Image 1

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.






I feel suffocated.  By air.  As I jump into the void that is anything but, the wind blasts my body.  It fills my nose and mouth making it a minor struggle to breathe.  I crane my head back.  It helps but little.  Breathing has switched from a passive to an active process and I find myself concentrating to fill my lungs.  I have to breathe with purpose.

As I fall, the chute catches and the world goes from a rushing tumult to silence.  Suddenly I can inhale with ease and I look down at the splendid earth and laugh.  It is the only appropriate response.

People ask why I wanted to go skydiving.  I have no good answer.  It’s difficult to describe the experience; the noise and the quiet, the rushing wind and the stillness.  So many emotions and sensations wrapped up in a single event.  But now I realize, maybe having to breathe with purpose is a lesson for more than just the freefall.  Maybe it’s the takeaway lesson for life.

The Seventh Wave


“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.

Winter Dreams



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




There are moments
So indescribable
Moments of darkness
And beauty
Maybe the contrast between the two makes them more apparent
Makes these moments, good and bad, touch our hearts more deeply
Like the wildfire burning uncontrolled which, in spite of the harsh flames and smoke, adds softened hues to the sunset
Beauty from ashes
I have been on this water every year of my life
Yet times I feel I’ve not been on this Inlet at all
The conditions are never exactly the same
I am never exactly the same
What’s that saying
No man ever steps into the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man. *
There are moments when I feel I am living the truth of that statement
No matter our catch
No matter our price
No matter our bottom line
I am wealthy beyond measure
Because of these moments