We view time as a constant.
The tide pulls with such strength it actually slows Earth’s revolution;
It steals time from the firmament, lengthening our days.
The moon, which beckons the sea, is repelled by its tide.
Love unrequited, it observes from a distance, knowing more than we’ll ever fathom
How nature is fickle and time may be as fluid as the ocean.
The storm curls up the Inlet in a sneer,
An untamable cur that bites at my face and snaps at my clothes.
But behind the snarl, there is beauty.
It’s a tough love.
Isn’t it always?
In navigational terms, they say your outstretched fist is equivalent to approximately 10 degrees. I wonder how many fists it will take to change the course of this season.
We fight the Inlet tide, using cutlines so we don’t have to pick up at slack water. We hope the upcoming flood rewards us.
We fight the storms, launching our skiffs through angry breakers, seeking a harvest amongst the peaks and troughs. We hope the winds reward us.
We fight ourselves, ignoring bumps and bruises, sore muscles and smashed fingers. We hope our stubbornness will be rewarded.
We fight for our existence. The highly polar and politicized fish wars endanger us as many call for our demise. We hope our long history in the face of sustained runs will be rewarded.
I’m often asked why I keep fishing. Why fight each season? I’m not sure how to answer someone who doesn’t already understand. It’s like describing something using the wrong half of a foreign language dictionary. All I know is how adrift I would feel without fishing.
They say your heart is approximately the size of your fist. That seems fitting, for it is with your heart you battle your way in this world.
And so I continue to chart my course. Tide after tide. Season after season. Fist after fist. Hoping my heart stops before the fishing does.
“Folklore says that every seventh wave is bigger than the previous six, and there is some statistical evidence to back this up.” Breverton’s Nautical Curiosities.
It’s a lumpy sea on the flood and the day brought all the troubles that come with twenty foot tides in Cook Inlet. If the force of the wind increases by the square of its speed, well then, by my careful calculations, we are screwed. We have two choices, to go or to stay.
Maritime wisdom suggests keeping a thumb’s width from danger as measured on a nautical chart. If only it were that easy. With no protected port, a sou’wester is a double-edged sword. It often brings bounty. It always brings hardship. It can push the run inshore, but we have to launch straight into the storm to reap the reward. It doesn’t matter whose thumb is used for the measure, today we are well within a digit of danger.
This season we are shorthanded but making the best of it. Stormy days, we feel it most. With our pared down crew, we decide to launch. John drops the skiff in the surf, but before he can park Allis and the trailer, we are blown off the pullout line. I can’t recall the last time we had a failure to launch.
We start over. Trailer the skiff. Bring it back to the line. This time my cousin’s crew helps us hold steady in the surf waiting for the flat spot. I don’t count to see if it comes after the seventh wave. Folklore can’t help us now.
We hop in and pull our little skiff into the froth. Waves break over the bow, soaking us before the outboard is even running, but we manage to get off the beach.
Sou’westers always bring hardship. It’s time to see if this one brings a bounty.
It’s winter in the Great Land and the days are dwarfed by nights
The skies are lit by dancing, crackling Northern Lights
The river ice is snapping like beasts bustin’ through the timber
The cold cuts through my joints, they are much more stiff than limber
The fluttering aurora catch stars in a mesh of green
My thoughts start to wander as I survey the scene
The longer days of summer now compose my dreams
With visions of the sockeye’s return to natal streams
Nets flung across the water like these lights across this sky
Salmon hang like stars, flashing silver sides
The days are getting longer and soon I will be
Out there on the Inlet, rocking on the sea
But it’s still winter in the Great Land and the days are dwarfed by nights
Tho the skies are lit by dancing, crackling Northern Lights