“What men call good fellowship is commonly but the virtue of pigs in a litter which lie close together to keep each other warm.”Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862)
Deep in the Alaskan wilderness I have rediscovered a long forgotten masculine culture of vibrato, camaraderie and unabashed verbal torment. In my present lifestyle of receptions and committee meetings, the essence of the exclusive blue collar boys club has disappeared from my lexicon. I traveled to the fringe of humanity with my brother who had not been outside a house filled with small children in seven years only to find how rusty and atrophied our masculine social skills were. Rather quickly I picked up my old New Jersey swagger, while my brother seemed to require more time to shake off the stench of domestication.
Male culture appears on the outside to be a cruel, punitive verbal assault based on intense competition which attempts to exploit perceived weakness of the individuals of the group. Under the surface is a genuine sincere team building process in which each individual is challenged to exceed personal limitations in order to gain rank in the group. The primary tool in this process is humor, whether targeted at an individual or more commonly self deprecating and targeted at one owns weaknesses. The topics of ridicule haven’t changed since my youth and remain manhood, femininity, homosexuality, sexual prowess, physical endowment, physical ability, mental ability and the most dreaded attribute, the lack of dominance in your personal relationships (commonly referred to as pussy whipped). Within these topics most verbal taunts are fair game with the objective of getting the largest rise from the tribe. To the uninitiated the language can be shocking and exceptionally offensive which actually delivers a higher score whenever you can make this jaded group of male apes cringe.
Fishing for salmon and halibut in the ocean may sound like a leisurely excursion, but it is exceptionally strenuous and physically demanding. It challenges every ounce of your conditioning and fortitude. Typically the group arises at 3:45 in the morning for a large country breakfast of eggs, bacon and pancakes. The group gets fitted in waders and rain gear as the fishing equipment is hauled to the dock. The boat pushes off at 4:50 am for what can only be considered as the most spectacular one hour boat ride to the fishing grounds. Low hanging fog and clouds cling to the mountains as the sun rises burning openings in the cover revealing brilliant colors of red, orange and blue. The air is crisp as it chills one to the bone. Approaching the open ocean the boat encounters rolling surf which turns the vessel into a violent cement mixer. The violent thrashing of the boat requires everyone to brace themselves with considerable exertion as you are physically lifted 12 inches off the ground only to return to the vessel with a brutal pounding. The experience reminded of me of what World War I veterans must have endured while being shelled in the trenches. At the end of three days the heels of my feet were covered with bone bruises from the violent collisions with the steel deck of the boat, not to mention the constant aching of my knees, hips, kidneys and liver. I felt like I endured twelve rounds with a Mexican fighter that focused his attack on body punching. During a day of fishing one experiences this physical beating for about two hours in 30 minute increments as we reposition ourselves to where the fish are biting.
The vessel consists of our captain named Carrington, a first mate and five fishermen. Our captain was in fact our first mate during the last trip three years ago so we ready had a warm friendship with the skipper. The first mate is the boat grunt whose exertion exceeds everyone’s plus some. He is responsible for baiting hooks, hauling up the anchor, untangling knots, gaffing fish into the boat, gutting the fish and cleaning the deck. Our first mate is a sixteen year old named Gordon who is on his maiden voyage as a deck hand. We asked the girls that work at the lodge about Gordon. They said he was sensitive, quiet and frail. Our first question was “Do you think we can make him cry? Do you think we can make him quit?” The girls were confident he would hang in there and pass the male test. The way life on the water works is that the second you push away from the dock all laws of humanity are suspended and feudal law starts with the captain in charge.
The fishing boat is simple without any comforts such as seats or cushions. Typically everyone sits on fishing coolers or tackle boxes. The gunnels on the side of the boat are solid aluminum that extends only to slightly lower than your knee so that there is nothing to brace yourself with as the boat rocks and rolls in the open sea. Your knees and legs are constantly battered by the gunnels. This is not a trip for the girls, for the restroom is a five gallon plastic bucket that is placed on the forward deck. The easiest way to become the target of verbal abuse is needing to “hit the bucket”.
Fishing is accomplished for the most part while standing with heavy tackle to overcome the sea currents. The captain notes on the sonar “Ho’s (Coho Salmon) at 195 feet.” We drop the weighted line to 210 feet then immediately reel it up allowing the bait to spin and flash silver as you pull through the school tempting the salmon. The physical exertion is continuous as you drop the line and reel it back up on a shifting unstable platform. It did not take long for my forearms, biceps, shoulders and back muscles to begin to burn and cramp. The first day the captain did not know I was left handed so I had to reel in a crossover position with a right handed reel. For it, I garnered my share of attention as I heard “What the f--------. You work that reel like a girl.” At one point my forearm cramped so badly that for the next 45 minutes the cramps would return whenever I bent my elbow. The following day the captain took my left handed reel in order to pull the line up for another fisherman and remarked “Damn your one tough son of a bitch! I can believe how f------ hard it is to work a reel in reverse and you did it for an entire day.” There was only one standard male response to such a compliment “F---- you. You're just a pussy.”
All of a sudden the reason you have endured all the pain and discomfort becomes apparent as a thirty pound king salmon strikes your bait and the fight begins. King salmon will struggle some as you pull them up from 190 feet of water, but all of a sudden they realize they are approaching the surface and takes off like a rocket. The reel screams with a shrill whistle as the salmon rips off 300 or 400 hundred feet of line and all you can do to hang on to dear life as they head for the sea floor or tail dance across the surface on the horizon. After the run concludes you begin to slowly pull the fish back toward the boat reeling two feet at a time using every muscle in you upper body. After 10 minutes as the fish approaches the boat again and teases you with a fuzzy glimpse of silver when the reel screams again as another 300 to 400 feet of line is ripped off. The largest salmon I hooked ran four times and took about 45 minutes to get in the boat.
King salmon won’t allow you to stand on one place on the boat and reel them in, they run in every direction even under the boat so you are constantly lapping the deck attempting to keep your line perpendicular to the vessel. You may end up lapping the deck eights times crawling over and under the lines of the other fisherman, anchor and propellers. You can’t imagine how exciting it is when three fishermen are working king salmon at the same time screaming running around the boat trying to keep the lines untangled. About half the time they spit the hook out and the fight is prematurely over. Finally you are able to get one in the boat to the sound of the guys congratulating you “Not bad for a girl with a peg leg! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were gay.” There you stand drenched in sweat as every muscle is burning from exhaustion and the senses in hyper drive. In some instances I’m so spent that I’m unable to lift the fish up on the gaff in order to get the obligatory photo. The limelight pales quickly as you reach into the cooler for another beer and immediately drop the line for another round.
When the fish are hitting the captain is controlling the activity, yelling instructions to the novice fisherman. He is usually responsible for getting the big fish in the boat. Halibut over fifty pounds are so dangerous that they are shot with a shot shotgun before they are pulled into the boat. The tail slaps of Halibut are so powerful that they can easily break leg or even kill someone. What could appeal to the male mind more than fishing, beer, cursing and shooting something with a gun? In the process of running around the boat with a gun attempting to subdue a 127 pound halibut the captain tripped over some bait buckets and screamed “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the Hell are you doing? Clean up this f------ mess.” A short time later one of the fishermen was working a king salmon while the captain was in the cabin. During a forceful pull of the rod the salmon spit out the hook rocketing the eight ounce lead counterweight at the boat at a horrific speed. Before anyone knew it the lead counterweight slammed into the top of the metal cabin with the sound of a grenade exploding surprising everyone aboard. Suddenly a voice erupts from the cabin “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” It didn’t take the group long to pick up on the theme of this trip “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?”
It probably didn’t help that Gordon didn’t take to the sea well and in a short time he was seasick and chumming off the bow. This was all the more reason for the boys to help young Gordon to work on his weaknesses and offer some support helping him become an esteemed member of the tribe. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? I need my hook baited”
Poor Gordon not fully familiar with male rituals actually attempted a reply “I’m sorry I’ll be there after I’m done vomiting.”
Needless to say it provided too easy of a retort “God Damn it Gordon!!! You can vomit later there are Ho’s waiting for me”. The entire group took some pride in educating Gordon on the male rituals of manhood. After Gordon disposed of breakfast we offered some manly support “Gordon you look like shit, you better drink a beer.” That consoling gesture was followed with “God Damn it Gordon, my f------- grandmother can vomit better than that.” The male equivalent of “Go walk it off.”
After a few moments of silence you would hear the mindless banter “I’m having so much f------ fun with you girls that I think I’ll commemorate the experience when I get back to port by having a little butterfly tattooed on my ass.”
“Oh yeah, I think I’ll have my nipples pierced for nipple rings.” Someone else jumps in.
The captain offers his insights “Why wait until we get to shore, I’ve got some big Halibut circle hooks. We can do it now if you like.”
“That would be nice. Do you think you could hang some of those big 16 ounce lead weights off the hooks too?”
Gordon decides to wade into the conversation. He opens with “Yeah we could call you nipples hooks.” It was a fairly weak retort by male standards which is countered with the standard “F--- You Gordon. You decide to get a pair of balls from the tackle box? Why don’t you go chum up some more fish.”
We all had to smile that Gordon began to step up and play with the boys. He was starting to earn his stripes. We were pushing Gordon to come out of him shell and take a few swings at the plate. Gordon struggled the most at pulling the anchor from the ocean floor which required some substantial upper body strength. The first three of four attempts he was relieved by the captain with the now routine “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Pull harder it will build your shoulders.”
Over the three days Gordon developed a comfort level in understanding the male banter and playful joking. Only once did we really catch him off guard where he did not know if we were joking or not. During one of Gordon’s attempts to pull the anchor from the ocean floor someone yelled at him “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Take off your shirt so we can watch your muscles ripple.” Gordon immediately froze and stopped pulling on the anchor chain. Slowly he turned and looked at the group with an expression of surprise and confusion. It was priceless, for a second we crossed over in Gordon’s mind from joking about being homosexuals to actually being homosexuals. By the end of the three days Gordon was a cherished member of the tribe. He had stood his ground and been pushed to the point of total physical and metal exhaustion as had the entire tribe. Although all the attention did not relive Gordon of hearing “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” well into the night.
The fishing would conclude about 2:30 pm each afternoon and be followed with another spectacular hour drive back to port. Exhausted and bruised we would climb the dock as Gordon with the help of three high school students would fillet and vacuum pack the fish. Not more than 60 minutes after hitting shore the fish was in the freezer. Most of the time the group would barely drag themselves to the store for something to grill and replenish the stock of bourbon and beer.
The most memorable evening was with Carrington and one of his friends that brought along the Party Pig. Apparently this guy would raise pigs and then slaughter them for the pork. This one particular pig was the runt of the litter and would not fatten up fast enough so it became a pet, at least for the short term. While I was taking a shower I kept hearing some raucous partying downstairs occasionally mixed in with a squeal. I didn’t think much about it until I arrive downstairs to find a small twenty pound pig drinking beer. It was at that moment I wished I had a pet Party Pig myself, for it was the star of the show. Someone would place a bottle of beer open on the floor and the pig would squeal while running to pick the bottle up with its mouth, tilt it back and guzzle the entire contents in the blink of an eye. Men in the wilderness are so easily entertained. No one could leave a beer unguarded on the floor because the pig would run over and drink it. What was really funny was that they needed to cover the pig’s eyes when ever someone opened a beer or else the pig would freak out and rush who ever was holding the beer.
During about 90 minutes the pig drank six beers keeping up with fishermen and mountain men alike before waddling over to a corner of the living room and passing out. At which point the owner which was on the verge of passing out himself picked up the Party Pig and went home. I began to think about the financial opportunities of having a personal Party Pig. I bet you could make three to four hundred dollars a night in the bars. “Oh yeah you think your so tough? I bet this little twenty pound pig can out drink you!!” It’s a sucker bet. Just think $2500 a week or $120,000 a year trotting the Party Pig around the bar scene. The only down side would be the travel required since the Party Pig would gain a reputation rather quickly and you would need to travel far and wide to hit bars where the legend of the Party Pig was not known. I can hear it now “Don’t mess with the Party Pig, he’ll kick your ass.” Eventually the evening concluded with a familiar rant “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You can’t even out drink a twenty pound pig.”
It did not take long to decide that 3:45 AM is coming quickly and my body is shutting down. It is time to call it quits but not without a warm felt goodnight. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You should be asleep so you can keep up with us homos tomorrow. Hell I bet that even that little Party Pig could kick your ass out on the boat tomorrow.”
The Wilderness Boys Club 2007 Edition. Photo by God Damn Gordon
“It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”
“It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
