“A Day in the Life”

What does “a day in the life” look like aboard the FV Deborah? Well, first off, there are no “days” in Bristol Bay. Instead, time, life, swings with the rise and fall of the tides. 

Gillnetter’s anchored up waiting to hear from ADFG when the fishing grounds will open.

Fisherm*n receive announcements from ADF&G (Alaska Department of Fish and Game), at designated hours, that determine when the waters are open for commercial fishing. I typically wake to my alarm a couple of hours before the opener and stumble up to the galley, bleary eyed, to start the engine. The CAT 3208 rumbles to life, signalling one of the crew to get up and pick the anchor. 

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As I drive out of the river mouth, the crew fills the fish holds with ocean water and starts the refrigeration system. Usually, right as the waves start to pick up, someone has to use “the head”, a boat term short for toilet, aka the bucket. Sometimes on the bucket, you’re blessed with a beautiful sunset, other times it's a rodeo out there! Keep two feet planted on the ground and one hand on the vessel at all times! 

A real behind the scenes look at what goes down on the FV Deborah. “The Head”.

The radio chatters away as other members of my fishing group report what they see. “Jumper!” -“I haven’t seen anything”, -“Well the enter highliner boat name here is over here, so I guess that’s a good sign!”, -“Anybody know why my high pressure keeps tripping on my refer panel?”.

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Minutes before the opener I yell for the crew to get ready. The second the clock strikes the opener time I yell, “Throw ball!”. The buoy ball hits the water and the net flies out across the deck. I monitor the other boats around me and hope I get my net out in a good spot. And we’re fishing.

“Throw ball!”

From here, we basically drive back and forth, disconnecting from one side of the net and reconnecting to the other. We run fish in and float as the tide pushes us past sandbars up and down the district. If the net is full, or there’s a better spot to be, we pull it onboard and the crew take each fish out of the gillnet by hand, bleed them (by cutting their gillplates). They place them in brailer bags, hung in holds under the deck that contain refrigerated seawater.

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Hand bleeding and putting fish away after a good set.

Bristol Bay is home to the world's largest wild sockeye salmon run. Think the Serengeti, the Great Migration for fish. It’s really hard to explain the beauty and awe that comes from watching tens of thousands, even millions, of salmon push in at the top of the high tide. I know we’re in peak fishing when I can’t remember if I need to set my alarm for AM or PM!  Instead, it’s like the entire fishery enters a flow state where it becomes impossible to determine morning from evening, sunrise from sunset.   

Losing track of time in the thick of the season. Occasionally you might even remember to brush your teeth.

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Daily life aboard the boat is a dance between exhaustion and exhilaration. Delirium. Dowsed in the face with waves breaking overhead and salty eyes, fish scales that stick to everything. Emotions are salty and raw. Nothing makes you feel more alive than setting out and  knowing you’re in the right spot, and nothing feels as gut wrenching as hearing your fellow skippers loading up while you haven’t seen a single fish hit your net. The joy is loud and frustration is even louder.

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But between the glory and the excitement there is ineffable boredom, bobbing between waves, floating on our little aluminum vessel, trying to keep the net in the water. Realistically, most of my life is staring at water. Waves rolling in and out. Fish jumping. Splashes on the corkline. Tide rips foaming in channels. I stare at a lot of water. 

Watching for bobbers as the net goes out behind the boat.

When the push of fish slows, or the opener closes, we bring on the net and head back into the river to off-load our catch. The crew clean the fish holds and re-hang the brailer bags. We pray nothing on the boat broke so we can all roll back into our bunks between tides rather than playing mechanic. We set the anchor in the river mouth. I manage to drift off into a strange lucid dream for an hour before I wake to my alarm, a couple of hours before the opener and stumble up to the galley, bleary eyed, to start the engine.

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