywhere. We'll hold
our ground unless the river roils to surfing quality.
Meanwhile, I'm seeing something here of historic quality. What is all
this work about? What I'm seeing, I think, is the last of the
hunter-gatherers. Isn't that how the anthropologists describe those who
live directly from nature's resources? Where else does it happen.
Andy summons with a "to-do" list. 'Becca and I will work at scaling
rusted bulwarks and painting them and decks and engine room while Andy
is away. But, good-oh, I'll get paid $50 a day for that. I haven't
said aloud--nor will I--that once upon a time I made that much in an
hour. (Doubtless didn't deserve the latter any more than I'll deserve
the former.)
Yes, the work can be hard. I've rather firmly decided I won't do this
for more than two or three more seasons.
Happiness to all of you.
Bill, etc.
========================================================================
Janet Speaking:
I had a telephone message on my answering machine last night from Bill,
saying he is coming home in a wheelchair! He was apparently injured when a
"Bull Rail" sprang back and hit him hard in the right thigh. He cannot walk,
though there is no broken bone. Apparently some large muscles were crushed.
He couldn't vacate the Seldovia by climbing a ladder, as is usual, so they
brought in a crane to haul him up to the ambulance. He was trying to get on
a plane from Anchorage today, but was uncertain, as the flights are so full
of leaving herring fishermen and arriving salmon fishermen. It sounds like
his adventure is over. The leg is supposed to take three weeks to heal.
He sounded bouyant in the answering machine message, and so I presume his
spirits are okay. I'll let him send the next communication when he gets
home, perhaps sometime today, and perhaps later.
He's given us all a good ride with him, and this ignominious defeat is
something I know he can take in stride.
Thanks to all of you for your letters of support to him. Gratefully,
Janet
======================================================================
May 19, 1997
Naknek, Alaska
At the Ocean Beauty Dock Barge
Dear Family and Friends,
Relentless. That is the only word I conjure to describe the Bristol Bay
weather. I’m weary-weary of reciting the condition of the sea and the
persistence of the wind. And, most likely, you are either weary of my
telling of it, or disbelieving. I can understand either point of view.
I had perhaps three hours of bumpy sleep last night. The rest of the
time I was watching and listening helplessly as the Herring bounced off
the bottom during descending tides or pounded against our tie-up barge
at higher water. I was on the bridge with the captain from 0130 to 0430
when he turned in for a half hour nap. Then I was there alone until he
relieved me.
Our anemometer registered 60 knots at one point. Swede on the Unimak
called at about 0200 to say his wind indicator had touched 70. He is
anchored in the stream, where we wished we had been.
Sustained winds of 64 or higher are of hurricane force. Winds 56 and
above are classed “violent storm.” Those were our conditions.
Andy was already peering at the terrible sea when I gave up on sleep a
little before 0130. He had a dreadful decision to make. I felt sorry
for him. I must admit I felt concern for ‘Becca and me. The decision
involved two choices: stay tied to the barge and risk “killing the
boat,” as Andy phrased it. Or try to pull away from the tied up barge
while we still had enough water beneath us. Then find some depth, and
anchor. The killing of the boat would come if the wind created waves
big enough and steep enough to lift us high, then drop our 200 tons hard
on the bottom. Seams could give way, or worse. However thick and
durable, Seldovia’s planks might break.
As for trying to pull away, to find anchorage, at 0200 we didn’t yet
have that option. The wind and the tidal current just then conspired to
virtually meld us to our tie-up barge. That barge was tied to the
pilings. Even our dual Caterpillar propulsion system, powerful as it
is, would be no match for the pressures of wind and water abeam.
Andy declared 0230 as his decision moment. Tidal current would be more
favorable then. He seemed to favor leaving the tie-up. That’s when
concern for Rebecca and me held a certain sway. Could we scramble up
the cold, wet ladders to free two of our lines which were tied to the
dock over the barge? Could we remain afoot in hurricane gusts on that
deck sluiced repeatedly with cold froth? And then there was the matter
of anchoring. We would probably have to be at the forecastle for a long
period while the captain found a hole in these shallow waters. Could we
take that exposure? Well, let’s be more forthright. Could *I* take
it? Rebecca just turned 20 and is very strong.
Apprehension started building in your “fearless” correspondent. I began
preparing myself, quite sure that Andy would take the somewhat safer
course for the Herring and try to pull away. I looked repeatedly at
that ladder from the barge to the dock. I readied my body for that
ascent in those conditions. I imagined freeing those hawsers, to the
dock, and loosing the several heavy lines secured from Seldovia to bits
and cleats on the barge. Then I projected my mind to the process, in
that sea, that wind, of anchoring. I prayed, not to be spared the deck
work in this violent storm, but to be capable if needed. It helped.
Andy never spares me, never favors me. I’m grateful for that.
I hoped Andy would keep us where we were. It was a narrow thing--a 51%
kind of decision. He radioed Mike on the Rolfy which was tied to
another barge a scow’s length ahead of us. Mike indicated he would keep
to his moorage and that helped Andy. Mike is a good seaman. 0230 came
and went. As did 0315. I felt better until the wind seemed to gain
force. Andy looked at our sonar (shallow) and said we might still have
to go out to the anchorage. I remained prepared to do that.
Well, we stayed. Hearts in mouth. The tide was ebbing. Soon we would
go through that fearsome transition where we float free on the crests,
and--thunk!--smash our skegs on the bottom in the troughs. It was a
noisy night. But we apparently have not broken anything. I’ll go below
soon to see.
The very bottom of our skegs, by the way, carries a remarkable
planking. That bottom-most piece is called a “bugshoe.” Our two
bugshoes are eight inches wide, two inches thick, and as long as our
skegs. A skeg is a fore-and-aft protrusion along the hull bottom. It
helps protect propellers, udders and the hull itself. What is
remarkable about our bugshoes is they are made of “ironbark.” I have a
4-inch long piece in front of me. It probably weighs 5 lbs. We use
that piece to hold down our stack of (days old) periodicals. I think it
is ironwood. Very dense. So heavy it will sink though, indeed, it is
wood, a tropical variety, I would guess. We have smaller--1 x 4s, I’d
guess--ironbark planks secured vertically starting from our stem to
perhaps eight feet aft.
I am alone at the galley table as I write. This galley table is our
universe. I am alone because the skipper left at 0930 to catch a flight
from King Salmon to Seattle via Anchorage He will have 13 days with his
family. Rebecca has gone to be with a friend. Being an Alaska woman,
Rebecca has friends everywhere up here.
Andy left the boat with obvious apprehension. Unhappily, the mean gods
of wind and water, who had at least taken a brief break at dawn, awoke
just as Andy climbed the ladder. I secured a long line to his suitcase
which he hauled aloft.
“If Swede offers to tow you out (into the stream), take him up on it,”
he shouted into the wind.
I gave him all kinds of assurances. I had reviewed procedures last
night for firing up our four big engines, the two Cats for propulsion,
the two John Deeres’ which together can produce 130 kilowatts of
electricity for running hoists, anchor winches, freezers, battery
charger, everything electrical.
So responsibility is my lot again. I got the generator going as soon as
the water was beneath us for cooling this morning. I prepared and
reviewed notes on procedures for getting the propellers turning--if I
must.
We rise and fall in a still-strong wind. I have deliberately not looked
at our wind gauge. Sufficient unto the moment is the wind thereof. Let
me be surprised to find afternoon zephyrs.
Your friend and father and grandfather--Bill
P.S.: In last nights’ climatic onslaught, I pondered again and again
what it must have been like for those fishermen on sail-driven Bristol
Bay gillnetters to work their nets in these waters. They had no gear,
no hydraulic hoists, no engines. No electronics. They hauled their
heavy, fish-filled nets into those wooden boats by hand. The sea must
have been work enough. Then to catch and haul tons of red salmon? Yes,
I have learned to imagine the possibility of it. Obviously it *was*
done under sail--right up until about 1960, Andy tells me. I met a man
about my age in Wrangell, way down in SE Alaska, who had sailed those
gillnet boats. I had to drag the memories from him.
Southeast Alaska seems like the tropics to me now, with kindly waters.
Of course, I know it is a relative thing, and my memories of
“southeast,” as it is called, include some busy times at the helm of our
sailboat, Scrimshaw. Remember that 12-hour-long thumping we took, on
working jib only, 40 knots of wind, 14-foot seas in the Dixon Entrance
from the Misty Fjords to Ketchikan? My question is for son Jeff and
daughter Sarah who were with me. I was at the helm with a broken leg, I
was soon to learn. (Now I don’t know who Mr. Dixon was. I do know he
made a lousy entrance, that open sea that leads to Prince Ruppert to the
SE and to the Tongass Narrows and Ketchikan to the NE.)
A final note for today. Last evening’s weather report told of 30-foot
seas a few miles from our moorage here and 50-foot seas south of the
Aleutians and of False Pass. I got Andy to concede he would tie up at
the False Pass dock rather than go out in these kinds of waters. Whew!
Bill
=====================================================================
May 29, 1997
BUNKHOUSE
Ocean Beauty Cannery
Naknek, Alaska
Dear Correspondents,
The greeting above seems right. So many of you have the kindness of writing
to me. Many letters have come directly to Naknek. Some have been forwarded
from Cordova. Other messages have gone by E-mail to Janet. She has
forwarded them. Thank you all. I shall respond individually in time.
Please note the heading above. Last night was my first night away from the
Old Herring in 75 days. Likely this will be my last communique from M. V.
Seldovia and from Naknek for awhile. It will not, be assured, the last
chapter on Alaska. I have much more to say when I get to my notes which were
scribbled in various conditions of exhaustion and jubilation.
As I write, I lie abed in the cannery bunkhouse. Let's call it Cannery Row,
for it is a corridor in a long mobile home with rooms on either side.
Why am I not aboard the Herring? Janet has told you the essence.
This ordinary seaman made an extraordinary mistake of seamanship. I was hurt
as a consequence.
If you will tolerate some detail, read on. As reported, Seldovia had been
moored alongside a leaky cannery barge. The winter's ice had raked and
rippled the seaward side. It emptied itself like a huge watering can at
every low tide, and filled again at high water. So this hulk, to be used in
a few weeks as a platform for the big pumps that will suck sockeye salmon
from Seldovia and other tenders, had to be beached so Kodiak Al and Kevin,
Ocean Beauty engineers, could weld steel patches into place.
So while the nameless barge was towed to the beach, Unimak and Seldovia
steamed side by side into the stream. We returned to the tricky and
laborious tie-up at the cannery's pilings which support the dock. Seldovia's
crew (that's me) had to do the piling tie-ups. Unimak tied to us.
The problem with pilings is that with our 20-to-30-foot tidal variations
Seldovia's mooring lines had to be tended and adjusted, especially at low
water. Keep in mind we "went dry" as they say, twice a day.
Since we were on a river bank, Seldovia's hull canted steeply when the water
drained away. That, of course, put tremendous strain on our several mooring
lines, expecially the two short lines amidship. They are called spring
lines, or simply "springers." Those lines had to be loosened at the right
time. Not to do so would be to risk snapping a piling. The cost to the ship
is $3,000 for each piling broken.
I loosened our aft-most springer. But the more forward one - an
inch-and-a-half hawser - was rock hard, it was so taut. It was not secured
to a deck cleat but to a cleat behaind a hawse hole on the bulwarks, the
above-deck siding of the vessel..
Here's where my poor seamanship hurt me.
I had just painted fresh tar to seal the part of the deck nearest that
bulwark cleat that needed untying. So when I eased the tension, I was
standing on the un-tarred steel flange right next to the bulwarks, which has
a heavy tubular rail at its top. I had not noticed that the Old Herring's
450,000 lbs. had bowed that starboard bulwark and rail like a giant leaf
spring. I removed one wrap after another of that cleated line. As I came to
the final wrap, that rail and bulwark sprung loose with awesome force. The
old Herring made a deep twanging sound. And I felt a heavy blow to my upper
right thigh. I should have stood far back and gently shaken the bitter end
of the hawser until that final wrap gave way.
(I continue to write between planes at the Anchorage Airport. After nearly
three months of living with unsavory fishermen, I am looking as I write at
men and women who probably bathed, shampooed and combed their hair this very
day.)
Back to my wounding. Rebecca was doing some painting just aft of where I
worked. She felt and heard the sudden release of tension.. She saw me lean
against the rail in apparent discomfort. "You all right?"
"Sure," I said, convinced that I was. "Just give me a moment."
In that moment, my leg failed to hold me and I went down. I feared I had
broken a femur, that big thigh bone, or a hip, or both.
'Becca summoned Swede and also the Ocean Beauty dock crew. The latter
included Doug (failed to get a surname), the former fire chief of Stanwood,
Washington. I lived in Stanwood when I was 2. My father owned the weekly
Stanwood News.
As a fireman, Doug was a highly skilled emergency medical technician. He
sctrambled down the high ladder, lay me flat on deck and called for the
Naknek ambulance.
So far so good. But how was I going to ascend to the top of that dock, a
veritable Everest from where I lay! I had tried to climb, right after the
trauama, but I couldn't raise my leg at all.
What happened in the ensuing minutes was fairly exciting. At least to me it
was. The ambulance had a crew of three, one of whom was a rather wide-bodied
nurse. She had drawn the wrong straw, I guess, and had to descend that
ladder. I heard her whisper later later, "I'll never do that again.!"
A stretcher was lowered. My vital signs were taken, all good. An oxygen
mask was clamped to my head, which afforded the first herring-free smell I
had had for awhile. Still there remained the dilemma of how to get me, my
stretcher, my oxygen rig and my now-splinted leg aloft.
One of the many smart and aggressive dockmen ran to the adjacent Nelbro
Cannery which had a mobile crane with perhaps a 40,000 lb. capacity. I weigh
170-.
Doug, by the way, is a former football linebacker, in his robust late 40s or
early 50s, a horse of a man, 6'4", 260 lbs., heavily muscled. Had not the
Nelbro crane been available, Doug told me later he was prepared to place me
on his back and climb the ladder. Also prepared was a John Breizanger, of
whom I have written. John, the dock manager, is a moose hunter. He is my
size, but is accustomed to carrying his own weight in moose parts out of the
difficult bush.
That mammoth crane roared and rumbled into place. Its hook lowered and was
attached to my stretcher straps. Away I went, upward, toward that waiting
ambulance. I had threatened the dockman that if their knots or lash-ups
failed, I would kick them hard - as soon as I could kick, of course.
Oxygen mask in place. Stretcher turning in the breeze. Splinted,
stretched-out leg. A sight. A big day for Naknek-by-the-Sea.
By the by, I was still in my filthy deck hand clothing, with tar and paint on
arms and hands. I recalled as the crane deposited me at that white and
antiseptic ambulance that "my goodness, I haven't changed my skivvies in
three days." In fact, I hadn't changed any of my clothing for awhile. When
I offered apologies to the nurse, she responded that I was the cleanest
fisherman they had treated in two weeks. (The reason I couldn't change to
"fresh linens," as the Victorians would say, is yet another story.)
The Cima ("good spirit, friendship" in Aleut) Clinic was just minutes away.
It had excellent facilities and people, including a real medical doctor,
x-ray technicians and several nurses. They were prepared for the 30,000
person invasion in three weeks, so I was well attended.
Dr. Weaver saw me. He tugged and turned and squeezed toes, ankle and foot.
Though some of that mischief hurt a lot, he declared his opinion of no
broken bones. X-rays confirmed that. I had crushed my big thigh muscle. I
had garnered a thigh-sized hematoma. My thigh doubled in size.
My wound was wrapped in an elastic bandage. I was issued crutches and sent
away. To where? The Naknek Hotel was a possibility. So was the Red Bod
Saloon which, I was told, had "a few rooms in the back of the bar."
Available by the hour, no doubt. I knew I must be ashore. I could neither
ascend nor descend that ladder.
Enterprising 'Becca came up with the solution: sleep in the Ocean Beauty
bunkhouse. She arranged it, then packed my bags for Seattle, and hauled them
from the Old Herring.
I was given a private room in the engineer's "suite," a bunkhouse area
shared by Big Doug, my savior; Kevin, young Ben ("yes, I'm a Jew") Kline, and
full-bearded Kodiak Al who tied that Bowline when Swede's deckhand could
not;.
I was invited to dine in the Ocean Beauty cafeteria - salad, prime rib, baked
halibut, red potatoes, several vegetables and fresh-baked jelly roll with
chocolate frosting.
I was greeted with such warmth and caring buy the entire Ocean Beauty Crew in
the cafeteria. All had learned my name. One carried my tray. Another
poured my coffee. The cook gave me extra jelly roll.
I almost felt bad that I didn't have at least a compound fracture. I felt I
had not met their expectations and their need to be kind to this old man of
the Old Herring. (I worked a little at struggling with my cruthches which
seemed to afford them some satisfaction.)
About all those nice men and women - on the cannery docks and in the fleets
of tenders, seine boats and gillnetters: the best part of this aggressive
wilderness is the necessity of human relationships. Because there are few
distractions and many needs for working together, we can, even must, get
close.
Do you remember that wonderful part of Thornton Wilder's "Our Town," when
young Emily Gibbs dies in giving birth? After death she is given the chance
to return to the mortal world for just one day. She sadly sees the
impersonality of life - even then, in a quieter, less distracted America.
Though she cannot be seen or heard by the mortals she has rejoined, she cries
"Momma! Momma! Why don't we look at one another?"
In the Great Land we look at one another. We must.
JUNE 2
Tumwater, Washington
Long-suffering sea widow Janet met my wheelchair in Seattle. I'm to be
immobilized for a couple of weeks. Then Janet and I go together to Naknek to
pick up my sea boots, etc. I want my first and only mate to see the boat and
Bristol Bay.
I'll perforce forego the red salmon of the Ugashik, Naknek, Nushagak, Egegik
and Kvichak rivers. But Janet and I have been invited to rejoin M.V.
Seldovia for the kings, silvers and chums of Southeast. We'll meet the ship
in Petersburg and go from there.
So, with this small setback, I've decided for sure not to go back to sea
beyond another two or three seasons. Well, maybe four if I can get Janet to
join me.
Janet?
Janet??
Janet???
Hummmm.
Bill Asbury
"More," as we newsies write when the story will continue.
===========================================================================
May 24, 1997
M.V. Seldovia
2300 Hours, Low Tide at Naknek River
"Home-Seldovia,"
That's how we summon a harbor master, other vessel, or cannery office on
our VHF radio, as the single side-band is called. The big radio is the
one that gathers the radio signals of the whole planet. It was on that
remarkable device that we heard a "May Day" call from a yacht off New
Zealand some days ago. When we use the side-band, law requires we use
our call sign-"Whiskey Alpha Uniform 7645." Fishermen usually forego
the pretentious "whiskey etc." in favor of simply "W A V etc."
It's 2300 hours--actually 2320. Forty minutes until midnight. I just
took some pictures--it's that bright, less than a month from the summer
solstice, June 21, longest day of the year.
The weather has been sunny, and hot, by Naknek standards. We may have
seen temperatures in the high 50s or even 60s. That means several
things. The cannery crews and ships' crews can work longer hours. That
doesn't exclude your correspondent.
The two days of warmth created an eerie transformation of the river
banks. Those sad leafless shrubs are still sad but now are leafy.
There was an explosion of green, like time-lapse photography. There is
even some coarse grass today where yesterday there was none. The green
isn't the deep rich hues of down there where you are. It is pallid, but
it is color. It is welcome.
The other happening is less welcome. The Alaska state bird is on the
wing. The state "birds", of course, are mosquitoes. They darken the
sky, like B-17s over Dresden during WWII or B-29s over Tokyo. And, yes,
these *are* the first four-engine mosquitoes I've ever met. They are
large. And black. And silent. Feeding season for these creatures is
so brief that unless they use stealth bomber characteristics, they might
not survive. I have been a successful target for a full squadron of
these aircraft tonight. I somehow can't begrudge them.
I had intended to head this letter "Getting to know you" from the Sound
of Music but with reference to my old Herring. Well, I'll still use
that chapter heading, but with qualifications as we go along.
As acting Captain in Andy's absence, I perforce have had to untangle
some of my vessels' complicated processes--nay, mysterious processes.
Electronics. Three electrical systems--12, 32 and 110 volts--keep the
old Seldovia alive. Hydraulics. Pumps--bilge, pressure, fresh water,
fish tank fillers of sea water and pumps that expel same.
Refrigeration. In learning her viscera, I have come to anthropomorphize
her. That's what we do with our ships. That's why we use the pronouns
"she" and "her." These tapered shells of planks enclose our universe.
They miraculously keep us alive, the miracle being that they survive in
sea conditions of overpowering proportions. And so it is, with the old
Herring ship. I've gotten to know her, and a certain affection
accrues. But, as the GIs who comprised the occupation forces in Japan
would say, "Just 'chotto' a goddamn 'matte'" "Chotto matte" means "just
a moment," or "wait a moment." It is one of the most common Japanese
phrases. Only an American soldier would be so linguistically creative
as to insert the blasphemous interjection for emphasis.
Well, *do* hold on a moment.
My confidence in my skippering, engineering and in the integrity of
Seldovia, all took a large beating in the last two days. In this order,
things went--well, they went to hell. We lost all three electrical
systems. The Old Herring seemed to have died. Then our head crapped
out. No. Make that *didn't* crap out. (Oh, ye of sensitive nature, do
excuse me.) The toilet did not, would not function. More on the finer
points of non-functioning toilets at sea in a moment.
But the worst dasher of my confidence in the Seldovia (forgive, old
girl) happened as I was putting tar on our big working foredeck. As I
was preparing to slather the black goo across the deck planks, I
discovered several flaws--deep gouges in two instances. I summoned
Cap'n. Swede, my spiritual adviser in such matters. "Dig 'em out, clean
'em out until you find good wood," said Swede. "Then fill 'em with
concrete." I chiseled. I chipped. I scooped. Whoa. Getting awfully
deep into the planks there.
Some may recall that Seldovia's hull planks are 8-inches thick. Heavy
Douglas fir. I believe the deck planks are (or were) of equal thickness
and quality.
I extracted by chisel and fingers vast quantities of black, rotted
wood. It had the consistency and smell of peat. I didn't think that
was desirable. Worse, my digging deeply into the worst of these planks
led me down to a piece of iron that I am rather certain is part of the
below-deck engineering. I stopped digging. This wasn't dry rot, it was
wet rot. How much more is there? Where is it?
Swede now advises that I jam 2x4 timbers as deep as I can and cut them
off just below deck level. I'll stuff industrial cotton around the
general mess. Then I'll pound 16-penny galvanized nails in good wood
near the dug-out area. That will reinforce the cement that I will then
put into the remaining apertures. More than you ever wanted to know
about the flawed decking on a World War II power scow.
Now, about the electrical systems. A combination of a stuck voltage
regulator and a shortage of water in our $2,400 worth of 32-volt
batteries conspired to deprive us of "juice." As for our dry batteries,
I poured almost three gallons of distilled water into the 32 huge cells
that make up our 32-volt system. It was more complicated than that, but
enough is enough.
About that plugged toilet. Federal law forbids the discharge of raw
sewage into the sea. Vessels are required to carry holding tanks that
store waste until same can be pumped out into a sewer on land. Tell me,
pray tell, where such pump-out facilities can be had between, say,
Kodiak Island and here? In fact, there is no pump-out station here in
this so called community of three bars, two grocery stores and one gas
pump. Don't tell the U.S. Coast Guard, but while fishermen carry the
requisite holding tanks, they simply open the big valves and away she
goes. Our head had stopped draining, we learned. It was stoppered.
'Becca, in one of the most compassionate, generous and courageous acts
in American history, used plunger and water hose to unplug the
unmentionable. Medal of honor, silver star with cluster and Croix de
Guerre for Rebecca!! She did this whilst I slept and while I had
horrible dreams about doing what she accomplished. So there.
With love,
Your dad and friend Bill
=================================================================
(Welcome home, Dad! Keep the story going! It's been great! April)
Sunday evening
May 25, 1997
Naknek Resort and Spa
Good people,
Talked to my Janet yesterday and today. My spirits are refreshed. This
warm--make that *hot*--day (it is 73) on the tundra doesn't hurt my soul
at all. Nor does a cup of fresh Seldovia coffee. We grind our coffee
beans in a nod to Seattle. This coffee is my first in awhile. Our
comprehensive electrical outage precluded comforts. I was able to
shower today now that our generator is behaving. I'm doing a large load
of paint-, tar-, oil-covered clothing. I was nigh into filthy in body
and accoutrements (but *not*, be assured, in thought, word or deed. Let
me amend that. I did utter a discouraging word once or twice during the
recent unpleasantness of no juice and no toilet.)
The dock crew here at the Ocean Beauty plant tell me to enjoy this warm
climatic moment. Today and perhaps one other like it will comprise the
full inventory of Naknek's summer days.
At only 7 p.m., Swede shouted across our deck at me in my tarry
coveralls: "Take the rest of the day off." He wasn't joshing. That
reference to our long days prompted Bob Williams, Swede's counterpart of
me as a simple deck hand, to recall the frenzied rush by Swede et al to
get to the Togiak herring opener last month. They were out of sight of
land in Bristol Bay.
"I pulled a 36," Bob said. That meant he worked the various stations of
his boat for 36 hours without sleep. My personal best is 23 1/2.
I have jotted notes on the long voyage to this river moorage to await
the reds--red salmon that is. Some notes are dated, some not. Some
make no sense. I was either too tired or too fascinated to be lucid.
This letter, and others, will be dedicated to trying to catch up on
recording things that captured my notice.
But how does one catch up? How does one recreate a vision of several
families of walruses along our course near round Island in Togiak Bay?
The parental walruses, each weighing perhaps 1,000 pounds, rose out of
the water to ask with their eyes "friend of foe"? They flashed their
tusks and then, so gracefully, movements as liquid as the sea itself,
they swam below and away. Only a small slick place on the surface made
you aware they had been there.
Between herring and salmon last year, Swede sailed his Unimak in quest
of the walrus in Norton Sound and St. Lawrence Island. That state-sized
land mass is on the Bering Strait, not far at all from the Russian Far
East.
Native people are allowed to kill walruses. So, Swede made a deal with
some Eskimos to shoot some live ones and also to gather "black ivory,"
the tusks of dead walruses that have lain buried. The Eskimos did their
murderous work on the live ones. Swede estimates they killed 100 to
retrieve only six carcasses. The rest sank before retrieval. I suppose
the killing took place in those moments when the walruses rose slightly
to pose their "friend or foe" question.
Swede hauled the six carcasses aboard. Those bodies were taken only as
trophies for sale to wealthy Japanese. Neither the walrus blubber nor
flesh were consumed, nor were the hides saved. The heads were boiled
until all that remained were skulls and the strange buck teeth that cost
these sea creatures their lives. Swede lost money, by the way, on his
walrus enterprise.
The trophies fetched up to $7,000 each in Japan. Does the need for a
walrus skull trophy and those anomalous teeth strike you as odd? For
me, the memory of those Togiak Bay walrus families, graceful and alive,
is trophy sufficient.
I just looked at one of my maps of the Great Land. I found what
instantly became my two favorite towns though I have not been to
either. First there is the town of Chicken, not far from the boundary
of Canada's Yukon Territory, in east-central Alaska. And then, in
Kuskokwin Bay, at the mouth of the river of that name, relatively near
here, there is the town of Eek.
Chicken and Eek. My sentiments exactly during those days of "boisterous
seas" sailing up here. That quote is Herman Melville's wonderfully
euphemistic phrase for the treacherous waters off Cape Horn, waters that
are frequently roiled by 100-knot winds.
I finally met a part-Aleut man who knows a little local history. He
took pity on the old sailor trudging back from "downtown" Naknek with
some heavy materials to be used to seal Seldovia's flawed foredeck. My
Aleut friend gave me a lift in his new Subaru station wagon. He told me
that "Naknek" means "river that forks," as the Naknek channel does just
beyond its mouth at a place called the "Y" a couple of mines offshore
where most vessels anchor during the salmon season. The original name
for the river was "Paugvik" which means "muddy river" as, indeed, it
is. "Alaska," with the meaning of "great land," is also an Aleut word.
I'll get to the Naknek museum and library soon. The museum is only open
one day a week.
One day I will also learn more from the dock boss here where the Old
Herring is moored. He is John Breigenzer, perhaps 30, from the Midwest
to which he will likely never return. Alaska doesn't just enchant John,
it consumes him. When not supervising this very busy dock, John hunts
moose and Dall sheep, and kayaks in the (I'm told) beautiful Katunai
National Monument near Naknek. During the winters, John lives in a
cabin in the minus 40 temperatures of the wilderness near Fairbanks.
He told of being picked up by a float plane after a moose hunt. As the
plane pulled away, John saw a large grizzly bear which he pointed out to
the pilot. The pilot circled and descended for a closer look--a very
close look--whereupon the grizzly rose to full height and swatted at the
plane like a kitty would swat at something dangled by a teasing child.
Fortunately the plane was a little out of range.
Today (May 27) is sunny, warm. This must be that other day of summer.
That means more chipping and scrubbing, tar and paint. Just another day
in paradise.
Yours, Bill.
======================================================================
Hello all you Barnacle Bill fans and loyal correspondents!
Thought you'd had the last morsel of news from the far North, didn't you.
Well, our diligent daughter April just forwarded one last letter that she
transcribed from Bill's long-hand letters, and though it may seem dated,
since you all know by now that he is home and nursing a gimpy leg, it only
seemed fair to complete the cycle of news that began when he set sail on the
M.V. Seldovia on March 17. He is planning to assemble the letters into a
book-form, and may even submit an article or two to magazines such as MODERN
MATURITY. I've suggested the title "A Sea Too Far for a Mariner not too
Ancient." Any other suggestions will be welcomed.
The latest health report is that he is walking fine, if carefully, and that
he does plan to return to the ship for a bit of the salmon fishery in August.
I've begged off because of not wanting to leave our old, blind dog Nikki in
his last days, but he has found another willing companion for the adventure -
one Scott Larson, who worked with him when he was with the Japanese fishery
company, American Pacific, back in 1989-90. Scott has MS, but is ambulatory
and like Bill, his mentor, is a very game adventurer. Bill has recruited him
and Scott is eager to put his disability to the test, as did Olympia's oldest
living salty dog.
Enjoy!
First Mate Janet
---------------------
Forwarded message:
From: april.asbury@experian.com (April Asbury)
Reply-to: april.asbury@experian.com
To: jwa0228@aol.com (Janet Asbury)
Date: 97-06-21 00:08:21 EDT
Sorry it's been so long getting this off. But here it is. I'm only
sending to you so forward to your heart's content. :aa
0625 hours
Still here on Muddy River
May 28, 1997
Friends--and Happily That Means All My Family, Too
We, 'Becca and I, live and move carefully amidst a tangle of heavy
electrical cords and hoses. The recent outages of water pump and
electrical systems have cost us our independence. We live now, as
Blanche Du Bois said in "A Streetcar Named Desire," dependent upon "the
kindness of strangers." The strangers in this case are those who
maintain Naknek City Light and Municipal Water. Of course, there are no
such entities by those metropolitan names, but perforce the Old Herring
has had to reattach its umbilical cords, a miserable process, I might
add.
As for Naknek's power supply, one of the big canneries recently added a
large amount of electrical refrigeration machinery. Upon being notified
of same, the local electric company superintendent pleaded: "Don't turn
it all on at once." Electricity is frightfully expensive, too--all of
it generated by diesel engines the fuel for which must be hauled here by
tug and barge.
We are on a rising tide which means the big barges and Crowley Company
tugs can move. A barge came by us early yesterday with a vast number of
refrigerated containers which will be filled with salmon in about a
month. Atop the containers were many gillnet vessels, back from
Seattle, most of them, where skippers and crews had worked on them
during the winter. For those of you who live in or near Seattle, go
down to Lake Union any time of year and you'll hear the clank and clang
and see the arc-welders' sparks, as the fleet is readied for--well, for
Naknek and other Bristol Bay rivers in June. The invasion forces are
now being readied.
Speaking of tugs, when I was very young and lived in the dry and
sea-less clime of Southern Utah, like all little boys in those
Depression years, I played the game of
what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up. For me? I wanted to be a
tugboat captain.
Two Crowley tugs, Crowley being perhaps the largest tugboat operation in
the world remained overnight just ahead of us, at the pilings. There
was a large one, the Polar Wolf, and her wee sibling, the Polar Scout.
The Wolf either pulls or ties alongside the monster barges to provide
propulsion while the Scout stays aft of the barge to push it or pull it
hither or thither toward the docks. The Scout is simply a rudder.
I look at those tidy, powerful tugs. I still have a passion to drive
one. Since I'm now officially a commercial fisherman, licensed and all
that, maybe one of those skippers would relieve my unrequited love.
There are clouds and chill today. It blew fairly hard yesterday
evening. I had put my extra eyeglasses atop my coveralls on deck where
I placed them to dry the paint. The wind blew the glasses into the
river. Appears our two-day summer may be over.
I have come to know that the hardest thing about making one's living at
sea is not the long hours, not the dirty, difficult physical work, not
even the blizzards, wind or heavy seas. The hardest part of all this is
relationships--crew member to crew member, crew to captain. For me, who
can take it or leave it (Social Security, don't you know) unpleasantness
in any relationship is as Katherine Hepburn once said in a movie role
about a thoroughly unpleasant person--"He is just a small annoyance in
the general mess." For me, any abrasive relationship is just a
momentary annoyance "in the general mess." To those committed to a ship
or ship's work year after year in these close quarters, at hard tasks,
these annoyances can be serious indeed.
I may have mentioned that I've sketched an essay I call "Captaincy."
(I'll finish it as soon as we run out of paint and tar.) It deals with
the peculiar shortcoming that seems to afflict most, if not all,
captains. It is recognized by the captains themselves up here. They
call those who lose their tempers with their crew members "screamers."
I have a wonderful advantage being so detached. One after another of my
skipper friends has confided in me that they, too, are screamers. And
they don't understand it. And I, too, I regret admitting, was a
screamer on the sailboats I captained. I confess this peculiarity in
the spirit of Virginia Woolf who wrote "If you do not tell the truth
about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people."
Just yesterday I winced--no, I hurt--for a deck hand friend who was
involved in a tough, dirty job. He was to secure knots (a bowline on
one end, two half hitches on the other) from his vessel's anchor to a
large, terribly heavy piece of concrete embedded in the Naknek River
mud. That piece of submerged concrete caught the Seldovia on our
approach to the pilings here to unload our first 100-ton load of
herring. It damaged both our two propellers and Cap'n. Andy's spirits.
My deck hand friend could not, no matter the struggle, tie the essential
bowline knot. He was immersed in mud, hands cold and covered with
filth. His captain screamed--"make the loop, bring the end through this
way!!" The louder the scream, the more frequent the "f" word, the less
possibility my friend could accomplish that cold, muddy knot.
"If you learn only one knot, learn a bowline" is the wisdom of all
salts. So you're clear, a bowline can be tightened by tons of tension
(as was the case yesterday with that piece of concrete) and still it can
be untied quite easily. What made my young friend's pain worse was that
an old hand plugging leaks in a nearby barge heard the commotion. He
waded to the project needing attention and swiftly and deftly tied
bowline and hitches. My friend hurt all the more.
Later the screaming captain told me (nice to be old and trusted) that he
felt dreadful about his outburst. I think he apologized to his
crewman. Stay tuned. Though I'm not at all certain I understand it, my
essay is a try at gaining insights about captaincy.
The problem of relationships on a vessel goes beyond captain to crew, of
course. Though the space on the Old Herring is magnificent to this old
rag-boat man (sailboat sailor) who is used to much less, when you are at
sea in rough, rolling water for weeks at a time--the neurons quiver,
patience is lost, frustrations burst out as anger. I have had a parade
of young, and not so young, men and women hands come to me for solace.
I have needed solace myself on occasion.
Melville writes much about relationships on the miniscule island that is
a vessel at sea. In fact, that is the essence of much he writes, it
seems to me. His insights are marvelous, of genius quality. Of course,
Melville sewed on an American man-of-war, a U.S. frigate, in the days of
sail. If I over-reference Melville (and I don't think that is possible
for anyone writing about the sea) it is because I brought a large
collection of Melville books and short stories. I also brought the
complete works of Shakespeare, but for heaven's sake, don't let that
word drift up here!!
The Norton Sound herring fleet started arriving last night. About five
tenders, including my captain's father's, Eigil B., is here.
Swede is wearing a huge bandage over his left eye, making him appear
piratical. He was grinding rust away. A small piece of rusted metal
flew into his eyeball. He underwent minor surgery to have it removed.
And that, dear friends, is the news from the Naknek mud flats, to
paraphrase Garrison Keillor.
More--always more--tales of the North Pacific are in my heart and mind.
Bill
===================================================================
Hello There,
I scribbled this initially on June 12. It has taken the intervening two
weeks to gain the courage to sit at this machine and send its impulses into
the ether. I learned a new word the other day (on the 25th anniversary of
Watergate), and I am that word.
Technophobe. That was used in reference to Richard Nixon's erasure of those
18 and 1/2 minutes on the tape recorder, minutes that were thought by some
to have contained evidence crucial to the Watergate investigation. Defenders
of Mr. Nixon said he hadn't erased the evidence, but that he was
technologically stupid. Same here.
On June 12 Janet and I caught the 0600 flight to King Salmon and Naknek via
Anchorage. We had to rise at about 0300 to be at Seatac International early
since we were flying standby. We returned to Tumwater at about 0300 the
morning of the 13th. I wanted Janet to experience a 24-hour work day to
which assertion she responded (accurately) that having raised five children,
a veritable menagerie of dogs, cats, gold fish, gerbils and iquanas, and one
most errant husband, 24-hour days were not unkown to her.
We were obliged to return to Naknek to retrieve my three-duffels full of gear
before Seldovia pushed off from the pilings to haul red salmon to the Ocean
Beauty cannery. Those "reds" would be transferred in big bags called
braillers from the gillnetters to Seldovia's 100-ton fish tanks.
I had tried in my letters from the moonscapes that are the peripheries of
Togiak and Bristol bays to convey the rigors of a deckhand's life on an
anciet fish tender. The gods of wind and gloom and other weather conspired
against me yet again. This time they colluded to create Miami Beach
conditions at Bristol Bay, thereby persuading Janet that all my effusions
about my hardships were questionable if not worse. It was sunny. It was 70
degrees. It was Bermuda. The moonscape had become verdant. Flowers had been
placed in my old boat's galley. And get this. The newly tarred deck made
Seldovia look spiffy. The tar plus 'Becca's painting of the bulwarks,
inboard and outboard. She had applied the necessary combination of
battleship gray, white and black paint to the bridge and house exteriors.
Inside there was new red enamel on all four decks, from wheelhouse to engine
room. Seldovia was tiddly. She had become a yacht. (Well, not quite.)
Capt. Andy had returned a couple of days after my wounding and departure. He
had quickly put his mechanical wizardry to work on all the mechanical
breakdowns that had plagued me just hours, it seemed, after he left three
weeks earlier. It pleased to greatlyh to have him say at none of the
breakdowns were of my creation; I just didn't know how to fix them. It
heartened me, too, that my diagn oses of the illnesses of that big Deere
diesel and generator were validated.
I was, in a contrary way, strangely gladdened by news that the very day after
that bulwark slammed my thigh -- a happening that occcurred as I was trying
to prevent a mooring line from breakking a piling -- that same set of bulwark
hawsers did, in fact, break a piling because the deckhand aboard (sorry
'Becca) slept through a low tide during one of Seldovia's diurnal groundings.
As promised Andy got a bill for $3,000.
Doug Berkey was on the dock when Janet and Iarrived at the cannery. He is the
retired fire chief who gave me first aid. He told Janet that he was quite
worried about the location of my injury -- high on my right leg, just "south"
of my hip socket. He said that a fracture there could cause massive internal
bleedking with fatal consequences. And the oxygen he administered was to
p;revent shck not to relieve the herring stink which was incidental.
Well, none of that bad stuff happened. In fact I was able to turn in my
crutches at Naknek's Camai Clinic. I was even able (ever so carefully) to
climb up and down the ladder to Seldovia's decks as she rested again in the
mud. Janet joined me in climbing that treacherous ladder. I have recommender
her for a deckhand job next season.
Looking back to that latest visit to Bristol Bay, I rather like that
moonscape simile. I do, indeed, feel at times that I have given in again to
"the surly bonds of earth" back here in "civilization". I feel as though I
have just returned from two months on the moon. My water world of the far
north served to wipe clean so many of the intrusions of civilization. I can,
therefore, see this confused and congested part of the planet we in the
Northwest call the "I-5 corridor" with new eyes and honed senses. I don't
much like it. Oh, I like being clean. I like Janet's wonderful food and the
beautiful home she has made. I like the grass and flowers or our garden and
the rhododendrons, God's best floral handiwork. Some our our rhodies were
still in blossom as I hobbled up the front steps. And I love being with
Janet, David, Julia, Lucy, Alex and Jacques. I love the proximityh of all my
extended familyh.
But I detest the traffic. It was congested even at 0500 as we drove to catch
the airplane. I abhor the cacaphony of noises. I dislike the hammering on
my mind of the written and shouted messages to "buy, buy. You're not a good
person if you don't own ____________ (fill in the blank)"We take two Sunday
papers, with surely an aggregate of 1,500 pages if one includes the pounds of
supplements. Each Sunday edition was responsible for devouring some large
chunk of a tree -- perhaps even a Sitka spruce or yellow cedar of a cherished
island up north.
Television is an abomination. HKappily I can avoid that, even if I cannot
avoid the traffic and the crowded vistas of bloated development. TV news --
especially our local Seattle and Tacoma channels -- should only be seen as
humor. Sure, I write as a former newspaper reporter and editor and therein
my lie a certain bias. What our local television news lacks is perspective,
any sense of history, or where we are in time. And the use of our mother
tongue by TV people is often terrible both in diction and grammar. Enough of
that.
So I must go north again. Soon and often. Captain Andy has invited Janet and
me to rejoin Seldovia in Petersburg in August during the king, silver, chum
and pink salmon seasons. Janet demurs. She observed that despite her
spiffed-up appearance and that Southern California day, The Old Herring's
lifestyle looked like camping out to her. And camping out doesn't lure her
as it does me. Actually I tolerate deprivation to achieve that constant
state of amazement I experience in the Great Land .
I do thank you all for your expressions of support for my adventure and your
condolences for my momentary disability. I am almost recovered . I am ready
to start chain-sawing our backwoods to turn last winter's icestorm into
firewood for the coming winter. And I'v e decided to use a portion of my
herring money to buy a new backpack and tent to challenge the wilderness
areas of my native Washington state. The federal government has
re-introduced grizzly bears and wolves down here to make me feel at home.
Thank you, I think.
If I can move this message successfully, I promise also to tap out messages
to many of you individually. I owe you.
Barnacle or Mad Dog. (Take your choice)
===================================================================
TO:BLAIR SHERMAN AND LAURA MASON
(who are doing research for family tree projects in school)
AND to all of you other Asbury branches and branchlettes who might enjoy this
portrait of their progenitor:
Bill just typed this account for Judi and Laura in Hawaii and I thought it
should reach a wider audience. Enjoy!
Janet Asbury
---------------------
Forwarded message:
Subj: Alexander Perry Asbury
Date: 97-10-30 12:48:26 EST
From: Jwa0228
To: jamason@aloha.net(judymason)
Dear Judi,
So, it's "Uncle Guil'" is it? Not bad.
Sorry to be tardy in responding to your query about Alexander Perry Asbury.
I have just returned (again) from living another chapter of my book on the
northern seas and me. I sailed with a friend in a small sailboat to Barkley
Sound off the deep-blue side of Vancouver Island.
Pal's and my grandfather, and your great grandfather, and Laura's great,
great grandfather, may well have been the greatest Asbury of this century. I
will, in fact, assert just that.
Regarding his part in the Civil War, "A.P.", as he came to be known
throughout Indiana, was a private in one of the Indiana regiments. He joined
the Union Army in the last year (1865) of America's most brutal war. It was
a war that resulted in 600,000 casualties, North and South together.
American losses in the Second World War were "only" about 250,000.
A.P. lied to join Mr. Lincoln's Army. And lying was not something my
grandfaher liked to do. He was a devout Christian who later became a lay
minister in the Methodist Church.
How he lied had its own charm. Recruits had to be at least 18 years old.
They had to affirm that, under oath, to be accepted to fight for the North.
Well, AP. was only 17, but desperately wanted to serve. So he wrote the
number "18" on the sole of each shoe. "Are you OVER 18?" the recruiting
officer asked of too-young A.P. "Yessir," he replied. Well, 'twas true in
its own white-lie way. He was standing OVER the number 18 which was written
on the leather beneath his feet.
Young A.P.s regiment became part of the army of Gen. George "Pap" Thomas, and
Thomas's army was assigned to Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman's huge force that
sacked Atlanta and burned its way to the sea in battles and movements that
were to mean that the South was defeated at last.
We have no record of Private Asbury's part in the scorched earth march
wherein beautiful plantation mansions, one after another, were razed, crops
burned, farm animals stolen or killed, and probably worse than that done to
the persons and personages of the Old South.
Did our progenitor burn and destroy property with the rest of his regiment?
Probably. Did he do worse? I hope not. But it was a war of out-of-control
anger, brother against brother.
About that war between and among brothers, A.P.'s heritage was out of
Kentucky, a state wherein commonly resided fierce devotion to the Southern
cause. It is likely that A.P. and others of our mid-19th century family
killed friends from their native South. Southern Indiana, too, had many
Southern sympathizers, for that matter, but A.P.s loyalty was to Lincoln and
the North.
More about A.P. Asbury, the person: many, if not most, of the soldiers of
both North and South came from farms. Alex was a farmer. He and his wife,
Almira Beecher Asbury, needed farm hands. So after their marriage (after
the war) they produced their own large workforce, five girls, five boys, to
work the 60-acre place they owned near Farmersburg, Indiana. Pal's and my
father, Joseph Lester Asbury, was the youngest of nine of that brood. The
very youngest, Ray, was killed at age 19, I believe, when he was kicked in
the head by a horse.
Farmersburg. Is there a more bucolic name? The village is near Terre Haute,
famed mostly because that is where the famous basketball player, Larry Bird
of our time, played at Indiana State University.
I visited our ancestral farm, but I was about Laura's age, and my memory is
cloudy.
A.P. was chosen, and re-chosen repeatedly, to lead the Grand Army of the
Republic for the whole state of Indiana. The G.A.R. was the enormously
prestigious veterans organization for the Union Army.
"The Rev. Mr." Alexander Perry Asbury was a circuit preacher. That means he
served three, probably tiny, Methodist churches in and around Farmersburg.
He was not an ordained minister. Ordination would have required higher
education, and I have no knowledge of A.P.'s schooling. It was most likely
minimal. Maybe he only went through elementary school, and perhaps not even
that. One day I will go to Indiana and find out.
Despite his lack of formal education, A.P. Asbury gained the reputation of
being a spell-binding speaker -- eloquent and even learned in his public
utterances. It was this qualitity, plus a reputation for honesty and
morality, that resulted in his being chosen to lead the Grand Army of the
Republic. Though his highest rank in active military service was private (he
served less than a year), his title as leader of the G.A.R. was colonel. He
was known as Colonel Asbury throughout Indiana.
One final anecdote about A.P.'s service in the Union Army :after the war
ended, he was on a troop train headed for Washington D. C., probably to march
in one of the huge victory parades marking the North's victory, when he
learned of Lincoln's murder by John Wilkes Booth. My father told me that upon
hearing of Lincoln's assassination by a pistol, A.P. hurled his Union Army
musket out the window of his troop-laden train. He vowed never again to touch
a weapon designed to kill people. To my knowledge, he never did.
My brother and I are unusual in that we are the GRANDSONS of a Civil War
veteran.
Most people who have present-day relationships to Civil War veterans are
great-, or even great, great-grandchildren. The proximity of our
relationship to A.P., your father's and mine, happened because our father,
Joe Asbury, was the youngest of the children of A.P. and Almira. Joe then
married somewhat late in life. He was 31 when Pal was born and 37 when I came
along. He was comparatively young when you and Coni were born.
This is about as much as I can report about Alexander Perry Asbury, except to
say that our Alex(andra) was named for him.
I realize much of the above is impertinent to the Civil War itself about
which Laura must report. But I record what I know of A.P. for you, Coni, and
others in this broader way. I will also send this to others in the family .
If among Pal's papers you find things that contradict what I am writing from
memory, or have supplementary things, please let me know.
Best to you, Glenn and Laura. Pal might be interested in the above.
Love and respect.
Uncle Guillaume
From ???@??? Sat Jul 18 18:09:02 1998
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Date: Mon, 23 Feb 1998 09:15:07 -0800 (GMT-0800)
From: Faith Claman
Reply-To: faith.claman.nur.88@aya.yale.edu
To: Sarah Sherman
Subject: miss you
Message-Id:
Mime-Version: 1.0
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Status: RO
X-Status:
ran by an old letter from you (snail mail ) miss you dearly - always get
down about this time in my many moves.... connections start getting looses
and i feel tremendous guilt in not being a hight powered communicator.....
i think about you often - things here continue to be busy - have you
visited our web page
the url is
userwww.service.emory.edu/~grusso/
and the password is nifty
let me know what you think
hugs
fc
========================================================================
Hello Chillens and Cousin Judi!
I am forwarding a couple of emails from Bill who is in Puerto Vallarta and has
found that we can keep in touch this way even though he is somewhat more
isolated.
Judi, I am sending a copy to you because I want you to know how much I
appreciate the package of photos and news I got from you about your work with
the deaf in Viet Nam this year, and of course your magnificent article about
Universal Infant Hearing Screening for that important medical journal. I am
so impressed with your altruism and your intellect. Thank you for sharing
with us. I will see to it that the material gets circulated to your cousins
too.
To ALL
This is actually the second email from Bill in Mexico. You will note from the
next one that he has managed to get to the Sea of Cortez where he has longed
to go for so long. How serendipitous! How suspicious! How enterprising! How
happy I am for him. The sea is calling again!
Love Janet/Mom/Granny Janny
=======================================================================
Janet,
Rec'd. your welcome and newsy reply to mine of yesterday.
I don't like hearing of your La Influenza de Claire. The Spanish words are
either as stated or La Grippe.
The news from here is all good. Maria is large of tummy. Her dr. assures
its being a girl. No names yet. Maria likes Abigail Isabel. (Wouldn't my
mother have been pleased.) Maria will whelp late June. Our laundry girl is
expecting her 2nd. Due in August.
This E-mail is marvelously inexpensive. 20 pesos for an hr. of computer
time. Next time we can communicate with everyone. I don't have e-mail
addresses this time. Costs only 10 pesos to read a reply. The dollar is
worth between 8.5 and 8.6 pesos today.
Daiquiri Dick's has come back to life quality-wise. Had a good Cesar salad
with large and plentiful shrimp, ice tea and a lovely chocolate cheese
cake. Prices at restaurants are high. $10 U.S. for about anything. So
many turistas. I think the prices are seasonal, don't you.
Adriana greeted me on arrival. She bought my breakfast today with a
prefactory assurance of "I know you don't want to buy anything . . ." and
then her usual sales pitch. She turned me over to a junior colleague named
Fernando Reyes (no kin to Maria) to whom I said something like "If you
think I'll make a financial decision without my wife you're nuts." I told
him "as a new friend" he shouldn't even try to hustle "solteros(as)."
Adrianna left me to nail a pair of Scottish women now resident in Toronto.
They finished their free breakfasts, then bid Adrianna an abrupt and firm
"adios." Adrianna came back to my table looking quite stunned. Hooray for
the dour Scots!! Fernando was pleasant and intelligent with me, and he
didn't push.
Our facilities are the best ever. Well maintained. Everything works.
Dishes and cutlery for four, not two. The company is obviously prospering.
No hassle with discounts for food though prices are maybe 50 per cent
higher. Have only eaten two small meals here. TV works fine. Excellent
picture and sound. More and more Mexican families apparently have bought
"tiempos compartidos."
Went to Los Pibes, that much touted Argentine restaurant on Basilla
Badillo. It is famed for its steaks. The smallest steak weighed a full lb.
And the ribeye weighed almost 2 lbs.!! Who can eat that? They don't serve
half portions. I decided on a watercress and bacon salad and spaghetti
bolognesa. Excellent. Accompanied by a quality jazz pianist. Adjacent
table occupied by a pleasant Toronto family. More Canadians than usual, it
seems.
Bought "Midnight in the Garden etc. etc." because I had forgotten books.
It's a delicious read. I'll bring it home.
No problem retrieving our luggage. Just pointed to our three items. They
even tried to give me an extra sombrero for you.
That's good news about David's professor recognizing his excellent ability.
I'm not surprised. Thank David for helping me so effectively with the book
research. Allows me tolie on the Mexican beaches!! "Es una broma."
TV news told me you are STILL in the gloom and damp. Quit that!! I'll do
the seeding when I return. Hope the seeds I planted up top have sprouted.
Do you want me to bring you anything from here? I don't leave the hotel
until 6 p.m. tomorrow (3-27) your time. I'll check the e-mail before then.
I bought four bottles of vanilla for your French classmates. There are a
few new poses of those little stick people we bought for your old UW Group.
They are only $2 U.S. each. Do you want more?
Rustika (where we bought Jeff's and Alex's gifts) now has an outlet in El
Centro, a half block from La Tienda Ley near the Malecon.
That's the news from Bahia Banderas.
I love you (of course, but not as a matter of course).
Bill
================================================================
Hello Asburys et. al,
I have had two replies to my attempt to forward a letter from daughter Alex in
Minnesota - saying that the forwarded letter did not arrive, but the
introductory letter with the list of Asburys, etc. did arrive. I notice that
I omitted Ray and Nancy Asbury from the list of those copied and so #8 on the
list should be: rkasbury@teleport.com.
Ray was nice enough to send me the names of Katherine Giachetti (Asbury) at:
asbury@datacomm.iue.it (In Italy) and Margaret Kralovec at: Margkral@aol.com,
so the list is growing.
Should any of you other recipients of my "Re:Baby's Comin'" have missed
getting the letter I tried to forward from Alex, please let me know and I will
try to set things aright.
Our machine has frozen up a couple of times lately and so I won't accept
complete blame for this snafu.
Till later, Janet
=====================================================================
April 18, 1998
It's a boy!!! (Whodathunk?)
Today is Terry's 38th birthday and she wanted a dog. It was supposed to
be a female Doberman/Shepherd mix between 6 months and one year old.
Instead we came home with Randy B. Goode, a male Labrador/Australian
Shepherd mix and he's just 8 weeks old!
But DAMN he's cute! And huge. He's gonna grow up and protect us
someday. But for now we have to protect him--from the cats. We'll give
him a couple three days before we even attempt to introduce them.
Fortunately, the house and yard are all set for them to cohabitate
without even knowing they're doing it.
We've had him all of 3 hours and he slept through the first two (with
the exception of going to the Pet Club to pick out his bed, food,
hygiene products, dishes and linens).
And now he and Terry are bonding. And I'm baking a cheesecake for after
her stuffed sole, green beans and rice pilaf dinner.
Happy trails...
April
===============================================================
A few years ago, Charlie Brown and the "Peanuts" gang made a new friend
who developed leukemia in an animated special titled, "Why, Charlie
Brown, Why?" Recently, Metlife has put out a series of instructional
pamphlets which feature the "Peanuts" gang dealing with such issues as
the loss of a loved one, writing a will, and dealing with a permanent
disability. Now that Charlie Brown is dealing with important issues, how
about some "Peanuts" specials for the kids of the '90s? ...
>>>
* We could learn about VD in, "It Burns When I Urinate, Charlie
Brown."
>>>
* Chuck and the little Red-Headed Girl find out about unwanted
pregnancy in "Damn Straight It's Your Baby, Charlie Brown!"
>>>
* Is Linus gay? Find out in "It's a Different Kind of Love, Charlie
Brown."
>>>
* See how the "Peanuts" gang deals with date rape in "No Means No,
Charlie Brown."
>>>
* Discover a father's forbidden love in "It's Our Little Secret,
Charlie Brown."
>>>
* Franklin speaks! The "Peanuts" gang gets a lesson in ebonics in
"Imo Busta Cap Inyo Ass, Charlie Brown!"
>>>
* What goes on in the mind of a serial killer? Discover the inner
workings of Pig Pen's twisted psyche and meet his murderous alter ego,
'Mr. Clean' in "God Called the Trailer Park and Told Me to Do It,
Charlie Brown."
>>>
* Charlie Brown peddles his body for crack money while stealing
social security checks and boosting automobiles in "Blame It On The Man,
Charlie Brown!"
>>>
* Snoopy deals with his shortcomings after being neutered in "Why Did
You Cut My Balls Off, Charlie Brown?"
>>>
* ... and Marcy and Peppermint Patty explore their special feelings
for each other in "You Mow the Grass, and So Do We, Charlie Brown." >>
=================================================================
You Know You're Drinking Too Much Coffee When...
- You answer the door before people knock.
- Juan Valdez named his donkey after you.
- You ski uphill.
- You get a speeding ticket even when you're parked.
- You speed walk in your sleep.
- You have a bumper sticker that says: "Coffee drinkers are good in the
sack."
- You haven't blinked since the last lunar eclipse.
- You just completed another sweater and you don't know how to knit.
- You grind your coffee beans in your mouth.
- You sleep with your eyes open.
- You have to watch videos in fast-forward.
- The only time you're standing still is during an earthquake.
- You can take a picture of yourself from ten feet away without using the
timer.
- You lick your coffeepot clean.
- You spend every vacation visiting "Maxwell House."
- You're the employee of the month at the local coffeehouse and you
- don't even work there.
- You've worn out your third pair of tennis shoes this week.
- Your eyes stay open when you sneeze.
- You chew on other people's fingernails.
- The nurse needs a scientific calculator to take your pulse.
- Your T-shirt says, "Decaffeinated coffee is the devil's blend."
- You're so jittery that people use your hands to blend their margaritas.
- You can type sixty words per minute... with your feet.
- You can jump-start your car without cables.
- Cocaine is a downer.
- All your kids are named "Joe."
- You don't need a hammer to pound nails.
- Your only source of nutrition comes from "Sweet & Low."
- You don't sweat, you percolate.
- You buy * & * by the barrel.
- You've worn out the handle on your favorite mug.
- You go to AA meetings just for the free coffee.
- You walk twenty miles on your treadmill before you realize it's
- not plugged in.
- You forget to unwrap candy bars before eating them.
- Charles Manson thinks you need to calm down.
- You've built a miniature city out of little plastic stirrers.
- People get dizzy just watching you.
- You've worn the finish off your coffee table.
- The Taster's Choice couple wants to adopt you.
- Starbucks owns the mortgage on your house.
- Your taste buds are so numb you could drink your lava lamp.
- You're so wired, you pick up AM radio.
- People can test their batteries in your ears.
- Your life's goal is to amount to a hill of beans.
- Instant coffee takes too long.
- You channel surf faster without a remote.
- When someone says. "How are you?" you say, "Good to the last drop."
- You want to be cremated just so you can spend the rest of eternity
- in a coffee can.
- You want to come back as a coffee mug in your next life.
- Your birthday is a national holiday in Brazil.
- You'd be willing to spend time in a Turkish prison.
- You go to sleep just so you can wake up and smell the coffee.
- You're offended when people use the word "brew" to mean beer.
- You name your cats "Cream" and "Sugar."
- You get drunk just so you can sober up.
- You speak perfect Arabic without ever taking a lesson.
- Your Thermos is on wheels.
- Your lips are permanently stuck in the sipping position.
- You have a picture of your coffee mug on your coffee mug.
- You can outlast the Energizer bunny.
- You short out motion detectors.
- You have a conniption over spilled milk.
- You don't even wait for the water to boil anymore.
- Your nervous twitch registers on the Richter scale.
- You think being called a "drip" is a compliment.
- You don't tan, you roast.
- You don't get mad, you get steamed.
- Your three favorite things in life are...coffee before, coffee
- during and coffee after.
- Your lover uses soft lights, romantic music, and a glass of iced
- coffee to get you in the mood.
- You can't even remember your second cup.
- You help your dog chase its tail.
- You soak your dentures in coffee overnight.
- Your coffee mug is insured by Lloyds of London.
- You introduce your spouse as your coffeemate.
- You think CPR stands for "Coffee Provides Resuscitation."
- Your first-aid kit contains two pints of coffee with an I.V. hookup.
From ???@??? Sat Jul 18 18:09:11 1998
X-POP3-Rcpt: sarah@datapro
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for ; Mon, 11 May 1998 10:54:50 -0700
Date: Mon, 11 May 1998 10:54:45 -0700 (PDT)
From: James Sherman
To: Sarah Sherman
Subject: Re: Your letter (fwd)
Message-ID:
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII
Status: RO
X-Status:
---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Tue, 5 May 1998 01:21:09 EDT
From: JAM0805
To: jsherman@DataPro.Net
Subject: Re: Your letter
Salut Jim beau frere...,
I am just getting around to check the e-mail stuff again. Thanks for the
letter, don't know what happened with the transmission, but it's a tough
TCP/IP world out there. You never know where or when you'll be bounced off.
Anyway, here life is getting good and we are almost ready for the kid. The
almost means that Alex is full ready to deliver it while I can wait and fly
fish in the meantime. I sense that this will be a busy summer when the baby
will be around. In a way, that's cool!
The Av's got kicked out by Edmonton, it is a canadian team so it does not feel
as bad. The fact that I have so few news to share gives you an idea of how
exciting life is: mostly work, baby preparation and ...work. Ah bof, it's a
fun job so there's no reason to complain...except the lonely boat!
Salut et viens visiter quand tu veux,
Jacques
From ???@??? Sat Jul 18 18:09:12 1998
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From: Jwa0228
Message-ID: <3108258e.3558ca3f@aol.com>
Date: Tue, 12 May 1998 18:16:30 EDT
To: sarah@datapro.net
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: Mother's Day
Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit
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Status: RO
X-Status:
Hello beloved daughter, Sarah.
I missed talking to you again on Mother's Day to tell you once more how
beautiful your flowers and coffee cup and poetry book are. They are all much
appreciated, and they still look as fresh as on Saturday!
Dad took me out to dinner after first helping me distribute new bark and top
dressing in the garden. We went to a restaurant where they gave each mother a
pink carnation, so I added mine to your bouquet. Then we went to see the new
Spike Lee movie "He Got Game" which I would recommend to all three of your
boys. Morality lives in the sports world in at least one case.
I had phone calls from all five of you and got good progress reports on each
of my five children. Then my dear neighbor Marit Nelson brought me the
sweetest note and a bottle of wine. She said she thinks I am her mother too
since her own mother lives so far away in Holland. How lucky I am to have
such loyal fans in all of you.
Today the second floor man came and spent half the day removing squeaks from
my kitchen floor in the places where the other guy had not had to pour cement.
It sounds almost silent now when one raid's the refrigerator! Tomorrow I get
the pergo topping and then things should settle down to normal.
Did you guys see the article by Dad in the opinion section of the Seattle
Times? It was on page 5 of the opinion section and they really played it BIG.
He's delighted. And besides, he got paid. He's made copies for the kids, so
if you missed it and you need one, just let us know.
Alex wrote today that she is in week 38 of her pregnancy and the doctor said
that if she hasn't delivered by then she will induce birth in the 41st week,
so I think it is time that you buy me an airline ticket to Minneapolis/St.
Paul! Whee, here we go!
I'll call you next week and we can set a date to see SAM. I look forward to
that. David says he thinks the second Tuesday of the month is free?????
Maybe you could check on that for me.
I have French class tonight and had to write an essay in French predicting the
future of one of my children. Since their futures seem almost all mapped out
I chose to write about unborn Abby. It is an essay in the future tense. Dad
read it and liked it a lot, so I may keep it for her to read someday when she
is able.
Au Revoir, MOM
From ???@??? Sat Jul 18 18:09:13 1998
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Wed, 13 May 1998 18:57:20 -0400 (EDT)
From: JAM0805
Message-ID:
Date: Wed, 13 May 1998 18:57:20 EDT
To: sarah@datapro.net, BURLEY@primenet.com, fiver@sprynet.com, Jwa0228@aol.com
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: Babypoo?
Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
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Now here's an opportunirty you won't want to miss!
Jacques co-workers have started a babypool at work and asked that we send the
word around to friends and family to make the odds more interesting. The way
it works is you guess the date and time of birth, and the sex and weight of
the baby. Whoever gets closest wins half the pot. Jacques and I get to spend
the other half on diapers! Yippee!
If you feel like wagering a guess or two send your pics and money to the
address below. Popping is tentatively scheduled for the 26th, but these
babies don't always adhere to the rules!
West Group
Attention: Lynn Sargeson, Cube 361
610 Opperman Dr., D2-361
Eagan, MN 55123
Hope everyone is doing well.
Love,
Alex and Jacques
From ???@??? Sat Jul 18 18:09:14 1998
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Thu, 14 May 1998 18:20:54 -0400 (EDT)
From: JAM0805
Message-ID: <38eb492e.355b6e47@aol.com>
Date: Thu, 14 May 1998 18:20:54 EDT
To: sarah@datapro.net, BURLEY@primenet.com, fiver@sprynet.com, Jwa0228@aol.com
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: Sharp as a marble!
Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
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Thought y'all might get a kick out of these. "Sharp as a marble" kinda pales
in comparison. Don't miss the resume stuff below, too!
Love you all,
Alex...
ACTUAL LINES OUT OF U.S. MILITARY OERS (OFFICER EFFICIENCY REPORT):
>
> Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
>
> Got into the gene pool while the lifeguard wasn't watching.
>
> A room temperature IQ.
>
> Got a full 6-pack, but lacks the plastic thingy to hold it all together.
>
> A prime candidate for natural deselection.
>
> Bright as Alaska in December.
>
> Gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming.
>
> So dense, light bends around him.
>
> If brains were taxed, he'd get a rebate.
>
> If he were any more stupid, he'd have to be watered twice a week.
>
> Was left on the Tilt-A-Whirl a bit too long as a baby.
>
> Wheel is turning, but the hamster is dead.
>
>
> ACTUAL EXCERPTS FROM ROYAL NAVY AND MARINES OFFICER FITNESS REPORTS:
>
> His men would follow him anywhere, but only out of curiosity.
>
> I would not breed from this officer.
>
> He has carried out each and every one of his duties to his entire
> satisfaction.
>
> He would be out of his depth in a car park puddle.
>
> This young lady has delusions of adequacy.
>
> This medical officer has used my ship to carry his genitals from port to
> port, and my officers to carry him from bar to bar.
>
> Since my last report, he has reached rock bottom, and has started to
> dig...
>
> She sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve
> them.
>
> He has the wisdom of youth, and the energy of old age.
>
> Works well when under constant supervision and cornered like a rat in a
> trap.
>
> This man is depriving some poor village of its idiot.
>
> CRASH AND BURN RŠSUMŠS...
>
> These are taken from real rÈsumÈs and cover letters and were printed in
> the
> July 21, 1997 issue of Fortune Magazine. Some of these excerpts have
> been
> circulated already; a few are new. I especially enjoy the beer-can
> analogy
> in the US Military section...
>
>
> I demand a salary commiserate with my extensive experience.
>
> I have lurnt Word Perfect 6.0 computor and spreadsheet progroms.
>
> Received a plague for Salesperson of the Year.
>
> Reason for leaving last job: maturity leave.
>
> Wholly responsible for two (2) failed financial institutions.
>
> Failed bar exam with relatively high grades.
>
> It's best for employers that I not work with people.
>
> Let's meet, so you can 'ooh' and 'aah' over my experience.
>
> You will want me to be Head Honcho in no time.
>
> Am a perfectionist and rarely if if ever forget details.
>
> I was working for my mom until she decided to move.
>
> Marital status: single. Unmarried. Unengaged. Uninvolved. No
> commitments.
>
> I have an excellent track record, although I am not a horse.
>
> I am loyal to my employer at all costs... Please feel free to respond to
> my
> resume on my office voice mail.
>
> I have become completely paranoid, trusting completely no one and
> absolutely nothing.
>
> My goal is to be a meteorologist. But since I possess no training in
> meteorology, I suppose I should try stock brokerage.
>
> I procrastinate, especially when the task is unpleasant.
>
> As indicted, I have over five years of analyzing investments.
>
> Personal interests: donating blood. Fourteen gallons so far.
>
> Instrumental in ruining entire operation for a Midwest chain store.
>
> Note: Please don't miscontrue my 14 jobs as 'job-hopping'. I have never
> quit a job.
>
> Marital status: often. Children: various.
>
> Reason for leaving last job: They insisted that all employees get to
> work
> by 8:45 a..m. every morning. Could not work under those conditions.
>
> The company made me a scapegoat, just like my three previous employers.
>
> Finished eighth in my class of ten.
>
> References: None. I've left a path of destruction behind me.
From ???@??? Sat Jul 18 18:09:16 1998
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Tue, 19 May 1998 16:55:05 -0400 (EDT)
From: Jwa0228
Message-ID: <51629618.3561f1ab@aol.com>
Date: Tue, 19 May 1998 16:55:05 EDT
To: JC4336@aol.com, jamason@aloha.net (Judy Mason), coni@aloha.net,
sarah@datapro.net, agunther@silverlink.net, fperry@oz.net,
Danie_carr@lakeside.sea.wa.us, BURLEY@primenet.com, SHarris107@aol.com,
gratley@overlakehospital.org, CATRENDLER@aol.com, j&garlow@olywa.net,
HANSENEP@aol.com, farmall@thurston.com (Beverly), mferland@olywa.net,
whower@micron.net, evGorGIB@ncia.com, Paulbeeman@aol.com,
krco@worldnet.att.net, april.asbury@experian.com,
rkasbury@teleport.com, ekasbury@teleport.com, ketchak@whitman.edu,
fiver@sprynet.com, samantha@xmission.com,
jam0805@aol.com (Alex&Jacques)
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: Little Miss Abi arrives!
Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII
Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit
X-Mailer: AOL 3.0 16-bit for Windows sub 38
Status: RO
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Her very name sounds like chimes ringing, doesn't it?
ABIGAIL ISABELLE MICHEL !
As our beloved late patriarch Frank Asbury would have said, as he so proudly
said of the Asbury name, " It has has a ring to it! " She was born to
Alexandra Asbury and Jacques Michel in Minnesota this morning at 11:20 a.m.
She weighed 6 pounds and 14 ounces (which is just one half an ounce heavier
than her mother weighed on January 4, 1969.) She is 20 inches tall (which is
1 inch taller than her mother was when she was born.) She is pretty
(according to her mother) and she is "cool" (according to her father.) She
has lots of dark hair and has already mastered Sucking 101. She is
sympathetic and tender hearted, as was evidenced when she cried all the while
the doctors were stitching her mother back together and subjecting poor Alex
to all the uncomfortable indignities that always follow the joys and giddy
anticipation of the actual birth. As soon as they stopped bothering her
mother she was silent and visibly relieved.
They'll call her "Abi." She will be queen of the household in Woodbury,
Minnesota which already boasts two dogs and two parrots. Her new bedroom has
been painted green and her toys and wardrobe await her pleasure there.
Her grandparents Janet and Bill Asbury will now be able to sleep nights,
knowing that she has arrived safely. Janet plans to fly out next week to help
with the menagerie so the parents can dote on Abi herself.
Are we happy or what?
By the way Abi's email address is the same as her parents, jam0805@aol.com
With love and great pleasure,
Janet and Bill Asbury
From ???@??? Sat Jul 18 18:09:17 1998
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Date: Tue, 19 May 1998 20:59:06 -0700 (PDT)
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Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
To: Jwa0228 , JC4336@aol.com, jamason@aloha.net (Judy Mason),
coni@aloha.net, sarah@datapro.net, agunther@silverlink.net,
fperry@oz.net, Danie_carr@lakeside.sea.wa.us, BURLEY@primenet.com,
SHarris107@aol.com, gratley@overlakehospital.org, CATRENDLER@aol.com,
j&garlow@olywa.net, HANSENEP@aol.com, farmall@thurston.com (Beverly),
mferland@olywa.net, whower@micron.net, evGorGIB@ncia.com,
Paulbeeman@aol.com, krco@worldnet.att.net, april.asbury@experian.com,
ekasbury@teleport.com, ketchak@whitman.edu, fiver@sprynet.com,
samantha@xmission.com, jam0805@aol.com (Alex&Jacques)
From: Raymond Asbury
Subject: Re: Little Miss Abi arrives!
Status: RO
X-Status:
Can it be? Miss Abi has joined me on the most glorious day of the year.
May 19 is my birthday as well. There's a lass with class! Oh were I only
celebrating my first, rather than my 47th.
My goodness, I haven't a clue who most of these cryptic addresses are
pointed to, but I presume that they're all associated with the Asbury name
in some fashion. Hello to all of you.
Let me be the first of the Oregon Asbury's to congratulate all of you on
this blessed event. I'm sure that you're all very proud.
Cheers,
Ray Asbury
Portland, Oregon
At 04:55 PM 5/19/98 EDT, Jwa0228 wrote:
> Her very name sounds like chimes ringing, doesn't it?
> ABIGAIL ISABELLE MICHEL !
>
>As our beloved late patriarch Frank Asbury would have said, as he so proudly
>said of the Asbury name, " It has has a ring to it! " She was born to
>Alexandra Asbury and Jacques Michel in Minnesota this morning at 11:20 a.m.
>She weighed 6 pounds and 14 ounces (which is just one half an ounce heavier
>than her mother weighed on January 4, 1969.) She is 20 inches tall (which is
>1 inch taller than her mother was when she was born.) She is pretty
>(according to her mother) and she is "cool" (according to her father.) She
>has lots of dark hair and has already mastered Sucking 101. She is
>sympathetic and tender hearted, as was evidenced when she cried all the while
>the doctors were stitching her mother back together and subjecting poor Alex
>to all the uncomfortable indignities that always follow the joys and giddy
>anticipation of the actual birth. As soon as they stopped bothering her
>mother she was silent and visibly relieved.
>
>They'll call her "Abi." She will be queen of the household in Woodbury,
>Minnesota which already boasts two dogs and two parrots. Her new bedroom has
>been painted green and her toys and wardrobe await her pleasure there.
>
>Her grandparents Janet and Bill Asbury will now be able to sleep nights,
>knowing that she has arrived safely. Janet plans to fly out next week to help
>with the menagerie so the parents can dote on Abi herself.
>
>Are we happy or what?
>
>By the way Abi's email address is the same as her parents, jam0805@aol.com
>
> With love and great pleasure,
>
>Janet and Bill Asbury
>
>
=============================================================================
Sat Jul 18 18:09:19 1998
To: sarah@datapro
Return-Path:
Subject: Abi News!
Hello Family and Well-Wishers!
Thanks to each of you for your e-mails, phone calls and cards, welcoming our
little Abigail Isabel Michel to the world! We are so thrilled to finally have
a little bundle to play with. She is healthy, happy and best of all a good
baby! Mom, Dad and Granny Janny (who has been here to lend a hand since
Wednesday) have been lucky enough to be able to get some good sleep sessions
in at night!
For those of you who did not receive Janet's e-mail with all the vitals, Abi
came to the world on May 19th at 1:20PM weighing 6 lbs. 14 ozs, measuring 20
inches long. She has a full head of dark brown hair and the usual dreamy blue
eyes of a new born. Abi has her daddy's hands, mouth and late night
wakefulness. She has mommys' ears, feet, and healthy appetite. We are very
proud and our confidence in caring for her is growing stronger each day.
Attached is a photo we scanned of her at 1 day old while still in the
hospital. We will send more news when we are feeling caught up with this
whole fiasco. A friend of mine told me that it has been proven that a
pregnant woman's brain actually shrinks. Perhaps it's that, or perhaps I am
simply so overwhelmed by recent events that it is hard to capture the
experience for you as descriptively as I'd like to. For now, just know we are
well and grateful Abi has such a warm circle of friends and relatives to greet
her as she enters her family!
Love to all,
Abi, Alex and Jacques
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Subject: Granny Janny meets Abi
My visit to Abi in Minnesota was truly a "whirlwind" because of the wild, wild
storm that wiped out homes just blocks from Alex and Jacques new estate on
Friday the 29th after I arrived on Wednesday, May 27. They are not true
tornado winds they have there in the Upper Plains, but "straight line winds"
(that can reach 100 mph) which tore trees up by their roots, roofs from houses
and flattened all the beautiful landscapes in its path. Alex and Jacques
have a basement with two stories above it and when the thunder and lightning
and rain began to sound like a freight train on the way we all retreated to
the basement, people, dogs and bird! It was dark, as the power had failed,
but we had a couple of flashlights to find our way. Abi was placid through it
all in spite of the tension and fear we must have communicated. When the
terrible roar died down we ventured up stairs and back to beds, but with a new
unease.
We were much luckier than their near neighbors. Eighty houses suffered great
damage and many lesser damage. The lingering memento of the storm at Alex's
house was the lack of TV cable to keep us abreast of recovery stories. That
lasted two days, and then it came on only periodically. We drove to the boat
on Sunday to check on its survival and found Wavy Gravy was intact, perched on
its trailer, but nearby boats were covered with tree trunks and branches, and
right behind "Gravy" a tree was completely uprooted.
Abi was not insensitive to the trauma as we had thought. The next day when
there was a loud thunderclap she yelled out a valid protest. She's a very
aware little witness to all around her.
I mailed a montage of photos to all of you yesterday, which shows her
character as well as her beauty.
Alex, as you will see, maintained her beauty her cheerfulness and her
competence throughout all this. The babe is nursing well and allowing her
parents as much as five hours of sleep at a time, ALREADY!
I was smitted with their green and golden state. It very much reminds me of
my childhood home in Kansas. The skies are so open to the land, and there is
no place to feel sheltered from whatever is up there and might want to come
down for a visit, so there is a sense of adventure inherent in the place.
There are low rolling hills and lots of beautiful oaks trees. Peonies were in
full bloom and everything smelled so fresh and clean.
I left after a week as I began to get a sore throat and didn't want to risk
infecting Abi. (I had sat next to a child who sneezed on the flight out
there.)
I hope you all enjoy the photos I sent. I have more, if you want to sehouse,
garden, dogs and parrots as well.
Love Granny J.
PS: Judi and Coni: I sent the photos to Pal and Barbra this time.
===========================================================================
To: Sarah
Sat Jul 18 18:10:36 1998
you are spoiling this little person too much! thank you for the "super cool,"
as dad says, gap wear! shouldn't be too much longer before it fits. she is
going through a serious growth spurt and eating almost hourly during the day
and every two at night. we're not sleeping much but at least i'm not worried
about her appetite. i just changed a diaper that it swear weighed as much as
she does. we measured her length and she grew a full inch in a week. dunno
what she weighs but she has outgrown some onesies already. the pooh
collection you sent still fits and she practically lives in them. gotta go.
she's getting fussy for dinner. i'll call you soon. thanks for being such a
nice auntie.
alex and abi
============================================================================
From: JAM0805@aol.com
To: Jwa0228@aol.com
Subject: What a week!
Date: Thu, 2 Jul 1998 12:13:28 EDT
Hey Clan,
You are probably in SLC already but wanted to respond to your e-mails of late.
Thank you for the carrot cake recipe. Haven't made it yet but might for the
4th of July. I can't wait!
Sarah and I had a great week together. At least I thoroughly enjoyed it and I
hope she did too. We made it out into the real world for an excursion every
day which did wonders for my disposition. We went for a two mile walk around
a lake one day, went downtown for lunch another, went to Stillwater for lunch
and a walk along the river but blew off the walk as it was about 90 percent
humidity outside, went for a ride on the Wavy Gravy (yes, Abi has a
lifejacket), went to the Zoo, and went shopping and bought Abi a swing which
Aunt Sarah assembled. Abi LOVES it!
Sarah was a crappy guest as she did laundry every day and fed Maggie and Rocky
every morning before we ever stirred. We awoke to her always cheerfulness and
a fresh brewed pot of coffee. Friday night Sarah babysat so Jacques and I
could go on a date. We went to a jazz club where we had drinks and appetizers
but left before the music. We missed our Abigail and wanted to spend time
with Sarah since we likely won't see her anytime soon. We came home to a
peacefully sleeping baby with freshly painted toe nails and a little pink bow
in her whales tail! Aunt Sarah just couldn't resist playing dolls.
We have offically deemed Sarah the godmother of Rocky. She persisted in
getting acquainted with him and by the end of the week he was "stepping up" on
her hand and talking to her. She told him he was "goo loooking" (add Hispanic
accent) and won his affection.
We all hated to see her go on Monday night. She left us feeling lonesome, but
with many fond memories and good tips from an experienced mother.
Gotta run "Crabigail (another Aunt Sarahism) is hungry and letting me know in
no uncertain terms.
Love you all,
Alex, Jacques and Abi.