One Particular Wave

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tacorajim
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One Particular Wave

Post by tacorajim »

( . . . moments ago I submitted this story to my favorite rag -- the Fishermens News. If it gets published you can say you read it first on Jon's great site.) (I trolled salmon for 20 years from 'Frisco' to Yakutat, so do I get 'grandfathered' in with a tuna story?)

It was snotty but not that rough, yet my notion was that we had ventured too far offshore the night before. Now we were back wthin 200 miles and inside the Baseline where we could soon get a Loran reading. The first reliable fix that afternoon put us 180 miles off Point Sur. Our northerly course kept the port bow tossing up clouds of spray, as we lunged beneath them making our way up the line in search of albacore. Four days out of Pedro, we had yet to land that first ton.

We knew two other tuna boats with wives and kids aboard – the Havana and the Pursuit. But who knew where they were, maybe on the Davidson, or charging toward another Seamount. The big set was too quiet. Usually you could hear the Corregidor or the Sea Master. Perhaps it was too rough inshore for dragging, and that’s why we’d seen no other boats since heading out.

The farther up and in we got, the bigger the northwest swell, although the period between crests synchronized with the lazy yaw of our 60-foot Lynn Dee. We slid gracefully over the top and glided down the streaky backside, lugging across the bottom of each blue ravine, and climbed the next foaming mound up to where the cycle began. What’s it called nowadays? ‘15-second dominant wave period’. If you weren’t alert, you could be lulled to sleep at the wheel. On the other hand, if you were real careful, you wouldn’t even be out here.

Our boys, aged 10 and 12 took to the new deckhand, affectionally called “Uncle Billy”. My wife and I had been thanked a dozen times for rescuing him from San Pedro where he couldn’t stop squandering all his wife’s waitressing tips at the track. Even when he got work on a squid boat or whatever, he’d blow it all on the horses. And if a buddy was with him, he’d borrow and sprint to the ticket cage, doubling up on the next available race.

We motored onto the rising ramp of the next available wave as it just began to lift. My adrenalin suddenly ignited. My wife screamed, Jim, as I bellered hit the deck. Billy and I raised our arms and crossed them to shield against the approaching semi-translucent wall of water now towering higher than the overhead allowed us to monitor. I had time only to spin the wheel once or twice to deflect the impact on the windows. For a few moments this freak wave passed by us dimming the daylight inside the cabin. The worst was here. And it was now that the 40-ton Lynn Dee was airborne with glass intact descending slowly. Then 2 seconds later the boat crashed hard like she landed on some piece of coastal pasture from 30 feet in the sky. My attempt to remain standing at the wheel was quickly overcome by gravity – delivering me dazed to my hands and knees. Then I arose, looked around satisfied that my gang was totally unharmed. The boys were boxed in by the thickly-cushioned settee.

Billy regained his composure, stood by me shoulder to shoulder, dividing his glances between the gauges and what might come over the horizon. Another freak might follow. Jane summoned the kids and whisked them back to huddle in her bunk and say a prayer or something.

I wrestled with this mounting residual sense of emergency now even more than ever. Although we survived what seemed like the worst, what about hull damage or mechanical failure. Billy studied the gauges. I said, “The starboard engine’s heating up like crazy. I’m shutting her down. There won’t be enough power for steerage on one engine alone, even if we turn downhill.” Billy noticed me correcting course by constantly whipping the wheel back and forth. “With both engines running she steers by herself.” My head shook with nervous frustration. I couldn’t leave the wheel.

“Want me to prime it?” Billy asked.
“She lost her prime when we flew through the air, but can you prime it while I steer?”
“Sure. I watched you do it when we came off the ways in Pedro.”
“Great, Billy. Go below in the galley and open the engineroom door. There’s a gallon of distilled battery water inside on your right. That should be plenty. I’ll open the overhead hatch to give you more light.”

Both engines soon synched at 1500 RPMs. No apparent leaks. Though we made it through unscathed, sometimes you need an attitude adjustment. So we set course for Monterey Bay, breaking the trip in half, determined to lounge on the beaches, drink plenty of wine, and barbeque every night.

What few albacore we sold in Monterey wasn’t enough to top off the tanks. We were desparate enough to consider poaching halibut a week later when out of the blue this vintage sailboat dropped anchor. We soon heard they cooked their engine. The hired skipper took his things off the boat and skipped town. He’d brought her up from Brazil. Billy made friends easily, and soon met the owner’s son on the dock. He said he might, just might be able to talk his skipper into towing her up to San Francisco for a fee. We met, and agreed on a sum equal to five tons of tuna. Half in advance. Meanwhile we heard some good scores off Oregon. This would get us closer.

I don’t know how many lines we broke towing that old 50-foot ketch up to the Golden Gate. But we finally tied up in Alameda where the owner was waiting with the rest of the money. We partied that night.

The following day one of the boys slid open the cabin door, but did not step inside. He was sobbing uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face. I couldn’t imagine what might fill this child with such grief. He was anything but a crybaby. “Uncle Billy’s leaving.”

Despite my pleas, Billy had made up his mind to go back home to Pedro – patch things up with Becky. Being around our little family was fun, but it made him awfully lonesome. I suggested he walk up to the bank with me so I could pay him. “No Sir!” He looked me straight in the eye.

“If you gave me money, I’d catch a bus to Bay Meadows and blow it all on the horses.” We shook hands. I never saw him again, nor did I replace him. How could I?
f/v henrietta w
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Re: One Particular Wave

Post by f/v henrietta w »

There's catching fish, there's those quiet moments on the ocean that you alone bear witness to, and there's those charachters we come across and work beside on deck. or at the cannery, or just live with vicariously through the VHF. My personal favorite is the charachters, the unfogettable personalities. We just had a funeral for the old Rebel, Robert Pillman of F/V Luna, yesterday. He fished out of Newport for 30 years, and was a staple from 'Frisco to the Columbia. He caught only Big Fish, and came to trolling after a wide career spanning from writing poetry to robbing banks. Literally. From Lapp Sam to the Rebel, we are losing our old personalities. I hope the rest of us new kids can liveup to that legacy.
doryman
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Re: One Particular Wave

Post by doryman »

Sad to hear about Robert. Only met him a couple times but I sure got a million laughs from his talk on the radio over the years. What a character, he will be missed. This has been a tough winter on our fleet with the passing of George Shaw and Jim Spooner who frequented Garibaldi for many years.
ashadu
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Re: One Particular Wave

Post by ashadu »

Man that was a long time ago! Havana Tom might be the only one of the boat owners mentioned still with us. I guarantee they broke the mold on Rigsby, Art and John. Seamaster John was an old norwiegn who single handedly trawled pink shrimp. Pull, set, pick, ice --alone. Rigsby and his wife Barbra were pioneers of the midpacific albacore fishery along with Richard Ennis of the Viva. Art on the Corriegedore was responsible for giving half the deckhands in morro bay their start, and believe me ,he was just full of little pearls of saltwater wisdom. Back then we would have upwards of 100 boats in port during a blow. and our home fleet was 40 plus salmon, albacore,and trawlers. Now fishermen are between an endangered species and enviromental terrorist, depending on who you are talking to. ashadu fred
tacorajim
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Re: One Particular Wave

Post by tacorajim »

Welcome to the group, Fred.

Check your PM in upper left corner. You have a new message.
almostfree
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Re: One Particular Wave

Post by almostfree »

Awesome story. My pops used to run the corregidor for a little bit.
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