Tele Aadsen

writer - fisherman - listener

After my Sat­ur­day per­for­mance at the Fort George Show­room, Cap’n J, Ash­ley and I braced our­selves against the bit­ing cold and hus­tled over to the Asto­ria Events Cen­ter. The 2012 Onsite Poem Con­test would kick off at 10:30. Emceed by two of my lit star heroes, Erin Fris­tad and Moe Bow­stern, I did­n’t want to miss a minute of it.

We’d learned about the con­test on Thurs­day night, when the pro­grams were dis­trib­uted. Page 6 issued this challenge:

Dur­ing the pre-per­for­mance Sat­ur­day after­noon calm, I’d seen one Fish­er Poet after anoth­er, stu­dious­ly hunched over a tablet, scrawl­ing pos­si­ble vers­es. “Have you writ­ten your poem yet?” sev­er­al asked, and I shook my head.  No, not this time. I want­ed to learn how things are done and cheer every­one else on this year.

If you’re imag­in­ing the Events Cen­ter as a ster­ile behe­moth of a con­ven­tion hall, that’s not the place we shiv­ered into. A sin­gle-sto­ry square in the midst of down­town, we were met by a bar on our left, low bal­cony seat­ing on our right, and about 300 peo­ple squeezed into the fold­ing tables and chairs between us and the stage.

Pho­to by Pat Dixon

The crowd was unyield­ing as Moe wrapped up the Sat­ur­day set, so we stood against the back wall to enjoy her per­for­mance. I glanced over at Cap’n J and saw he had his seri­ous face on. I knew he’d been dis­ap­point­ed that we’d missed Ray Trol­l’s band, the Rat­fish Wran­glers, the night before. Now, sched­uled oppo­site the poem con­test that I want­ed to see, we were going to miss them again.

I leaned into his frown. “Are you upset?”

Do you have a pen?” he countered.

(Do I have a pen…Really, dude?)

I hand­ed him the Mur­ray Pacif­ic ball­point from my right hip pock­et and he grabbed the loose paper on the table next to us, a sin­gle sheet torn from a yel­low legal pad. Lips mov­ing silent­ly, he scrib­bled mad­ly while Moe sang and the crowd cheered.

Quick — what rhymes with ‘joy’?”

Boy, toy… Wait — are you writ­ing some­thing for the poet­ry contest?”

Co-orga­niz­er Jay Speak­man and I had tried to lure Cap’n J to the after­noon sto­ry cir­cle, unsuc­cess­ful­ly. This was the first I’d heard of his desire to par­tic­i­pate. As he stared at the paper before him, we heard Moe shift­ing gears, call­ing all of the con­tes­tants forward.

Got it!” With a final scrib­ble, and per­haps as much to his amaze­ment as Ash­ley’s and mine, Cap’n J rushed to the stage.

About 15 par­tic­i­pants lined up as Moe and Erin explained how this worked. Every­one would read their poem once. Audi­ence applause would deter­mine who made it into the sec­ond round, and, along with the MC’s, who was the final winner.

Aston­ished to see Cap’n J in the line-up, Ash­ley and I elbowed our way for­ward. One by one, the poets stepped up to the mic, intro­duc­ing them­selves by name and home port. Almost exclu­sive­ly male, they spanned the coasts: Alas­ka, Wash­ing­ton, Ore­gon. New Hamp­shire, Rhode Island. Japan, too. Writ­ten from the per­spec­tives of cap­tains, deck­hands, even a pair of deck gloves, each poet unique­ly wove in the required line, “work is our joy.” All remark­able in their own way, the com­bined tal­ent was impressive.

Some were espe­cial­ly clever. Nan­cy Cook’s poem gave a nod to the video games she had­n’t played since 1983: “Work is our joy…stick.” And Rich Bard summed up a clue­less crew­mate, “She’s a real piece of work, is our Joy.” Some reward­ed by rau­cous laughs, oth­ers with appre­cia­tive mur­murs, we roared and stomped the Cen­ter’s wood­en planked floors for every­one who had the courage to get up there.

And there he was: Joel Brady-Pow­er, Sit­ka, Alaska.

Pho­to by Pat Dixon

I was so stink­ing proud of my best buddy.

He claims he was ter­ri­bly ner­vous, but we could­n’t tell. And the room went crazy for his poem, and it was­n’t just his sis­ter and me mak­ing all that noise. After a win­now­ing that cut the con­tes­tants down by half, Cap’n J made it to the sec­ond round.

Things got tougher from there. Moe declared that all of the final­ists would have to take off two pieces of cloth­ing — “And hats don’t count!” she hollered at our token cow­boy, Ron McDaniel. Once more, each con­tes­tant stood at the mic, and the crowd roared for their favorite.

So… maybe you’d like to hear Cap’n J’s sec­ond go at the mic?

For­giv­ing my shaky hands, it’s a great video. But if you’re some­where you can’t play it right now, here’s the text:

It’s the days when the moun­tains speak

and the sun’s poet­ry paints the sky

When the fish are thick and the ocean’s flat

and there’s not anoth­er boat in sight

And sure there’s days when the storms crash and thrash

and toss our boats around like toys

But thanks to a fish­er­man’s selec­tive memory

our work is still our joy.

Not bad for 10 min­utes before show­time, huh?

We cel­e­brat­ed every­one who’d made it to the sec­ond round, clap­ping as a line of gift­ed word­smiths stepped down. “It’s nev­er enjoy­able send­ing peo­ple off-stage,” Moe lament­ed, and then two poets remained before us.

One was Hil­lel Wright, a writer who’d come all the way from Oki­nawa. (In addi­tion to trav­el­ing the great­est dis­tance, Hil­lel had tri­umphed over the most adver­si­ty to attend FPG. After mak­ing it to the States, he was in a car acci­dent in Ore­gon. Thanks to the orga­niz­ers’ quick ral­ly­ing, FP Tom Hilton brought Hil­lel to Astoria.)

And Hil­lel’s co-final­ist was… Cap’n J.

Ash­ley and I exchanged looks of stunned pride, as Moe announced, “Okay, Joel, I’m gonna send you out on the run­way.” With an embar­rassed smile, Cap’n J shuf­fled to the front of the stage, arms swing­ing at his sides. “All right, those of you who loved the poem of Joel, stand up!”

And that was where I watched an awe­some event shift into some­thing near-sacred. My sweet­heart had nev­er before expe­ri­enced that kind of all-about-you pub­lic prais­ing from a room­ful of strangers — peo­ple who did­n’t “have” to say they liked his words. Few of us have expe­ri­enced such cer­e­mo­ny, and few­er still know how to receive it.

Joel man­aged to hold his ground for 8 sec­onds (I know, I’ve got it on video) before step­ping away. But Moe was hav­ing none of that. As the crowd con­tin­ued to cheer, she shook her head, point­ed a fin­ger at him, and boomed, “You GET BACK out there, Joel! You stand there, and you TAKE what they’re giv­ing you. Take that in, Joel — OPEN your arms wide! That’s right, every­body, GIVE it to him.”

For the next 22 sec­onds, I watched my part­ner stand proud­er than I’d seen in our almost 8 years togeth­er. He stood taller, his back straight­ened as if he’d nev­er gone crab­bing, and glowed. I won­dered what could be achieved in this world, if every one of us expe­ri­enced that wild pub­lic approval just once in our lives.

This time, when he stepped back, Moe acknowl­edged the chal­lenge. “Thank you, Joel. That’s a hard thing to do in this cul­ture.” That stage might as well have been cov­ered in shiny paper and rib­bons, as great of a gift as she gave him that night.

Hil­lel replaced Joel on the run­way. With snowy hair combed back from dark eye­brows, a red flan­nel shirt and wrist brace, this gen­tle­man exud­ed panache. The crowd went wild as soon as he stepped for­ward, and he twirled his gray sweater over­head like a pro­fes­so­r­i­al Chip­pen­dale dancer.

Hil­lel Wright, you are the winner!”

And with Hil­lel’s bless­ing, here it is, the 2012 FPG Onsite Poem cham­pi­on, “Cod Cheeks and Fried Baloney.”

A Yan­kee once fetched up in old Newfoundland

Where the beach is grey rock instead of white

sand

Where rain falls in April and snow falls in May

And dories and islanders cov­er the

bay

Where old­timers cringe at the scent of a phony

And break­fast is per­fumed with fry­ing baloney

*          *          *          *          *

Where fid­dlers always play the tune and dancers clog the beat

And cod cheeks make the gourmet dish and squid inks spice the meat

The Yan­kee thought the New­fies crude, but they said “Well me b’y

Ye may think that we ‘aves no fun, but eh — work is our j’y!”

Friends, please join me in an Alas­ka-sized cheer for Hil­lel Wright, Cap’n J, and all of the 2012 Onsite Poem con­tes­tants! Immense tal­ent, cre­ativ­i­ty, and courage; I feel priv­i­leged to have heard each of them.