The boat's not fast so there's plenty of time for dolphins to find us and keep company. Up north the dolphins are black and white, like little killer whales. They put on quite a performance doing twists and somersaults in the boat's bow wake. Then they're gone. Time for lunch? Or just fickle like young women.
Whales can be curious. They sneak up on you and announce they're here with a belch of air and water. Then they slide alongside, disappear in the water ahead and pop head high in the air to get a better look at you.
A local looked at me after I arrived. This is pretty hard work. He was trying to intimidate me. You think you can cut it? Do the fish shoot back (contemplating the 200 raids I'd survived during the war)? Nope, he said with a puzzled look. I'll be fine.
You work from dawn till dusk, in July in Prince William Sound that means 3 or 4 hours sleep. When the salmon are running, you do nothing but work. No one wants to hear that you're tired, sick or hurt. Just work.
And at the end of the day and the beginning, you'll have another job. On a small seiner, the deckhand doubles as the cook. My specialties were beer pancakes for breakfast and fresh caught salmon for dinner. The crew, the philistines, never wanted salmon: give us steak or burgers. I tried chicken and dumplings once. The dumplings ended up being just soggy dough. I blamed it on the diesel drip stove that took forever to heat up, but it was probably not having any milk on the fishing grounds, so I substituted beer for milk in the recipe. It worked for the pancakes, so why not for dumplings.
Before long a deckhand's hands become so tough you can't open them all the way. Cut yourself with a knife, you don't bleed.
Grab the end of the big seine net you forgot to secure and you'll get whipped across the deck faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Pray you let go of the net before it pulls you in the water. If you go in, the cold water blows the air right out of your lungs. Don't get your boots off before they fill with water, you sink. Get tangled in the net you're probably a goner, too.
Almost freezing in July your fishing gear keeps you warm while the net races off the stern and into the water, its floats clopping on the end of the deck as they go over the side. The freezing rain hits your face like an amphetamine, a rush carrying you through the job of hauling in the big net. When you're heaving it in, it feels like it will pull the muscles right off your bones.
Three miles off shore in the driving rain with the engine cut off because there's a net with 2,000 salmon alongside. The wind was driving us on the rocks and not another boat anywhere to be seen. We should have cut the fish loose. Even in the summer the cold waters of the Sound will kill you quick. 2,000 salmon was too big a payday, we were young, reckless, rolled the dice and bagged the fish. As I looked up after bringing the last fish abroad, a wave broke over the rocks that were almost close enough to touch. The engine started and we pulled away.
