Sea Chant

"Way to go boys!" the skipper praised the crew as he checked his watch. We
had just rolled in the seine net in less than seven minutes, and it lay
piled in an untidy heap on the aft deck. Water haul, no fish.
Exhausted, sweat trickling all the way to our boots, Duc and Hung
threaded the purse line, and I winched the skiff up tight and tied it off
with figure eights. The skiff wagged like a tail against the stern and the
Tammy Jo Lynn ploughed shark-nosed through the swells toward Cape
Addington. "Skipper wants to see you in the house," Randy announced as I
cooled off, leaning into the rigging. I hung up my rain gear and walked
through the galley to the wheelhouse, where the skipper gazed towards the
Cape in the distance.

"Dennis, get me a cup of coffee," he said, keeping his eyes on the
water. I threaded my way back to the galley stove, poured a cup of hot
water from the pot, and stirred in a heaping spoon of instant coffee.
"Take the wheel." He took the cup in his thick, powerful hands and I
stepped up to the wheel. "Steer 245," he commanded. The boat responded
slowly to turns and the compass card spun lazily back and forth with the
swells, but held the general course. "You're doin' alright," he began, "but
we've got new crew, and they've got a lot to learn before those fish start
coming. Everyone has to learn to work just like a team." I nodded. He
sipped his coffee, took a long drag on his cigarette, and blew the smoke
towards the window. His brow wrinkled. "We haven't had any rough weather
yet. And you know the first day the wind blows and we have jellyfish, it'll
separate the men from the boys? This fishing is tough business. I want
James to show you how to grease up and take care of that Cat engine."
"James won't think I'm taking his job away from him, will he?"
"I already talked to him about it. He has too much to do for an old
coot. Now that means you need to get up when James gets up. You've got
chores to do."

"I'll have James wake me up."

He peered over the top of his tinted glasses at me. "You're doin'
alright on speed with those corks, but have James show you how to make a
skiff pile. We need one every set, just in case I want to pick the skiff up
and run."

"OK, Skipper, I'll try to make a neater pile."

"It takes practice, son. Hold her right on until we're off Addington,
then come get me."

"Yes sir."

The skipper stood on short thick legs that hugged the deck like a cat.
He was called a "slave driver" by ex-crew, and an "old fox" by those who
shared the glory of the day and the spoils of successful seasons. He ran a
tight ship, a highliner; no one caught more fish, and no crew worked harder
than the Tammy's. The ship shined with fresh paint, and was scrubbed and
cared for, with the seine’s holes patched, and the gear and machinery in
first-class repair.

The skipper loved to watch the crew work, while he held his hand on
the hydraulic lever and the powerblock screamed as the net squeezed through
the block, raining crystal droplets and angry red jellyfish. Crewmen
sweated to pile web, leads, and corks in spiral circles faster than a
hydraulic motor could pull it in. "Way to go boys."
Sets repeated again and again and the crew grew tired. "God Dammit!
Shit. Slow this fucking thing down a little! " complained a new crewman,
Richard, exhausted and buried in web.

The powerblock stopped and all the crew stood panting in silence.
"Richard! Ya' get your ass down on this deck." The skipper
pointed to where he wanted him to stand. Richard threw web off himself and
stepped down from the net pile to the midship deck, directly in front of
the skipper.

"That's just too damn fast, skipper. We ain't even catching fish."
The skipper talked through his teeth, "Shut your lillyfucken mouth. No
damn crewman tells me how to run this ship; and you're looking at the only
person who swears on this ship. Understand? Now you get your leaded ass
back up there and do your job or I'll put you on the beach tonight.
At Cape Addington we caught our first full bag. The skipper knelt
beside the crew along the gunwales to shallow the net. He sang, "Hey ya Ho,
Heave Ho." The chant was ageless and it brought strength back to weary
arms. We all pulled shoulder to shoulder, holding when the ship rolled up
and sweating to take in slack on the downroll. "Hey ya, Ho, Heave Ho." We
could have been fishermen a thousand years ago. The first silver salmon
finned the surface and thousands swam under him, caught in the seine
James manned the long pole of the brailer net, dipped down deep, then
brought it up. The brailer broke the surface full, with five hundred
fighting salmon spraying silver scales. It swung with the roll across the
deck. I loosed the chain, and the salmon spilled their lives into the open
hold. "Ho! Tammy's squating," the skipper declared. Again and again, the
brailer dipped and swung to the rhythm of the sea, the rhythm of the
season, and the rhythm of men hooting, their joy spilling over.

D. Lenssen

Author’s note: I wrote this while fishing during the early 80's in Southeast Alaska off the
coast of Noyes Island in the Gulf of Alaska. It was an exciting time in my life.