by Darrel Bird
The Last Trip
By
Darrel Bird
Copyright 2010 by Darrel Bird
The Last Trip
Part 1
Jon ‘Swag’ Johansson walked onto the Seattle docks that stood behind the fishing suppliers until he came to a tan fiberglass boat. He walked onto the pier finger and reached over to knock loudly on the port light of the cruiser. Fred Balkans came crawling out of his lair. Opening the hatch and seeing Jon, he climbed onto the pier. “How you doin’, Jon?” he said, offering his hand.
“Doing good, how’s Junebug?”
“Junebug is doing fine, you old scallywag,” Fred’s wife June said, as she came out onto the deck of the boat.
“You’re as beautiful as ever, Junebug. If Lena would have freed me up, I would have taken you away from Fred long ago.”
“And you’re as full of crap as you ever were; I don’t see how Lena puts up with you!”
Ending the friendly banter, Jon said, “I need two thousand feet of stainless leader, Fred, and you know the cost of leader these days. I thought you might have a spare roll.”
“What do you want with leader, Jon?”
“I’m going to long line this year.”
“I thought you and Lena had made a deal, Jon; you know she ain’t going to like that.”
“Yeah, I know it; she already don’t, but the tuna is coming within 125 miles of Astoria on account of the currents and sea temps. The boat is still in good shape, and I’m going out one more time.”
“Jon, you know it’s a big risk, and you told Lena you were done with fishing.”
“Yes, I know it, but I’m going; 2000 pounds of tuna less the fuel is a good haul, and we need the money.”
“Ok Swag, I got some in the box in my storage locker. Let’s get it for you.” They walked back up the dock to Fred’s storage locker. Fred pilfered around a little, and came back out with a large roll of new stainless steel fishing leader.
“You be careful out there, Jon. You going to go by yourself?”
“Yeah, I don’t have the money to hire an experienced hand, and I hate to take some kid. You know how that is.”
“Ok Jon, just be careful and watch the weather; we don’t want to lose you.”
“Aw, bitch, bitch, bitch.” Jon smiled as Fred handed him the roll of leader and shook his good friend’s hand.
Fred looked worriedly after him and watched him out of sight as he walked back to his beat up Volkswagen diesel. It seemed like luck just wasn’t with old fishermen these days, and he felt a sense of dread. He had known Jon since grade school, and they had been pals all the way through school, along with Snuffy Ingram, who had become a pastor and was now the pastor of a local Baptist church in their home town of Astoria, Oregon.
He and Jon had taken to the fishing trade, following in the footsteps of their fathers. They had been fortunate to have passed the years running fishing boats off the Pacific Northwest Coast, but he himself had lost a boat and darn near died of hypothermia before the Coast Guard could get to him.
Over the years, the fishing had grown steadily worse; the supplies kept rising in price, and the canneries paid less and less for a catch. His wife June had begged him to quit while they were ahead. Fishing was in his blood, his way of life, but he saw the writing on the wall, and he had agreed to sell the boat. They had purchased a 36 foot cabin boat with an aft cabin, and sailed her to Seattle, where they lived aboard at the commercial fishing docks, behind the ship's suppliers.
Fred was an experienced welder, and with the rest of the money, he welded up a car hauler of his own design, and then purchased a late model Dodge diesel pick-up. He began hauling cars and found it to be a lucrative business. He missed fishing, but he and June made a good pair hauling cars. He loved her now, just as much as the day they were married, and he liked to be with her constantly, instead of being gone several days at a time.
He, Jon, and Snuffy had gotten married all at the same time, and had had one hell of a wedding party. The girls got along well; it was an ideal time. Gradually, they all settled down to their individual lives. He and June could not have children – June was barren. Jon had two children, and Snuffy had one, so when they all got together, it was a good-sized group; they were like family.
Jon had promised Lena, his wife, he would quit the fishing business, but he had not sold his boat, as he had promised her. Now he was going out again. Geeze, I got a bad feeling about this! The thoughts rolled through his head like winter waves, but what could he do? Probably just me and old age kicking in anyhow.
When Fred arrived back at the boat, June was standing on the deck, arms folded. Uh Oh. She looked at him sternly. “Fred, is Jon really going fishing after he promised Lena he would sell the boat?”
“Yeah, that’s what he said, and he took the extra roll of leader I had.”
“Fred, I’ve got a bad feeling about this; can’t you talk to him?”
“Now don’t you start in honey, you know good and well, ain’t nobody can tell Swag what to do once he makes up his mind. I got a bad feeling same as you. Let's go inside and pray about this.” Inside the cabin, they knelt and held hands to pray for Jon ‘Swag’ Johansson.
Part 2
On the way back to Astoria, Jon thought about Fred and June Balkans, Fred had quit fishing a year ago and built a car hauling trailer, bought a Dodge diesel, and started hauling cars between Seattle and points east. They seemed happy doing that, with June going with him. At least June was happy that his fishing days were over. Commercial fishing had all but ground to a halt, what with low fish prices, high fuel, and supply prices killing off the market for the small boats. His was a 43-foot Seattle-built plank boat, built by the Seattle ship yard in 1954. The Sea Sprite was old, but sea worthy. Her hull was solid as the day she rolled off the Ways.
Jon arrived back home in Astoria at 6:30 that evening. He left his boots on the porch of their home, which overlooked the three-mile bridge. The house was old, but it was their house (all except for a few payments remaining), all paid for with commercial fishing. But they had fallen on hard times; not much work in Astoria, Oregon for a fisherman, and they could still lose the house, if they weren’t careful.
What with the tuna coming in so close, he figured it was their best chance to get healed up. It was rare that the fish came in so close, and he aimed to make the best of it.
He hung his slicker on the hanger on the porch, opened the door, and threw his baseball cap through the door. “Come on in, Swag, and quit acting like a fool.” Lena sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a pile of bills in front of her. He grinned at her as he walked over and squeezed her shoulder.
“Did you get the line?” She looked at him with a fearful look in her eyes, her women’s intuition working full force. She knew if she wasn’t careful, she would get bitchy.
“I got it,” he said, as he poured himself a cup and sat down.
“I wish you wouldn’t go, Jon; I have a bad feeling about it.”
“Now Lena, you know you have had a bad feeling every trip I have ever made over the bar.”
“But I got a real bad feeling this time, Swag. Please don’t go.” A tear ran slowly down her cheek as she looked away. Jon stared at the back of her blonde curly hair and reached and turned her face back toward him. “I love you Lena. I’ll be careful, but we need the money. This will be my last trip; I swear it.”
Their son, Jody, came in with his ball bat over his shoulder. “Hi Pop!”
“How you doin’ sport, I thought I told you not to play baseball in the rain.”
“When am I gonna play, Pop? Ya know it rains all the time.” It did and Jody loved baseball.
Their daughter, Mollie, came skipping down the hall and flew into h
is lap, Mollie was eight and Jody was ten. He kissed his daughter all over her face. “Aw Pop, quit it; you’re slobbering on me!” She gave him a little slap.
Part 3
Lena smiled at the kids and her husband of sixteen years. She loved her family dearly and prayed for them often that God would protect them and keep the family intact. She was a member of the First Baptist Church of Astoria, and had been since she was in her teens, but she could hardly ever get Jon to go to church, even when he was ashore. His life was fishing, and that included Sunday. He had promised her he would sell the boat and pay off the house, but he just couldn’t seem to let go of his beloved boat.
She puttered around the kitchen, then into the wash room to do the rest of the laundry, and as she worked, she remembered the years. Jon was a year ahead of her in high school. She had been embarrassingly skinny, clear through the eleventh grade. But that summer she began to fill out, and she caught the eye of Jon ‘Swag’ Johansson. They began going steady that fall. Trouble was, he had his two buddies, Fred Balkins and Jacob ‘Snuffy’ Ingram; those boys were inseparable. The four of them became a group, then along came June and Melissa. The six of them went tearing around town, giving the local cops fits, not to mention their parents.
Then came the day when Snuffy got religion and decided to go to Dallas Theological Seminary. One of them (she didn’t know which) got it in their head that all three them should get married before Snuffy left for Seminary to “get his head screwed on straight,” so they said. The girls agreed. They were just as wild as the boys, so they announced the wedding from Astoria to Portland, ended up with over a thousand guests, 30 Kegs of beer, and the party was on. It lasted two days and one night, with fifteen girls getting pregnant, and six new wedding proposals. Their parents threatened to disown them if it ever happened again. It was a safe bet it wouldn’t.
Slowly, the boys grew up and became good men. She was proud of her man, but he was the most stubborn of them all. The only way she could handle him was to let him have his head. It was no different this time, but this time fear struck her heart for her husband. She walked back into the kitchen where Jon nodded in his chair, his hand around his cup, almost asleep.
Part 4
“Will you go to church with us tomorrow, Swag?” she said, looking at his face intently. Jon knew that it would make her feel better about his going fishing, so he agreed to go. He wanted to work on the boat, but he knew better than to push it with Lena.
The next morning they walked into the church as a family. The pastor met them in the foyer, shaking Jon’s hand vigorously. “Well, I’ll be hog tied; how did Lena get you in here this morning?”
“That’s enough of that, Snuffy. I can still whip you with my hands tied behind my back.” Jon smiled as he shook his boyhood friend’s hand. They had been friends since first grade, and they had gotten into their fair share of trouble together.
“I wish you would pay more attention to the Lord, Jon.”
“I ain’t got anything against him, Snuffy; you know I ain’t onshore much.”
“You going out again?”
“Yep; tomorrow morning. I’m leaving at dawn.”
“I’ll be praying for you, Jon. You be careful crossing the bar.” The Columbia River bar had the reputation of being the roughest bar in the US. The Coast Guard trained there, because of it.
The gentle pastor walked away to shake someone else’s hand. Jon and Lena walked into the sanctuary and took a seat in one of the pews. As the service progressed, Jon considered his life, and he thought, this will be my last trip, it’s just too risky and I want to see my kids grow up. After the service was over, they met with Snuffy and Melissa at a local café on the waterfront; they talked awhile then went home.
Jon walked into the kitchen on Monday morning at 4 am to the smell of coffee steaming and eggs frying. Lena was working over the stove, her hair all a frizz in her night gown. The kids were still asleep. Jon sat down at the table, yawned, and stretched.
Lena brought him coffee and hurriedly finished the eggs and toast. She sat sipping her coffee as Jon wolfed down the eggs, saying nothing. He finished quickly, wiped his mouth, and got up to go.
“You be careful, Swag Johansson, and you come back to me, you hear?”
“Yes dear, I’ll be careful, and I’ll be back with a boat load of fish. I gotta go.” He kissed his wife tenderly and picked up his cap and slicker on the way out the door.
He arrived at the docks that lay behind the marine supply, while it was still dark. He climbed onboard the Sea Sprite and started the big GMC diesel engines. While the engines were warming up, he stuck a stick in the two 100-gallon fuel tanks to make sure they were full and had no leaks. The boat had three steering stations: one inside the cabin, one outside the cabin, and one on the stern of the boat. He checked all of them, then tested the hydraulic anchor system, lowered the trawler poles down, then back up. Everything looked good. He raised the hatch on the floor and glanced at the bilges, which showed the usual amount of water; he started the bilge pumps, and pumped the bilges until the pumps sucked air. He checked the packing around the shafts where they protruded through the shaft logs. A steady drip of water dripped from the packing, which was usual.
By that time the boat's diesel engines were warmed up. Jon yanked the stern line and the bow line, and backed slowly away from the docks. Once in the wide Columbia River, he picked up the lights of the channel and pushed the throttles forward. The boat leaped ahead, as if she was in a hurry to do what her master commanded.
The boat began to roll heavily as he approached the Columbia River bar, but it was high tide and the waves were only about seven feet, so he decided to take the rolling of the boat to save fuel rather than put the “birds” in the water. The heavy stabilizers gave the boat a more comfortable ride, enough that he could read a book on the 125-mile trip out, but using them caused the boat to use more fuel, dragging the heavy stabilizers through the water.
Thirty minutes after he crossed the bar, Jon put the stabilizers in the water, set the auto pilot, and turned on the radar and the VHF. He put his ear muffs on, grabbed off the panel the book he wanted to finish, and settled in the captain's chair to read.
After a while, he dozed off, and then awoke with a start at the radar alarm. There was a freighter off about a half mile, heading for the Columbia River; it was a Japanese freighter with a ship load of containers.
He set the coffee pot on the stove checked the autopilot, the compass, and the GPS. Ninety miles more, and he would catch the warmer currents. That’s where the tuna would be, following the edge of the cold Japan currents.
Soon he settled back into his captains’ chair. The VHF radio came to life. “Swag, is that you?”
“Yep.”
“I thought you were going to sell your boat.” It was Clyde Jorgenson on the Sea Shark.
“Where are you?”
“Look to your extreme port.”
“What you doing in this close?”
“Crabbing,” answered Clyde.”
“Crabbing? Why ain’t you out where the tuna are?”
“I just didn’t have the money for the supplies and fuel. The suppliers cut me off. I got one bad engine, and I don’t have the twenty grand to fix it. She goes on the block next week.”
“I’m sorry Clyde, why didn’t you call me?”
“What could you do? Put up your house? I can’t have that, and you know it.”
“Yeah, I am on the last run, myself, I guess we’re both done. What you plan on doing?”
“Whatever jobs I can get to do, I guess.”
“Ok, call me next week.”
“Ok, Swag; see you when you get back.”
Jon reset his course and steamed on. His plan was to make two sets a day of 500 hooks to a line. If he let them soak for four hours, he could make the two sets. He checked his trawler poles as he steamed west.
He arrived at the fishing gr
ounds around 4 pm on Monday; he would start making sets at dawn on Tuesday. He saw no other boats, and nothing showed up on radar, so he went into the cabin and made his supper. He read awhile, and dozed off.
He awoke with a start when something hit the boat close to the keel. It was a tremendous blow, which shook the whole boat. He flipped the switch to the cabin and the deck light and went on deck, but could see nothing in the dark.
What the heck was that? His mind raced as he looked around the empty deck. The stabilizers hung straight down from their chains off the poles, in the water. The 20 feet of chain the stabilizers were hanging on could allow the heavy iron wing-shaped stabilizers to hit the boat, but what could cause them to swing that far?
That wasn’t it, he decided. So he fished out a flash light and shined it toward the floor boards at the bow of the boat. He was alarmed when he saw water just covering the front floor boards. The bow sat heavier in the water than the stern, because of the 200-gallon fresh water tank, which was slung across the bow of the boat. He heard the steady hum of the front bilge pumps and walked back to flip the switch of the extra pump under the cabin floor. He heard it begin to hum; it was sucking water, all right.
He ran the extra bilge pump for fifteen minutes, but the water wasn’t going down at all – it was rising a little. Something had knocked into the bottom of the boat hard enough to spring a plank near the keel, and he knew he was in trouble. “I’d better call the Coast Guard,” he mumbled under his breath, and reached for the microphone on the VHF radio.