Shelikof Strait acts as a funnel for the winds generated by the monster fronts of the Pacific and Bering seas. Winds howl up the Strait off the land with a ferocious suction. For some reason, Alaskans call the winds Williwaws. They can blow 130 mph at their peak.
I never explain these natural phenomena to myself. I understood them once and forgot what I knew, intentionally, the better to ignore the danger. Just off Cape Douglas, currents from four directions meet—from the Kennedy Entrance, the Cook Inlet, the Kachemak Bay, and the Gulf of Alaska. The mountains behind Cape Douglas rise up from the sea in walls of ice and snow. It is a sight once seen you will never forget. The winds blow over the ice and snow and down on the waters below the Cape. It is 10 degrees colder there and winds blow 20 to 30 mph harder. The snow and ice become like tiny nicking blades against your skin. The waves, blown by the Williwaws, stack up in high and frequent sets. They build one against another, higher and higher. In a meteorological instant—as few as three or four hours—a fisherman can be in a fight for his life. The turbulence of the waters goes well beyond what any human who has not experienced it can imagine.
For something to do, I page through a book put out by the Alaska Fish & Game Department, which for some reason devotes several pages to the Beaufort Scale, which categorizes seas that fishermen can expect to experience in the Bering Sea. A Force 12 is the highest: “Sea is completely white with driving spray; winds are at 64 knots; visibility is very seriously affected; the air is filled with foam and spray.” A Force 10 on the Beaufort Scale demonstrates the following weather: “Waves 29–41 feet, with very high waves with long overhanging crests; the resulting foam, in great patches, is blown in dense white streaks along the wind’s direction; on the whole, sea surface takes a white appearance, bumbling of the sea is heavy and shock-like, with visibility affected.” A Force 9 shows “winds of 41–47 knots with sea waves of 23–32 feet, with dense streaks of foam along the direction of the wind, and wave crests begin to topple, tumble, and roll over.” For us on the Bering, while we have experienced Force 12 seas occasionally, and see Force 10 now and then, the routine for us is Force 8, which becomes a Force 9 or 10, and when a Force 11 happens, we are neither shocked nor surprised.
A ship went past in the far distance some time ago making about 30 knots northeast, toward either Anchorage or Kenai. I have a plastic signal-flare gun onboard, but I have not checked its condition; its shells are twelve years old. Some of my fishing camp buddies must be wondering why they have not heard from me. On other days when I am red salmon fishing, I check in from time to time to tell them what I am catching, and they must have assumed by now that I landed on hot fishing, that I am loading up and so busy I cannot talk on the radio. How would they know I do not have a working radio? We watch out for one another, but we are self-sufficient. We do not worry about friends. We know that they are capable, experienced hands who can get themselves out of most jams.
Earlier, I jumped down into the tank and chose a sockeye to eat for lunch. I had planned on a barbecue. Salmon can be eaten without adding another thing—no butter, no salt or spices, no nothing—and its juices taste great. This one was fat bellied, a female filled with roe. Her skin was slick and silvery. I held her in both hands. Back on the deck, I gutted and filleted her and set aside the roe. The meat was firm and bright red, a beautiful color that bears testimony to the wild open seas that salmon travel with vigor and enviable freedom.
I had the foresight yesterday to bring aboard a small bag of self-lighting charcoal, the kind you light a match with. I had wired a rusted, broken, three-legged Weber grill to the starboard rail in the stern out my way when I was
I never explain these natural phenomena to myself. I understood them once and forgot what I knew, intentionally, the better to ignore the danger. Just off Cape Douglas, currents from four directions meet—from the Kennedy Entrance, the Cook Inlet, the Kachemak Bay, and the Gulf of Alaska. The mountains behind Cape Douglas rise up from the sea in walls of ice and snow. It is a sight once seen you will never forget. The winds blow over the ice and snow and down on the waters below the Cape. It is 10 degrees colder there and winds blow 20 to 30 mph harder. The snow and ice become like tiny nicking blades against your skin. The waves, blown by the Williwaws, stack up in high and frequent sets. They build one against another, higher and higher. In a meteorological instant—as few as three or four hours—a fisherman can be in a fight for his life. The turbulence of the waters goes well beyond what any human who has not experienced it can imagine.
For something to do, I page through a book put out by the Alaska Fish & Game Department, which for some reason devotes several pages to the Beaufort Scale, which categorizes seas that fishermen can expect to experience in the Bering Sea. A Force 12 is the highest: “Sea is completely white with driving spray; winds are at 64 knots; visibility is very seriously affected; the air is filled with foam and spray.” A Force 10 on the Beaufort Scale demonstrates the following weather: “Waves 29–41 feet, with very high waves with long overhanging crests; the resulting foam, in great patches, is blown in dense white streaks along the wind’s direction; on the whole, sea surface takes a white appearance, bumbling of the sea is heavy and shock-like, with visibility affected.” A Force 9 shows “winds of 41–47 knots with sea waves of 23–32 feet, with dense streaks of foam along the direction of the wind, and wave crests begin to topple, tumble, and roll over.” For us on the Bering, while we have experienced Force 12 seas occasionally, and see Force 10 now and then, the routine for us is Force 8, which becomes a Force 9 or 10, and when a Force 11 happens, we are neither shocked nor surprised.
A ship went past in the far distance some time ago making about 30 knots northeast, toward either Anchorage or Kenai. I have a plastic signal-flare gun onboard, but I have not checked its condition; its shells are twelve years old. Some of my fishing camp buddies must be wondering why they have not heard from me. On other days when I am red salmon fishing, I check in from time to time to tell them what I am catching, and they must have assumed by now that I landed on hot fishing, that I am loading up and so busy I cannot talk on the radio. How would they know I do not have a working radio? We watch out for one another, but we are self-sufficient. We do not worry about friends. We know that they are capable, experienced hands who can get themselves out of most jams.
Earlier, I jumped down into the tank and chose a sockeye to eat for lunch. I had planned on a barbecue. Salmon can be eaten without adding another thing—no butter, no salt or spices, no nothing—and its juices taste great. This one was fat bellied, a female filled with roe. Her skin was slick and silvery. I held her in both hands. Back on the deck, I gutted and filleted her and set aside the roe. The meat was firm and bright red, a beautiful color that bears testimony to the wild open seas that salmon travel with vigor and enviable freedom.
I had the foresight yesterday to bring aboard a small bag of self-lighting charcoal, the kind you light a match with. I had wired a rusted, broken, three-legged Weber grill to the starboard rail in the stern out my way when I was
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