Thursday, August 28th, 1997

Day 8: Homer, Alaska

The sun is a bright white spotlight behind a thick curtain of fog when we wake to my beeping watch at 6:30.  We rise slowly, and meet Greg at the Wok at 7:00.  Since we failed to procure any Dramamine, he suggests we take along a couple "Accu-bands" to try in case we start feeling motion sickness.  They are little velcro straps that hold a small 1/2-spherical button against the inside of your wrist, and are supposed to control nausea through accu-pressure.  I am skeptical, but I stick one in my vest pocket "just in case."

Sean rides on the tailgate and Greg navigates through the thick white fog towards the docks.  Greg assures us that the truck and our gear is safe parked in the open next to the long, steep dock ramp.  It must be near low tide, because the 40-foot ramp is at the limits of its downward reach, and I have to hold on to the handrail as we descend to the water.

We find the Donna Mae and Captain Steve Button in slip Q-3.  Steve isn't very interested in a warm greeting as he rushes around preparing his 28-foot Gass-Ply fishing boat.  He might look a bit more like Santa Claus if he trimmed off the foot-long braids that dangle from either side of his thick grey beard.  We step aboard and stow our gear.  After a brief demonstration of the fire extinguishers and GPS, Steve leads us in a brief but eloquent prayer.  The twin Volvo-Penta diesels grumble to life, and we cast off the lines and creep out of our birth and into the cool, misty harbour a little after 7:30.

I lose my bearing almost immediately as we drift through the harbor towards the fuel docks.  I step off of dry land for the last time for 11 hours after getting a few snacks at the dock-side Quickie-Mart.  A few miles out of Homer we finally slip out from under the low-lying fog.  We head south at about 15 knots and the seas begin to build to erratic 1 to 2 foot swells.  Greg invites me out onto the aft deck to enjoy the cool morning air, and the view of tiny Seldovia off the port rail.  I hang onto the ladder leading up to the bridge as the boat crashes into the rising seas.  Back inside the warm cockpit, I try to sound like an old salt as I comment to Greg that the boat moves well and I probably won't get sick.  I sit down again on the poorly padded bench seat, and almost immediately begin to feel queasy.  I stare at the horizon, watch the waves as best I can through the small window beside me.  I can only see a small triangle of approaching water off the port bow through the glass, which is alternately drenched with spray and almost opaque from the dried salt when the morning sun hits it.  I begin taking deep breaths and keeping my lungs full- this seems to temporarily stave off the stomach-tightening that accompanies each exhalation.  I pull the "Accu-Band" strips out of my pocket, losing precious horizon-watching seconds so that I can read the instructions on the packet and desperately fumble the little straps around my wrists.  When they are on I again stare expectantly at the horizon, hoping that some magic internal mechanism will begin to soothe my stomach.  I am about as confident that these things will work as I am that the cherry-flavored Lifesavers Greg has given me to suck on will keep the taste of bile out of my mouth and thus keep me from barfing.

Steve finally slows the boat and turns the stern quarter to the waves, which now roll in at a consistent 2 feet.  We all climb out onto the deck, and Steve begins distributing the poles.  I feign interest as I choose a spot at the rail, attempting to keep my balance and stay aboard the boat as I simultaneously try to watch the horizon.

The idea is to drop your 3 lb weight to the bottom, and bounce it up and down a foot or so in rythm with the waves.  A huge baited hook is suspended from the line 16" above the weight, and the bottom-dwelling halibut see this morsel bouncing along and apparently find it irresistable.  I am really not very interested in any of this with the condition of my stomach, and I find that the considerable exertion required to reel in the weight for each bait-check and the pitching of the boat are combining to make me absolutely seasick.

Suddenly I've got a fish (photo above).  I labor with the reel for a couple of minutes and eventually my catch comes into view.  With a groan characteristic of all his communication with or regarding me, Steve announces I've hooked an Irish Dogfish.  He refers to it as a mother-in-law fish; "It's ugly and it's got a big mouth."  It's about 15" long but very light on the line- and it does indeed live up to its nickname.  He yanks up on the line, and the wart-covered abomination comes out of the cold water.  Steve slides a 4-inch handled hook down the line towards the animal's oversized mouth.  With a deft twist of his arm, he rips the hook from the fish's jaw and it flops back into the dark water.

[Map of this Area]

The current and wind conspire to push us off of the bottom structure too quickly, so Steve decides we should move out further into Cook Inlet.  I opt to stay outside as we get moving again.  The seas are definitely getting taller as we power out towards open water.  I feel pretty good standing on the deck holding onto the ladder, feeling the boat buck and drop beneath me.  Finally the cold wind and spray drive me inside.  I don't last ten minutes sitting in the cabin.  Sean will later tell me that he once turned around and looked at me, and the look on my face made him want to puke himself.  Steve sees the accu-bands I am attempting to coax into just the right magical spot.  "Are ya' feelin' a little funny?"  He asks, with more than a hint of smugness.  It's really not very funny anymore" I reply.  I am sweating heavily and can't seem to keep my eyes open. Finally, I know I'm going to heave, so I mumble something to the effect that I'm just going to get it out of the way, and I climb out of the companionway and out onto the aft deck.  I have a bit of trouble with the latch on the door, and by the time I actually make it to the rail it's all over.  I heave for a solid minute, somehow managing to avoid splattering the gleaming white rail and the fishing rods bristling from the side of the boat.  Exhausted and empty, I lean back against the transom.  I can't believe how much better I feel immediately, and I give Greg a big smile and return a thumbs-up through the window.

Eventually I climb back inside, feeling like a new man.  I hope that with a now-empty stomach, my body will abandon it's desire to jettison all excess baggage and let me enjoy the rest of the day.  It's not yet noon, and I know this trip will last until 4:00 at least.  I can feel the neaseau returning already, however, as we get further out into the inlet and the waves grow larger, less consistent.

Finally Steve announces that we are at his best spot, and proceeds to steer around in circles trying to find some bottom structure over which to anchor.  I'm getting sicker and sicker as the boat wallows in the rolling seas and bounces about in its own wake.  Then the engines are quiet and we are ushered back out onto the pitching deck.  I am bundled in my rain gear to stop the biting wind, leaning against the rail holding a heavy fishing rod, staring at the horizon and praying that nothing bites at the greasy fish carcass at the end of my line, forcing me to exert my remaining energy to haul it up from the bottom.  Captain Steve seems dissapointed at my lack of enthusiasm, and I feel like a big loser.  A land-lubber out for a big adventure on the water and now in over his head.  Eventually I give up, stick my rod in its holder, and concentrate all of my energy on not adding any more bottom structure to this particular spot.

Captain Steve is fishing alongside us (questionable practice for the captain of a charter boat) and he announces he has hooked a big fish.  For the next 15 minutes he and Greg wrestle with a prodigious mass on the other end of the 120 lb test, and eventually a 7-foot long, 250+ lb halibut becomes visible through the blue-green water.  I want to be excited and helpful, but I am occupied by my incredible physical misery.  There is a brief period when I am distracted from my stomach by a horrendous tangle of lines as the huge animal fights for its life.  We all struggle to separate the fishing lines while the boat bucks beneath us.  Somehow, no one is lost overboard as we grapple with fishing gear and a writhing fish.  Steve maneuvers the fish alongside the boat and fires round after round from his .38 caliber pistol into the fish's mammoth head.  It continues to fight after absorbing 5 bullets.  Steve and Greg finally get a line through the animal's gill, and tie it off to the transom.  It bobs and weaves behind the bouncing boat, periodically protesting a bit with a flip of its tail.  It will take four hours for the animal to die.

When the fight is over, the agony of first-rate seasickness returns all too quickly.  The other 3 men fish on with renewed enthusiasm.  Above all, what bothers me is the idea of wasting this once-in-a lifetime opportunity by spending all day feeling sorry for myself.  I force myself to pick up the heavy rod and lower the weight into the water.  I am certain that the exertion required to correctly operate this rod will soon have me hanging my head over the rail again, but I accept it.  I decide to fish until I am too exhausted from vomiting to stand up.

And then an amazing thing happens: I catch a 57 lb halibut.  I concentrate on the motion of my bait near the sea floor, trying to imagine how it would look to a passing predator.  I'm in the groove; my bait is swimming.  Bang, I feel the halibut strike.  I thoroughly enjoy the ten-minute struggle bringing him up from the dark bottom.

Steve stabs his knife unceremoniously into its skull, and drags the fish into the boat.  It barely fits into the 48-inch long cooler, and I am beaming with pride.  My stomach heaves as soon as the excitement is over, and the waves are now punctuated by an occasional 4'+ roller.  But I fish on, pulling at least four more fish up from the bottom before the day is out.  I feel wonderfully triumphant.  And except for the cheesy christian music blaring from the Radio Shack speakers, I find this quite enjoyable.

Sean pulls up an 87 lb monster and another smaller halibut, and Greg catches a 65+lb fish as well.  By the end of the day we are all feeling pretty good, and the seas have settled down through the late afternoon.  The sun warms us and the air is cool, but smells clean and crisp.  We finally draw our anchor and lines out of the water around 4:30, and power back towards Homer with 2' following seas.  The conversation is sporadic during the two hour ride in, and Arlo Guthrie sings songs of rebellion and disenchantment as Greg and I compare Leathermen.

Homer Harbour

We cause a bit of a stir pulling into Homer's large working harbour with a potentially trophy-winning halibut tied off to the stern.  This must be the Alaskan equivalent of strapping a deer to the hood of the family station wagon.  The fish is dragged through the water after we are tied up to the boat-ramp dock.  Greg and Steve manhandle the slippery beast into the back of David's (David is Sammie's son-in-law) little mazda pickup truck.  We all eventually meet up again at the Halibut Derby weigh-in area.  The fish comes in at 298 lbs, and is the largest catch this month.  If Sean or I had hooked it, we would take home a $1000 check for our trouble.  But Captain Steve is ineligible for a Derby ticket, being the operator of a charter-fishing vessel.  Had the fish been 30 lbs heavier, it would best the front-runner in this annual Derby, which pays over $20,000 to the overall winner.

Steve with his catch- a 298 lb Halibut

Much picture-taking ensues.  Steve never misses an opportunity to peddle his services to passing gawkers as the huge fish hangs by its tail next to the only road down the Spit.  Tired of the post-game boasting, Sean and I drive back to the Wok where our smaller fish are being hung up for a little picture-taking session of their own.  Eventually Steve earns the rest of his $125 per person by filleting our catch, and we make arrangements with Sammie to have much of it frozen, vacuum-packed and shipped home at great expense.  We set a little aside and David cooks up an incredible dinner of batter fried, wonderfully fresh halibut.

Sammie asks for our license plate to add to his pole of exotic plates from all over the U.S., and from the front of the truck I remove the Maryland plate that went to Belize with us.  That plate has been on the truck as long as I've had it, having not been removed even after I moved to Tennessee and registered the truck there.  Sammie seems pleased, and listens as I explain the plate's history: "From Central America to Alaska."

The fish draw quite a few gawkers at Sammie's.  Again Captain Steve works the crowd, handing out "Crystal Sea Charters" flyers and posing for pictires.  Watching Steve cut 50 lb fillets off of the side of his 300 lb fish is quite a sight.  A bullet falls out of the animal's head as he cleans it, and I drop it into my vest pocket.

Smelling of fish and craving another shower, we check back into the Land's End RV park.  After discovering that they have already locked up the showers for the evening, we quickly fall into an odiforous but deep sleep.
 

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