Hartema - Bering Sea strong: how I found solid ground on open ocean

Copyright 2018 by Laura Hartema

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Mona Lin

Cover photo credit: Greg Westhoff and iStockphoto

Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3151-6

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3152-3

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to those whose circumstances have pushed them to find their own strength and a better life.

A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.

John A. Shedd

AUTHORS NOTE

My life has been shaped by all the people and experiences Ive encountered along my path, especially those within these pages. Though individuals in this book may remember events differently, this story reflects my recollection of events and conversations, much of which were directly transcribed from my personal journals. The name of the ship and some, but not all, of the characters names have been changed to protect individual privacy and anonymity. I hope my journey will encourage you in your own.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

I stood bracing myself at the open hatch of our 141-foot commercial fishing vessel, only steps from a roiling sea and the incoming longline with pointed hooks whirring past my limbs. I knew why I was here. I thought about my path all the time. At age twenty-four, I fled the chaos of family, still tugging at me from the Midwest, to pursue my dreams of graduate school and an environmental career in Seattle. How could I have predicted that dead-end waitress jobs, disappointment, and rejection would push me even farther... to Alaskas Bering Sea, some of the most dangerous waters in the world?

As a fisheries observer, I would monitor fishing activities, sample the catch, and report the data back to the National Marine Fisheries Service (NMFS), where its used to support sustainable fisheries management and establish fish quotas.

Ostensibly, I would also have to learn how to live and work side by side with these rough-and-tumble fishermen with no reprieve, a life for which no instruction manual or training video could have fully prepared me.

Whats it like to spend three months as the sole female, an outsider, working among twenty-five fishermen aboard ship on the unpredictable Bering Sea, halfway between Alaskas remote Aleutian Islands and Russia? In a time before cell phones, email, and TVs Deadliest Catch craze, I found myself thereon treacherous waters, in a frigid processing factory, beside a captain in the bare warmth of a wheelhouse, in a dark bunk of a shared stateroom, in cramped quarters, never far from the center of the dogpile. Many before me have sought Alaska, a land of back-breaking work and mind-blowing scenery, in search of escape, adventure, opportunity, and high wages. Some, like me, came from a life shaken and unhinged, but somewhere at sea, we discovered a strength we didnt know we possessed, strength wed carry with us for a lifetime.

BOARDING

ALL rows board immediately, the attendant said over the loudspeaker, as if we were under emergency evacuation. Whoever heard of a plane leaving early? My new friend and fellow observer, Stephanie, and I, having arrived minutes earlier from Seattle, funneled through the gate in Anchorage, only vaguely aware of the risks ahead of us. I cant believe Im doing this , is the thought that keeps running through my head.

Over the loudspeaker I hear, Inclement weather is fast approaching at your destination in Dutch Harbor, Alaska. Which is code for: Board now, because the longer we wait, the higher the risk of going down.

With thirty-degree temperatures and snow mounting outside the airport windows, I shivered, despite the warmth inside the airport. But it would be worse up there ; everything would be worse. I needed more time to think, to reconsider my impulse decision to work a ninety-day contract as a federally certified scientist aboard commercial fishing boats on the deadly Bering Sea. To the crew, Id be a fish cop, a narc, a snitch of sorts, but all I wanted to do was accurately report what I saw and not stir up any trouble. Still, maybe they wouldnt want me there. The newspapers, media, and three weeks of training had forewarned me of the dangers, but the $2,400-a-month paycheck outweighed the risks. Id have to work at my two restaurant jobs for three months to earn the same salary Id make in one month at sea.

The other option: remain in Seattle as isrejected from the University of Washington (UW) graduate program in fisheries and waiting tables to pay the bills. Seattle was booming with jobs for dot-commers in the 1990s, but there were few available for a twenty-four-year-old biology major. I wondered if I should forego my silly dreams altogether and crawl back to the Ozarks to be swaddled in family commotion. Or perhaps return to my childhood roots in Chicago. Maybe I should allow myself to be pulled to another extreme, to Miami to be with Luke, my first love and first kiss from eighth grade. After our recent reunion, I worried that by walking my butt and hard-earned degree onto this flight in search of a fat paycheck at sea I might miss out on a chance at a real careerand maybe loveon land. And yet, no other promising option presented itself after living in Seattle for nine months.

In line and ready to board the plane, I overheard a guy say, Im getting on this flight no matter what. My brother just got killed up there. I turned to my new best friend Stephanie looking for either a kick in the pants or a sign that we should turn backas if we needed another sign. Unwavering, she said, This is only the beginning, Girlfriend! A kick in the pants it is. I didnt know then how this one choice would help loosen the stranglehold of my past and shape my future.

As we took our seats on the half-occupied, twin-prop plane, I said to Stephanie, Next theyll haul us over the drop zone and expect us to jump out when the door swings open.

Yeah, and well both do it, because we wont be called chickens, she replied. Right? We scanned each others grimaces for some encouragement.

The oversized vinyl seats provided ample legroom, and as I stretched out I noticed the stained ashtrays in the arm rests and the missing chips of paint on the speckled wall. This plane had probably been kicked around since the 1940s, when Reeve Aleutian Air first flew to Dutch Harbor. Call me chicken, but I hoped its maintenance was up to date.