Tele Aadsen

writer - fisherman - listener

Fair warn­ing, read­ers – this is an unapolo­getic love sto­ry. Today is a spe­cial day that requires some sap­py reflec­tion. Those of you stop­ping by for a hot fish report or our lat­est wildlife encounter, please come back lat­er and Hooked will be back to the more usu­al fare.

I was crew­ing for my friend Mar­lin in 2004. A clip­ping from The Stranger, Seattle’s week­ly paper, rode in my wal­let: I will take a reprieve from dat­ing drunks, junkies, and emo­tion­al crip­ples. When Mar­lin saw me eye­ing boys on the dock, he was quick to chide, “Remem­ber what’s in your wallet!”

The Sadaqa came back to Sit­ka when the July king sea­son closed. Respond­ing to the same autopi­lot dri­ving oth­er deck­hands’ feet, my route from the har­bor paused at the pub­lic show­ers, then set a course for the Pio­neer Bar. The P Bar’s atten­dance reflect­ed that of the full har­bor, with fish­er­men wedged five deep like boats raft­ed together.

When the young man on the neigh­bor­ing stool smiled at me, I did a dou­ble-take. I rec­og­nized him as a fel­low boat kid, five years my junior and just legal to be there. When I was nos­ing into an ado­les­cence of blacked-out stum­bles through Sit­ka, he was a life-jack­et­ed sen­tinel on the docks, blissed out with a fishin’ pole glued to his hand. My mem­o­ries of oth­er kids from that time are silent, mat­te stills, but the glossy image of young Joel is accom­pa­nied by a sound­track, his excite­ment bel­low­ing across the water. “Pop­pa, Pop­pa! Come see what I caught!”

The ori­gins of Cap’n J. (With big thanks to Mama MJ for the photo!)

But this was­n’t a lit­tle kid sit­ting next to me. I stud­ied his clear green eyes and guile­less smile, and thought of the clip­ping in my pock­et. I was prowl­ing for a sum­mer fling and he appeared to have grown up well, sure­ly did­n’t fall under my restrict­ed cat­e­gories… No.  Hop­ing this fish­ing vaca­tion would fend off my increas­ing tremors of social ser­vice burn-out, I was back in Alas­ka to work. Cute as this boy was, after my pre­vi­ous dat­ing mishaps I didn’t need any fur­ther complications.

Of course, sweet read­er, you know how those kinds of self-assured procla­ma­tions go. The next night we walked through Totem Park, sub­mit­ting our­selves to a vora­cious dark­ness, and spent hours talk­ing on the shore. Dis­cov­er­ing a kin­dred spir­it in the South­east Alaskan rain­for­est, gen­tly hold­ing each oth­er’s shared his­to­ry under the chap­er­on­ing eye of moon­light as the sur­f’s faint chuck­ling approval echoed our words…My guard­ed heart did­n’t have a chance.

The uni­verse was work­ing over­time on Joel that sum­mer, ladling up a full plate of tran­si­tion. As our rela­tion­ship devel­oped, he wran­gled a win­ter job in the Cal­i­for­nia crab fish­ery, crew­ing for a leg­endary cap­tain who would become a life-chang­ing men­tor. And mid­way through the sea­son, his dad announced, “I don’t think I want to do this any­more… How about you take over the boat next year?”

And so, at the age of 22, Joel became Cap’n J. The tran­si­tion was less-than-seam­less. The old man had a nose for when to get out, and hand­ed the helm over just as every essen­tial sys­tem on board gave up the fight. Joel would have to author his own blog to share the sto­ries from that first sea­son; I still get the willies remem­ber­ing the moun­tain­ous series of mishaps.

Had I stag­gered free of a sea­son like Joel’s first, that might’ve been it for my fish­ing career. But to his immense cred­it, his love for fish­ing was stronger than the suf­fer­ing he’d endured. Blessed with a her­culean selec­tive mem­o­ry, fuel­ing his com­mit­ment with the rec­ol­lec­tions of good days, Cap’n J set about reviv­ing the Ner­ka.  Six years and an exhaus­tive, expen­sive under­tak­ing lat­er, he’s res­ur­rect­ed her to a sea­wor­thy ves­sel, a fishy boat that responds eager­ly to our requests.

And now, today is Cap’n J’s birth­day. He’s turn­ing 29, on the cusp of final­ly exit­ing his twen­ties.   His birth­day falls in the midst of our sea­son’s annu­al clo­sure, and in his ear­ly years as skip­per, this break meant mas­sive boat projects, try­ing to fend off dis­as­ter enough to make it through the sea­son’s remain­ing 6 weeks. There were sev­er­al con­sec­u­tive birth­days that he spent upside down in the bilge, sat­u­rat­ed in engine unmen­tion­ables and despair. Not this year. Our projects min­i­mal and most­ly done, we’re going to cel­e­brate with the lux­u­ry of sleep­ing in — not as in, “I’ll set the clock for 4:45 instead of 4:30,” but “What clock?” — and mosey through the day from there. The har­bor’s full of friends to vis­it, and there’s some snug­gling to do while we’re town-clean and still smelling fish-free.  About as relaxed as you can hope for mid-sea­son, 4 days before a 72-hour king salmon opening.

I could­n’t ask for a bet­ter life than this, work­ing for my best friend in the wild tem­ple where we both wor­ship. Please join me in send­ing your good thoughts to Cap’n J for a won­der­ful day — or, as he’s hop­ing, for a delayed birth­day present of giant king salmon and plen­ty of them, with clear skies and fair seas to boot.

Still as fish-crazed as he was 25 years ago.

(Hap­py birth­day, Bud­dy.  I’m thank­ful to have had this decade with you, and am look­ing for­ward to many more. Love you.)