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Not too crabby!
Each time we went out, we got better at it. The gaff caught the buoy on the second aim, if not the first; the lines didn’t get as tangled after practicing the coiling method; and we learned to watch the rim of the boat on the downward tip so the waves didn’t wash over the side so much. We gradually developed “sea legs” and gained a sense of boat balance, and each trip became an exciting adventure until the bandits appeared.
It was late June when the pots started coming up empty. We carefully baited and dropped each pot in the same location using the landmarks Tom told us about, but the crabs were just not in the pots. At that time, GPS was not available, so anglers used charts, mountaintops, bays, rock outcroppings, and offshore rocks for points of reference to estimate locations on the water.
We diligently hooked onto the buoys, grabbed the line and with the rhythmic motion of rocking the boat side to side, hauled up each pot about twice a week. Nothing. The crab pot bandits had beaten us to them.
Some bandits were actually courteous. They would at least rebait the pots, and one time a bandit left a six-pack of Coors in the bottom of the pot. We never caught the pot bandits but we learned to relocate the pots occasionally and check them more often. After that, we usually caught enough crab for ourselves and acquired a new fitness program in the deal.
Tom and his lovely wife eventually moved back to their hometown in Maine, for better jobs, they said. We learned from a letter received a few years later from Tom’s wife that Tom never really adjusted to the big city life. Tom found it difficult to navigate the maze of roads, maneuver the one-and-a-half-hour commute to and from work, and tolerate the constant crime in the news along with the general dinginess and blaring noise of the place. One day, Tom was killed in a car accident. They had just been planning a visit back to Kodiak, she had written, but it would not happen now.
As we ate the last crab of that season, we made a toast to Tom, the Crab King.
3 JUST PLAIN LUCKY
Complacency was not easily forgiven in a place where a single day’s adventure could take one even farther into a vast wilderness. A seemingly minor mistake was often fatal.
It was late September two years later. The once brilliant green leaves were fading, the tiny edges curling upwards, wrinkled and crispy brown. The hardy, thick blankets of wild grasses and weeds were limp with heavy dew, and the fireweed blossoms blazed red-orange, announcing the end of summer and the beginning of the crisp, cool fall season.
We were all feeling lucky as we started out on a routine day of fishing on the ocean just off the coast on the west side of the island with a friend of ours named Matt.
Matt was five feet six inches and weighed about one hundred eighty pounds, with dark curly hair drooping past his collar, brown button eyes set too close together on a long weathered face with a constant grin. He wore a brown grubby fishing vest over a tattered flannel shirt and faded blue jeans tucked into brown rubber knee boots. He also wore a consistently happy-golucky attitude that kept you upbeat for a while, and then became annoying when things needed to be serious. He lived in a cottage down the street from ours and quickly became a frequent visitor at our place. George had repaired some electrical outlets and switches in Matt’s house a few weeks before, so Matt invited us to go fishing on his eighteen-foot orange and white Glassply cabin cruiser.
Matt was full of great stories of his boyhood growing up in Kodiak. He told fascinating tales of catching big, flat, floppy fish the size of a sheet of plywood, camping out on distant island beaches, and numerous showdowns with huge Kodiak brown bears. All the cool stuff he had done on the island was fascinating.
The day was clear, calm, and sunny with a slight breeze coming from the south, perfect for a day on the ocean. We had a few fish in the box by late afternoon and decided to head for a nearby island. It was a small, out-of-the-way place with a quiet cove and a nice sandy beachhead. We often went ashore there to relax and explore the beaches for any treasures we could find.
Matt cut the engine and the boat eased onto the sandy beach as George climbed to the front of the boat and positioned the anchor on the edge of the bow. We leaped off into the shallow water, Matt holding the other end of the anchor line while George and I shoved hard on the boat, pushing it back off the beach into water deep enough to make it out past the surf dragging the attached line through the water.
Matt watched the boat slide back to the ocean for a few moments then yanked hard on the line. The anchor jerked off the bow and splashed into the water, caught on the bottom, and the boat slowed to a stop. Waves lapped gently against the sides as the boat floated taut on the line. We turned and waded back to the beach, George and I with our backpacks firmly fixed to our shoulders, Matt with nothing.
“I don’t know why you guys brought all that stuff ashore, we’re only going to be here for a while,” Matt said as he walked up the beach dragging the boat line.
“Ya never know, Matt, we might get hungry or somethin’,” answered George.
“Nah, why bother,” Matt flipped a hand in the air and kicked at a scallop shell half buried in the sand. We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and kept on walking. We had at least learned one thing in this land of so-called opportunity: if you didn’t bring it, you ain’t got it.
Matt dragged the line over to a dead tree, tied it to a branch and began walking up the shore.
“Hey Matt, do you think that branch is gonna hold? It looks a bit weak for the boat line,” George said. Matt didn’t bother to turn around.
“Nah, it’s good enough. That boat ain’t going nowhere. Let’s go on up to that ridge and see if we can spot some deer.”
“Sure,” George said.
We hefted our packs and began climbing up through the alders, tall grasses, and spruce trees, making our way past mossy hills and smelling the fresh salty air that always made me smile. Ah, this was nature at its best! Not to be duplicated in any room spray, candle, or potpourri, that’s for sure. I inhaled a deep long breath and let it out slowly.
We continued to climb for about half an hour. Close to the top, we stepped out onto a grassy ledge and gazed at the breathtaking scenery. The entire view was a picture-perfect painting of sparkling blue water, clear blue sky and varied shades of green mountains that seem sculpted like Japanese topiary trees. The closest one appeared to be in the shape of a large whale, aptly named Whale Island.
There were fourteen main islands and a few small stubs that make up the Kodiak Archipelago, formed millions of years ago by volcanoes and glacial erosions. Gradually, vegetation took over; animals arrived by crossing the ancient land bridge from other continents or brought ashore by ancient settlers or Russian hunters and missionaries who began arriving in the late 1700s. Trees were nonexistent on southern parts of the islands. The north side of Kodiak and Afognak Island were covered with Sitka spruce, cottonwoods and dense thickets of willow, alder, and elderberry.
We stood at the edge of the cliff gazing at the sheer beauty of the uninhabited wilderness and vast expanse of blue ocean, drinking in a sight made for memories—one of those that you gaze at for a long time, taking in as much as you can, so you never forget the beauty of the moment. I soaked in the vibrant colors, the tangy smells and the wonders of nature and heartily agreed with John Muir and the early naturalists, who proclaimed that nature filled one’s spirit and cleansed the soul.
The three of us silently scanned the azure horizon of ocean-meets-sky, enjoying the beauty, when George’s neck suddenly jerked forward and one hand shot to his forehead to shade the sun. He peered intensely at a dot of orange and white—a boat drifting out towards the channel. A boat that looked a lot like the one we’d just come out of.
George whipped around to Matt. “Hey, isn’t that your boat drifting out there? Out there, to the left of that outcropping.” He pointed his arm straight out at the small colorful dot moving farther away inch by inch.
“Nah,