Soon... A Fisher Poem

Crouched on the bow,

Sleep crusting my eyelids half-shut,

I breathe in the stillness.

Ripples echo silently against the aluminum hull.

Mast lights twinkle with stars in the pre-dawn sky.

The fleet sleeps.

Soon, the skipper will rev the engine.

The boat will lurch forward.

I’ll yank the lever and the shrill squeak of the anchor winch

Will pierce my reverie like a flock of gossiping kittiwakes.

Chain will rattle, and my gloved hand will force each icy link to its proper place.

Soon, I’ll switch on the RSW, and its familiar whine will mix with

The aroma of perking coffee and diesel.

I’ll scoop orange globs of powdered Gateraid into my water bottle,

While Ibuprofen numbs my swollen and cracked hands.

The hour will strike and the skipper will signal,

Undetectable but to me.

The buoy will fly

And the net will whirl behind it, out into the chop.

Sharp as Victorinoxes,

My eyes will send the message “backlash” to the hand manning the break

Almost before it even happens.

Someone will shout, “Jumper!”

And the laugh lines around the skipper’s eyes will crinkle

Like a little boy’s on Christmas morning.

“Which side do you think they’re hittin’ from?” he’ll ask,

And hook the net into the current

Whether I shrug my shoulders or not.

A school will light up the net: Brilliant white and blue fireworks –

More exhilarating than any Fourth of July exhibition

Anywhere.

I’ll unhook the gear.

Pow! Pow! Pow!

The plunger will echo, metallic against hard sea,

As wild and robust as my heartbeat.

Another hit, then another.

“They’re poppin’ like popcorn,” the skipper will bellow.

And for a moment, I’ll feel invincible.

Soon, I will snap mesh from gills with a practiced flip of my wrist.

And nimbly slide 5/8” web over sleek, fat salmon bellies,

Once, twice, three hundred times an hour.

I will lift a hatch cover and guide thousands of pounds of bled reds

Into a hold of arctic sea water

With a gentle nudge of an Xtra Tuf.

  

My co-deckhand will pass a steaming mug of burnt casserole

And I’ll scarf it one-handedly, all the while leading the mast line

In a tedious dance over the power roller’s bunny ears,

Thinking – for what must be the six-millionth time –
“There’s got to be a more efficient way…”

I’ll switch my tired, wet hoodie for another salt-encrusted one

On the preface of having to pee.

The VHF will crackle  

And all day, I’ll seasaw between genuine affection for every Pete, Todd and Larry,

Who quell my boredom with their stupid antidotes and blatant boasting,

And red, hot rage for the white torture of their monotonous drones,

So strong that, sometimes, it takes every ouch of willpower

Not to rip that loudspeaker off its mount under the bridge

And hurl it unapologetically into the swell.

Soon, we’ll loose the race against the clock

And end up round hauling the last two shackles,

Stress dripping from our brows to the beat of the second hand.

On the run to the tender, we’ll pick and restack

And when we’re done, I’ll scrub the galley floor,

Scrapping scales off the silverware drawer with a maxed-out credit card,

Not even bothering to wonder at the irony

Of the silverware drawer being cleaner than me. 

Soon, I’ll rip the lassoing tie-up line out of the sky.

The boat will ease alongside the tender

And I’ll meld the stiff yellow fibers around the cleat like butter.

We’ll hook and unhook brailers in rapid succession,

Fingers spinning above our heads,

A signal to the crane operator as we hop out of the way,

Surprisingly nimble with three layers of fleece under our Grundens.

Soon, we’ll pull away from that tender,

And hose in hand, I’ll shimmy across the deck

Belting Tenacious D while my co-deckhand dips brailers

In between fits of girlish giggles.

Then, we’ll bicker pettily over which flavor of ice cream to buy from the fuel barge.

Sunbeams the color of salmon will drip slowly below the horizon.

The crew will huddle around a dog-eared Captain Jack at the galley table,

Sipping grog from chipped mugs

As the boat maneuvers into the slough.

And I’ll meander back up there,

Ready to set the anchor.

But for now, it’s just me.

Standing on the bow.

In the stillness.

And there’s no other bliss
Quite like it.

-Lila Johnson