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Chapter One
July 9, 2004
The bird is hungry.
It is always hungry. The need to eat is so strong,
it will do whatever it takes to satisfy it.
The need. All seagulls have it, some
more than others. This bird will eat anything, and risk anything to get
it. If it had a nickname, it might be Scrappy.
Swirling around in
the air currents, fifty feet above the water, the bird is the only
seagull flying today. He doesn't know it, but the winds are blowing 35
knots, and predicted to increase.
He floats above a
fixed point, a point that holds all his interest. The wind tosses him
around and he loses a few feathers, but he manages to generally hold his
position. He is focused on an object below, knowing he will be rewarded
for his efforts, his concentration. He has learned this well.
Ah, there it is, a
fish squirming----now it is in the air, too windy to catch it airborne,
hope it floats when it hits the surface, -----it does.
With a skill as much
instinct as learned, the gull swoops down and scoops the fish up in its
beak, before the fish is aware it can swim away, and swallows it whole.
Then aloft once more, once more waiting, once more above the same spot.
It's not long before
nature works its charm on the bird, and since there is only so much room
in a small bird like this scrappy one, he vacates his bowels.
This manna from
heaven is caught by the wind, and most of it dissipates. But the core,
the nucleus, held together by something in the bird's diet, remains
intact. Down --down--down--until--
It hits the fisherman
on the right side of his head, and drips into his ear.
This fisherman does
have a nickname. His nickname is Skufty, and he
has been called that ever since he can remember. It was his grandfather,
or Afi, that gave him this name, and he has no
understanding of what it means. Perhaps his Afi
just liked the sound of it.
Like the bird, Skufty is the only one of his species on the water
today.
He is in a boat, and he
is lifting nets and collecting the fish. The gull is eating the fish Skufty throws back into the water because they are
too small, or there is no market for them.
Skufty has been lifting these nets
for six hours, and he is getting tired. But he must remain alert. It is
dangerous on the water today. That is why no other fisherman, of more
than 800 that harvest the lake, is out here today.
Skufty flinches when the nucleus of
the bird's offal hits him in the ear. It’s not the liquid that he
notices. He is getting sprayed in the face by every wave, one every seven
seconds, and he is drenched. Even his oilers,
gear specifically designed to keep him dry, could not stop the water from
going down his front.
No, it is not the
liquid, -but the temperature of the liquid,-
that tells him a seagull just shit on his head.
For Skufty, this is comic relief. He knows he should not
be out on the lake in these conditions, knows he is in danger. But he has
his reasons.
He grins. He takes
his eyes from his task and looks up at the lone gull in the sky.
He laughs. "You
bastard," he says out loud. Then he pauses, looking at the bird.
There's something there, something he almost understands,
something…..
A wave crashes over
the bow, putting 5 gallons of water into the small 20-foot boat. Skufty gets back to his work, cocking an ear, the one
with shit in it , towards the back of the boat,
listening for the sound of the bilge pump pumping out the water. He hears
it, registers relief, then pulls on the cork
line, bringing another three feet of net, and ten fish, into the boat.
He pulls the fish out
of the gill net with a speed that would impress most of the other men who
ply these waters. He is rough on the nets today, and they will require
many repairs on shore later. But that doesn't matter now. He pulls on the
net again and brings more fish into the boat.
The waves are ten
feet high, and every one is breaking. Skufty
uses a wave to wash the shit off his head by leaning over the side of the
boat as he pulls the net in. His head is completely engulfed by the rush
of foam.
"Whew", is
all he says when he straightens out again, shaking his head. Then he puts
his back into his work.
He continues like
this for another hour. Tossed about the boat by each wave, he is forced
to use every ounce of his considerable strength to remain upright.
Sometimes he has to stop picking fish to swing the bow of the boat
directly into the waves, to avoid getting swamped. He has bruises all
over his body from being banged against the side rails of the boat, and
being yanked forward into the bow plate. He has fallen four times. He has
had to let the net go, and be pushed along by the waves ten times to
avoid getting flipped by a huge wave. His Afi
called them rogues, and there are many out here today, rogue waves,
bigger than they have a right to be. And they have a right to be big.
With each fish his
boat is heavier, and he knows he is already overloaded. But the end of
the net, the last net, is near. He can see the buoy off to his left, and
he sets his jaw.
When he reaches the
end of the net, he pulls himself still further along to the anchor line
and grabs the buoy line. Holding onto the buoy line, he lets most of the
line out, lets it run through his fingers as he is pushed back by the
waves. Before he reaches the buoy at the end of the buoy line, he loops
and ties the buoy line to the horn.
Basically a baseball
bat dropped halfway through a hole in the bow plate at the front of the
boat, the horn is one of the most useful features on such fishing boats.
With a supple flip of a line, be it anchor line or net line, a skilled
fisherman anchors his boat in seconds.
Skufty can tell he is dragging the
anchor, but at this point, who gives a shit. Now is the most dangerous
part of his day.
His boat is way
overloaded…. in horrific conditions. Skufty
is a big man, nearly 200 pounds. He is in the front of the boat and the
fish is in the back. In order to start his hellish ride back to the
harbor (he has some doubts he'll make it, mixed in with a healthy dose of
fear, but would never admit it to anyone) he has to go to the very back
of the boat. Then he must lower the motor, start it, rush back to the
front and cast off from the buoy, then rush back again to put the motor
in gear and drive off.
He can't cast off,
and then go back to start the motor because he'll be turned around by the
first wave that hits his boat, and swamped by the second. Even if he
isn't sunk by the second wave, his motor won't start once it's been
submerged, and the third wave will get him.
Skufty is grateful he couldn't
afford a power trim. All he has to do is pull on the motor, the latch
disengages, then he lets go, the motor drops and he starts it. Power trim
works off the battery and takes a long time to lower the motor.
Irrelevant most days, but not today.
He takes a quick look
forward, sees no rogue waves-although that’s no guarantee, they
don't announce themselves-then quickly leaps over the fish tubs in the
back of the boat. He lifts and drops the motor, turns the key, ----
nothing. One wave roars by and puts 25 gallons into the boat. He turns
the key again----nothing…
