After three days of fishing, the state of Alaska (temporarily) suspended the commecial catch for the areas we’d just fished. With our haul offloaded, we were in fact headed back to Valdez, where we’d await word on the next opening and its whereabouts. We would sail all night and into the morning to get there. We’d take turns standing wheel watch till we arrived.
While everyone was still awake and on deck, the skipper gave us our instructions. “Everybody’s gonna stand a two-hour watch. When you’re not on wheel watch, catch some sleep. I’ll go first and then you guys can take over when we’re closer to Valdez. Just keep the same heading. Got that?”
Half-asleep, we nodded in agreement. We at least understood that we’d take turns at the helm, steering our trusty vessel to port.
“And one more thing. If we get within a mile of an oil tanker, I want you to let me take over. Don’t worry about going below decks to get me. I’ll wake up as soon as you pull back on the throttle.”
Wheelhouse, ’60s era wood purse seiner (courtesy Dock Street Brokers)
After the skipper took his shift, and then the skiff operator, it was my turn to stand wheel watch. The skiffman showed me our bearings, then pointed to the shadow of trees on the mainland. “Keep ‘er on this heading,” he said. “And see those oil tankers off in the distance?”
I nodded at the slight twinkle of lights, dead ahead.
“Head straight for them. And don’t worry, they’re still a long ways away.”
I finished my watch uneventfully and passed it off to the farm boy. As far as I could remember, the only other time he’d been at the helm was during a brief run south, toward Bligh Reef, when the skipper wanted to familiarize him with navigational buoys. He seemed confident and glibly acknowledged the oil tankers, anchored many miles ahead. I toddled off to sleep.
And then the sound of the throttle easing awakened me. There was a slight commotion as the skipper trundled up the stairs. Then I heard him swearing. “What the fuck,” he said. “We’re not even close to that tanker.”
At night, with few visual cues, the size of an oil tanker can be deceiving. The farm boy was taking no chances.
Already awake, I decided to go topside and see what the fuss was all about. Yes, the tanker certainly looked close. The skipper kept a firm hand on the wheel and then, when we were actually within a mile, he called out the distance.
“This is a mile,” he declared, practically an hour later.
Oil tanker at night (courtesy Cynthia King Pei)
Oil tanker up close (aerial shot)
Copyright Leland E. Hale (2018). All rights reserved.
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