Tele Aadsen

writer - fisherman - listener

Hey friends — Aman­da is our spe­cial pen pal for the sum­mer, as intro­duced in this post. I’m grate­ful to her for shar­ing her first-time fish­er­man per­spec­tive with us, and hope you’ll join me in wel­com­ing her to our com­mu­ni­ty here.

Wednes­day, June 20, 2012

Dear Hooked,

Thank you so much for the oppor­tu­ni­ty to write.  I have found some­thing real­ly spe­cial about telling folks in Sit­ka that I am going to work my first sum­mer on a fish­ing boat.  I’ve seen a lot of faces light up with warm, nos­tal­gic smiles and I’ve heard many an excla­ma­tion that lets me know I’m about to have an expe­ri­ence to cher­ish. I have been received with noth­ing but sup­port and have been told many times that I am “going to have so much fun!”  For this and a few oth­er rea­sons, I feel moti­vat­ed to write about my expe­ri­ence and I am grate­ful for an out­let here.

I’m work­ing on a fish­ing boat this sum­mer. I’ve nev­er worked on a boat, I’ve nev­er spent more than a night on the water, and I’ve nev­er even real­ly caught a fish.  I grew up in a sub­urb of Seat­tle and went to col­lege in Belling­ham, Wash­ing­ton. I’ve spent the last four years doing var­i­ous types of social work.  I’ve worked with devel­op­men­tal­ly dis­abled adults, divorc­ing par­ents, and most recent­ly chil­dren with men­tal health issues.  It is safe to say that with the emo­tion­al exhaus­tion these jobs have caused, I’ve often ide­al­ized a kind of work that is demand­ing in a dif­fer­ent way.  This is part of the fish­ing job appeal.

When I moved to Sit­ka, just like so, so many before me, I was instant­ly charmed by the har­bors and the fish­ing cul­ture. The descrip­tions are so quaint they are cliché, the bob­bing of boats, the smell of old wood, fish, and diesel, the back drop of trees and moun­tains.  It all appealed to me in a dis­tant way because I knew noth­ing about it. I was struck by the cama­raderie among fish­er peo­ple who always seem to have some­thing to talk about; a big catch, a boat main­te­nance issue, an upcom­ing sea­son open­er, they have a lan­guage that can only include those among the trade.  The social savvy side of me has always want­ed to par­tic­i­pate in the con­ver­sa­tion, espe­cial­ly with a scruffy young fish­er­man or two, but this is the kind of talk that you can’t fake.  You don’t talk about it unless you’ve lived it.

Her­ring sea­son ampli­fied this to a degree I was not expect­ing.  That time of year, late win­ter and ear­ly spring, brought a lot to Sit­ka and to me by default. Not only did I see two months of the most beau­ti­ful weath­er I have seen in Alas­ka, but the town col­lec­tive­ly woke up.  Peo­ple got out on their bikes and hikes, dug up their gar­den beds, and went out to brunch.  The days were notice­ably longer and the town filled with new peo­ple, includ­ing a charm­ing her­ring sein­er who I hap­pened to become acquaint­ed with.  We shared each other’s com­pa­ny for a few weeks and hear­ing him talk (com­plain, brag, joke…) about the sea­son was real­ly inter­est­ing to me. It pro­vid­ed me with moments to learn from some­body who spoke of some­thing he clear­ly cared for and knew about.  There is so much expe­ri­ence behind this kind of knowl­edge.  I won’t resign all the cred­it to this adorable fish­er­man and his unyield­ing habit of help­ing friends and friends of friends, but I did men­tion to him that I liked the idea of work­ing on a fish­ing boat.  Soon enough, we could bare­ly walk down the har­bor with­out him facil­i­tat­ing a new intro­duc­tion.  And for some rea­son, I got some job offers.

The job I accept­ed is work­ing for the salmon sea­son on a “ten­der boat.” This is a big boat that trans­fers fish from the trollers out at sea to the pro­cess­ing plant on land. My job is to cook for a crew of two men plus myself, write the “fish tick­ets” (receipts), and mis­cel­la­neous deck­hand work, like nav­i­gat­ing the boat or sort­ing incom­ing fish.

Step­ping onto the Nichawak [not the boat’s real name] for three months has me wor­ried about a num­ber of things.

Safe­ty: I can be pret­ty clum­sy, what if I trip or get tan­gled hurt­ing myself or jeop­ar­diz­ing the safe­ty of two oth­er people?

Iso­la­tion with two peo­ple I bare­ly know, what if we don’t get along?

I’m so inex­pe­ri­enced, I’m cer­tain I’ll sur­prise the cap­tain a time or two with what I don’t know.

I’m good with direct, clear instruc­tions but I know there will be times where I’ll feel like I’m learn­ing anoth­er language.

I’m wor­ried about my gen­der iden­ti­ty. I cher­ish my fem­i­nin­i­ty but I know that in a male dom­i­nat­ed cul­ture, there will be con­stant atten­tion drawn to it.  I will have to find a bal­ance, I don’t want to cov­et my fem­i­nin­i­ty but I don’t want to act upon it as if I’m obliged.

I know there are things I didn’t men­tion here (the phys­i­cal and psy­cho­log­i­cal toll of long work days, the nights awake in the wheel house, the mas­sive car­go of dead fish, killed with­out hes­i­ta­tion).  But over­all I hope that it sounds like I’m fair­ly aware of what I’m get­ting myself in to.

Ulti­mate­ly the rea­son why I am fish­ing is this. I have a col­lege degree, 25 years of life, and some tools I’ve picked up along the way. But I have no direc­tion.  There are a few things I know I’d like to do and be and make in life but at this point, I go wher­ev­er expe­ri­ences are to be had. Expe­ri­ence means new­ness, chal­lenge, lessons, and even­tu­al­ly wis­dom.  So whether I’m ready or not, I greet this expe­ri­ence, the Nichawak, tomor­row.

Aman­da