Some things hap­pen slow­er in Alas­ka. The past few weeks’ fren­zy of get­ting up here and ready for our first hal­ibut trip delayed this post. Though the offi­cial day has passed, the sen­ti­ment is still relevant.

Robert Ful­ghum has an essay about Mother’s Day. How, as a Uni­tar­i­an min­is­ter, he gave a ser­mon on Mother’s Day – not of the flow­ers-and-Hall­mark vari­ety, but one that acknowl­edged the com­pli­ca­tions that so often accom­pa­ny our rela­tion­ships. This is that kind of story.

In 1986, my par­ents built the Willie Lee II. For 4 years, we fished her as a fam­i­ly. My dad was thank­ful for our expe­ri­ences on the water, but didn’t believe salmon trolling could sup­port us in the long run. My mom dis­agreed. When they split up, she took own­er­ship of the Willie Lee, with her 13 year old daugh­ter as her crew.

My mom and I have not had smooth seas. Seething with rage and grief fol­low­ing my par­ents’ divorce, I moved out of her house at 15 to live with a boyfriend. Fish­ing was our one remain­ing point of con­tact: every June, regard­less of our estrange­ment, we’d reunite at her boat and head north, pre­pared to spend the next 3 months liv­ing and work­ing in extreme­ly close quar­ters under stress­ful con­di­tions. Throw a hate­ful 16 year old and an exhaust­ed, iso­lat­ed parent/employer alone togeth­er in 54’ of boat, send them out to sea for a record 26 day trip, and see what hap­pens. Hard times.

Weren’t many women skip­pers in the ear­ly ‘90’s. If you ask her how it was to be a woman in such a male-dom­i­nat­ed indus­try, she’ll declare that she felt com­plete­ly wel­come. She loved the phys­i­cal labor, the men­tal demands, and the com­mu­ni­ty. Much of the com­mu­ni­ty loved her right back, attract­ed as much by her enthu­si­asm and eager­ness to con­nect with peo­ple, as the sheer nov­el­ty of a moth­er-daugh­ter oper­a­tion on one of the fleet’s big­ger boats.

We fished the Willie Lee togeth­er for 6 years. She installed a refrig­er­a­tion sys­tem, gain­ing access to the pre­mi­um frozen-at-sea salmon mar­ket. But the expen­sive under­tak­ing was fol­lowed by a few bad sea­sons – poor fish­ing, low prices. My dad’s dire pre­dic­tions were con­firmed: My mom, very near­ly broke try­ing to earn a liv­ing doing what she loved, was forced to sell the ves­sel they had craft­ed with their own hands.

It’s been 15 years since my mom nav­i­gat­ed South­east Alas­ka, but she’s still present in the minds of old-timers. Every sum­mer, they ask me how she’s doing, chuck­le over their favorite Val sto­ries. One that always comes up is from 1993, when she was trolling off the Wash­ing­ton coast. When the 5/64”stainless steel fish­ing wire back­lashed on its hydraulic spool, she reached in to sort it out, with­out clip­ping it off to relieve the ten­sion – exact­ly what she’d always warned me nev­er to do. The wire slipped loose unex­pect­ed­ly. All of that line’s weight sliced through her left thumb. Trained as a vet­eri­nar­i­an, she picked the 1” nub­bin up off the deck and held it in place.

(This is where the fish­er­man retelling this sto­ry will slap his knee and bark a tobac­co-phlegmed laugh. “She fished out the rest of the god­damn drag because she didn’t want to take off in the mid­dle and alarm ev’rybody!”)

It was an 8 hour run in from “the Prairie,” where the fleet was fish­ing off-shore, back to Neah Bay, and anoth­er hour to the Port Ange­les hos­pi­tal. When the doc­tor shook his head that no, too much time had elapsed for a suc­cess­ful re-attach­ment, my mom shook her head right back. “If you don’t sew it on, I will!”

He got out his nee­dle and sutures.

That sum­mer, she wore a bul­bous, grub­by ban­dage swathed around her frag­ile dig­it. But the doc­tor had been right: the flesh had been too long apart. All that sea­son, when­ev­er fish­er­men asked how her thumb was doing, she eager­ly yanked off the cov­er­ing: “Oh, it’s com­ing along – look!” More than a few salt-crust­ed vet­er­ans spat out their cof­fee mid-sip and turned green at the sight of that black­ened stump.

It’s tough to live up to a leg­end. I spent much of my twen­ties feel­ing vague­ly ashamed of my career deck­hand sta­tus.  Where fishermen’s smiles car­ried warmth, I saw mea­sure­ment. Where they expressed approval, I heard faint dis­ap­point­ment. Thought Val’s daugh­ter woul­da got her own boat, done some­thin’ more… I still some­times feel like I’m walk­ing Sitka’s docks in my mom’s shadow.

In the years since she left fish­ing, she’s pur­sued anoth­er dream, sin­gle-hand­ed­ly turn­ing her 5 acres into a farm, shift­ing from har­vester of the sea to that of the soil. Fruits, veg­eta­bles, herbs all flour­ish under her care, along with chick­ens, rab­bits, and goats.  But her enthu­si­asm and pas­sion have always exceed­ed her avail­abil­i­ty. It’d be tough to man­age this alone with all of the hours of the day; she’s strug­gled to do it while simul­ta­ne­ous­ly work­ing swing shift work – 12 hours on a week of days, fol­lowed by a week of nights – as an oil refin­ery operator.

She dogged­ly refus­es to use the F word to describe her­self, yet is one of my ear­li­est mod­els of fem­i­nism. From her expe­ri­ence as 1 of 3 women in Cornell’s vet­eri­nary pro­gram to skip­per­ing her own fish­ing boat, every stage of her life has been tes­ti­mo­ny to forg­ing one’s own path.

So it con­fus­es me to see this astound­ing­ly com­pe­tent, accom­plished woman ten­ta­tive and grasp­ing. I’m impa­tient with her def­er­ence to men and naked hunger for my approval, irri­tat­ed by every expres­sion of self-doubt and each pan­der­ing “What do you think, Bud?” to a dis­mis­sive com­pan­ion. How can she be uncer­tain of the strength of her own two feet, when so much of her daughter’s life has been a semi-con­scious effort to fill her boots?

This Mother’s Day, I’m fol­low­ing Robert Fulghum’s lead. No flow­ers or cards here, the gifts I wish I could give my mom are of a dif­fer­ent sort. Like-mind­ed friends who delight in her farm, peo­ple who under­stand the strug­gles and cel­e­bra­tions of farm­ing. A part­ner who respects her dreams, inde­pen­dence, and the intense labor she’s giv­en her land. A long, active future of dig­ging in the dirt, cul­ti­vat­ing new life and well-being. A daugh­ter more patient with dif­fer­ences, more for­giv­ing of the past and more ded­i­cat­ed to a future of com­mon ground.

Stuff you can’t find on Hall­mark shelves.

 Though this post is for Val Aad­sen, I’ve been tremen­dous­ly for­tu­nate to have many strong, inspir­ing women in my life. MJ, Car­ol, Joy, Vick­ie, Aun­tie Social – thanks to you all for shar­ing your lessons and love.