Tele Aadsen

writer - fisherman - listener

Last June, my editor’s response to Draft #2 arrived on our doorstep just as we were prepar­ing to head north. If there can be a good time or place to face the fact that your book needs major revi­sions, I found mine in the Nerka’s pilot seat, alone on my wheel watch­es while Joel slept, the promise of Alas­ka ahead. My man­u­script was heavy in my lap as, removed from the world with­in this pock­et of sus­pend­ed time, I read it from begin­ning to end. All 323 pages, many of the mar­gins dark with pen­ciled edits. Then I read it again. Com­ments that stung the first time through mer­it­ed con­tem­pla­tion on the sec­ond. By the third read, I agreed with most of them.

When we arrived in Sit­ka, I reunit­ed with my friend Mary. She, like too many peo­ple in my tran­sient life, is some­one I’d like to share more time with. I sus­pect we’d uncov­er much com­mon ground, giv­en the oppor­tu­ni­ty, but abbre­vi­at­ed shore leave has lim­it­ed us to Face­book exchanges and park­ing lot hud­dles. And to this moment, two women step­ping out of a clus­ter of male cap­tains to nur­ture a sea­son­al con­nec­tion on a bustling dock.

She asked how my book was going. I told her what I’d just real­ized, see­ing through my editor’s eyes: I’d lost my hold on the story.

I wan­dered over here,” I flapped my right hand toward the break­wa­ter, “into issues of sex and monogamy and fideli­ty. But that wasn’t the core narrative.

It’s here,” palms togeth­er, heart-cen­ter, “in the ten­sion of being togeth­er and sep­a­rate. The strug­gle to main­tain your iden­ti­ty as a strong, inde­pen­dent per­son, while in part­ner­ship with some­one else. Being depen­dent on each oth­er while stay­ing true to the per­son you want to be, all with­in the con­fines of a boat. What that looks like.”

Bob­bing her head, Mary’s eyes grew shiny. “Yes, yes – oh my god, yes!”

That affir­ma­tive response was a gift. She was the first per­son I shared this renewed direc­tion with, and her enthu­si­asm helped me trust I was on the right track. That I could wres­tle the nar­ra­tive back to where it need­ed to be, and that this ten­sion between self and cou­ple was the point of con­nec­tion between author and read­er. It was the place where my sto­ry could become big­ger than myself.

 

IMG_2747

 

I don’t write on the boat. I’m on deck work­ing eigh­teen, sev­en­teen, fif­teen hours a day, for weeks at a time. In the cab­in, Joel and I are always with­in six feet of each oth­er. Our town time is chore-focused, rush­ing through tasks to get back out as soon as pos­si­ble. If bad weath­er grants us an unex­pect­ed day off, I just want to sleep. (I am so, so for­tu­nate that River­head gets this. In gra­cious dead­lines and tol­er­ance for an author who’s incom­mu­ni­ca­do for months, my edi­tor has demon­strat­ed her val­ue of my fish­ing life and this book.)

I don’t write on the boat, but I do think about writ­ing. My friend Andrea says this counts. She calls this mulling over char­ac­ter devel­op­ment, metaphor, and just-right sen­tences “com­post­ing,” and says it’s an essen­tial part of the writ­ing process. I agree. I spent a lot of time com­post­ing this sum­mer, think­ing about that dock­side con­ver­sa­tion. Sure­ly Mary and I couldn’t be alone in our expe­ri­ence of doing work we loved, with the per­son we loved, know­ing the won­drous for­tune of our lives – and still nurs­ing a qui­et fear that we sac­ri­ficed some essen­tial part of our self along the way.

Were there more of us?

I put a card in the mail to a woman I love and respect, some­one who was once in the same boat as my friend and me, hav­ing gone to sea with her male part­ner many years ear­li­er. Joni began fish­ing in the 1960s. I asked how it had been for her, what she recalled of that expe­ri­ence, what it meant to her now.

When her response arrived a month lat­er, I didn’t read it. I want­ed to wait for a qui­et, soli­tary space, a time when I could give her words my full atten­tion. Space and time: the two things that don’t exist on the boat. It was only with­in the past few days that I final­ly opened her email. I’m still try­ing to pick myself up off the floor, so moved by the gen­eros­i­ty with which she gave her story.

Joni’s sto­ry is not mine to share – and yet, her sto­ry is mine. You know how the cliché goes: the more things change, the more they stay the same. Togeth­er, we span six decades in fish­ing. I think about how the har­bors have changed – more female deck­hands, more cou­ples run­ning boats togeth­er, more women run­ning their own boats – and then I hear a voice in my head, whis­per­ing ques­tions of iden­ti­ty, belong­ing, invis­i­bil­i­ty. And I can’t tell whether it’s Joni’s voice speak­ing, or my own.

 

Sunset Through Hawsehole

 

This is why I read and write mem­oir: because I want to light these places we don’t often reveal to each oth­er. Vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties we mask, doubts we’re not sup­posed to acknowl­edge. In plac­ing a high­er virtue on silence than on trust, we com­mit to our own alien­ation. We build our walls high­er, fail­ing to see that the expe­ri­ences that leave us feel­ing iso­lat­ed are the very ones with the pow­er to bring us togeth­er. I tell my sto­ry because I want to know yours.

My hunch is that this issue isn’t only a women-on-boats strug­gle. For many of us, the chal­lenge to pre­serve some sense of “me” amongst a “we” is sim­ply an effect of grow­ing up as a girl-child in Amer­i­ca, social­ized from Day One to put our­selves sec­ond. So I won­der if this speaks to you, and if it does, how you’ve nav­i­gat­ed the ten­sion between self-iden­ti­ty and part­ner­ship. What the rewards and sac­ri­fices have been. If your def­i­n­i­tions of “reward” and “sac­ri­fice” have changed over time.

And I won­der, too, what these ques­tions bring up for Hooked’s male-iden­ti­fied read­ers. Many of you orig­i­nal­ly start­ed fol­low­ing this blog for the fish sto­ries; that you’ve stayed through med­i­ta­tions on gen­der and self-iden­ti­ty means a lot to me. You’re infused with cul­tur­al expec­ta­tions dif­fer­ent from those I grew up with  – dif­fer­ent; no less pow­er­ful. I won­der what you iden­ti­fy as the lead­ing mes­sages of your life, how you inter­nal­ized them, and how those mes­sages have impact­ed your life and relationships.

While I searched for the right thought to close this post, yet anoth­er inspir­ing woman from the fleet pro­vid­ed the words I was look­ing for. Thank you, Erin, for shar­ing this quote right when I need­ed to hear it.

What we hunger for per­haps more than any­thing else is to be known in our full human­ness, and yet that is often just what we also fear more than any­thing else. It is impor­tant to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we tru­ly and ful­ly are … because oth­er­wise we run the risk of los­ing track of who we tru­ly and ful­ly are and lit­tle by lit­tle come to accept instead the high­ly edit­ed ver­sion which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more accept­able than the real thing. It is impor­tant to tell our secrets too because it makes it eas­i­er … for oth­er peo­ple to tell us a secret or two of their own … ”

— Fred­er­ick Buech­n­er (Telling Secrets)

 

I’m ask­ing big ques­tions at a busy time, friends. Hooked’s FINAL final man­u­script is due this Decem­ber. Between revi­sions and man­ag­ing all our own fish mar­ket­ing for the first time, I’m out-of-my-head swamped. For­give my belat­ed response to the con­ver­sa­tion. Trust that I’m read­ing — I hear you — and I’m grate­ful to know you. Love and appre­ci­a­tion to all.