ericv
2008-12-12 00:05:03
The journey from his home to the dock was painstakingly slow, every task took time and great effort, not to mention pain. He'd manage to get his old rig fired up and drive the short distance to the harbor without citation or mishap. Even if there was, the local police who knew him would look the other way just out of respect.
He knew the tides from memory, tried his best to time his arrival to the dock ramp on the higher end, not always able to do so because of one overriding desire and need. It was the need to connect to something so very connected to him for so many years, his faithful troller. She was the very last of her breed for she sported a mast stepped on the forepeak to stow the bow poles, replete with a beautiful mermaid gazing outward, her bare breasts giving a wonderful hint of the other joy in life. A stout double ender she was, most assuredly built by his Norwegian brethren, she had been under his guiding hand for many, many decades. Her glory days were done, her many coats of paint unable to hide the ravages of time and severe weather. She was a true museum piece, every aspect about her was from an era long gone, replaced by high tech and plastic.
The trip down the ramp to her was perilously slow, for he knew a single fall would be the end of life as he knew, shattered hip; the death knell of the elder. With cane in hand, he shuffled ever so slowly down the dock, each step reaching out slightly longer than the romeo's on his feet. Ben Davis pants with twisted suspenders, old woolen shirt under an even older woolen jacket topped off with a weatherworn and crusted old cap, the logo long covered by the gurry of maritime labor.
She was berthed at the very end of the pier, probably for ease of docking during the sunset days of his fishing career, her slip to herself with a few angled planks to ease the access to her forward sides. This was his destination. Despite the time, energy and pain, he would make his way to her side. With a stop he'd slowly raise his head from the binding arthritis and gaze at her from stem to stern, slowly letting his squinted eyes look her over, inspecting every line and rigging. His eyes told him if the bilge pumps had been working or not just by looking at the scud line along her hull.
The last peril was the set of steps to gain her side, even with rail and cane, one slip and it would be over. He'd negotiate this challenge with the same tenacity of his fishing days, his tranny however, was forever locked in low, low, and in time, he was back on her deck. Though his body could no longer do what his mind wanted, it was here that he felt at his best. Each gouge and scratch on her had a story of which he was the author and historian, they were one together; Old Salt and the Old Girl. His roughened hands would check her over, his eyes taking in her every part both inside and out. Later, at some point, it was time to go, maybe the tide was ebbing and the ramp steepening. He'd leave his faithful old girl with a careful but deliberate pat on her bullworks and begin the arduous, slow, painful return trip home.
His trips became less frequent. When they occurred it was both sad, yet inspiring to see him work his way back to her side, the round trip taking an incredible amount of time, pain and energy, but he did it rain or shine. He no longer could gain her side but he replaced that with even more long and careful gazing with his eyes, checking visually everything he could.
Winter fell upon Sitka and the snow piled deep. A fellow troll fisherman noticed she was laboring under her heavy snow blanket, so with ice shovel, broom and rubber dust pan in hand he ventured to her side. His only connection to the elder fisherman was that his troller had come with a set of gurdies that once had belonged to him, enough of an ice breaker for him to chat with the man one day when he was visiting his old girl. The fisherman knew much about this old timer by his highline history and the stories he heard from others. The respect he had for him was profound. With that in mind, he felt it was okay to climb aboard the old girl that day to shed her snow. It was one way to help someone who had done much to help others. Over a period of time, she was carefully freed from her winter burden. The fisherman made sure nothing was amiss or disturbed, carefully checked her lines and headed back to clear his own troller of the same.
News came down that the old timer had injured himself, unable to leave the house anymore. Not long after, word hit the docks that he had died. He was one of the last of an era that is now only in the history books, one that had taught many the trade. The fisherman, who's own troller was nearby the old girl, would swear by God that the old faithful double ender was in mourning by her owners passing over the bar. There she sat, her own life nearing an end. Not long afterwards there was an ad in the local paper; boat and permit for sale. The price was just a bit more than the permit value. It was a time that the fisherman had wished he was flush in cash, for he wanted to buy her for the sole purpose of restoration in their memory. She truly was the last of that era and what a beautiful piece of maritime fishing history she would be. Alas, it would not come to pass for the fisherman, like many, had family to feed and a mortgage to pay.
Her end came swiftly. Stripped of her useful materials she was rendered to a pile of splintered wood in mere minutes by means of modern excavator; chunks and pieces of her frames, planks and deck haphazardly dispensed into an awaiting battered dump truck. Whether either man running their respective piece of machinery knew of her history or even cared, one will never know.
The Old Salt and his Old Girl are gone, yet their memories fill many minds and tales. It is a story of one single man and it is a story we see repeated from coast to coast. There is a connection between an old time fisher and their boat in many ways tighter than the connection they have with a partner or spouse, a symbiotic relationship that only a chosen few can truly understand. Somewhere they are back together again. He, loading her hold and she, jauntily trolling along, together, in perfect peace and harmony. I do wonder what happened to the mermaid though....................................
Eric Van Cise F/V New Hope Sitka, Alaska