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


Night Tide

It’s 3 am.  Our first overnight in years.  Gone are the times when openers were measured in days; now they are meted out in hours.

The water is calm and glassy with a little leftover swell.  Not a problem, just a reminder of the sou’wester that blew through.

We gently motor to the gear, careful to avoid nets and cork clusters between camp and our locations.  The sun has set, but no one told the northern sky.  There is still light.  Faint, but enough to find the way without a spotlight.  Or maybe day is already dawning — it’s hard to tell in Alaska this time of year.

The full moon shimmers on the water off our stern.  As we pick the gear the moon descends, turns the color of a sectioned grapefruit or blood orange, then disappears.

By the time we head back to camp to deliver our catch, day has clearly dawned.  A beautiful transition, worth the lack of sleep.  Gotta love the night tide.


A Poet’s Confession


If I could describe the waves so you could hear them,

Or the salt spray so you could taste it.

If my words could make you squint at the sun shimmering on the water

Or make spongy sand appear beneath your feet

Or an ocean breeze ruffle through your hair.

If only I could impart the peace of this place,

But my efforts are meager at best,

For how can a small-time poet ever expect to out-write God?