Any fish­er­man worth his or her salt water knows there are no guar­an­tees in this busi­ness. From beached loved ones crav­ing a stone-sol­id return date, to green deck­hands already cal­cu­lat­ing the crew­share on fish not yet caught, how often have we explained inher­ent uncer­tain­ties? But years of expe­ri­enc­ing the same mad­den­ing pat­tern has taught us that one thing is a take-it-to-the-bank giv­en: After weeks of Vari­able 10’s, glassy June seas, you can count on the weath­er turn­ing to shit just in time for the July 1^st Chi­nook troll opening.

Our first few days were those grim­ly known as “fish-able.” Wind with teeth, East­er­ly 25, and a sharp-stacked South­east lump that kept us per­pet­u­al­ly clenched in its trough. Stuff stored on the roof launched over­board. I buck­led into a rarely-called-into-duty life vest. Wedged into a cor­ner of the bunk, Bear the Boat Cat glared bale­ful­ly, sure­ly wish­ing she’d been left in her ken­nel at the Sit­ka pound all those years ago. Not fun, but def­i­nite­ly fish-able for a young cou­ple who’d over­done it with a win­ter of dinero-devour­ing boat projects.

Bear isn’t a fan of “fish-able” days.

We’re moti­vat­ed to fish tougher this sea­son, sure, but let’s be real: this is the South­east troll fleet, not Dead­liest Catch. So when the fore­cast dete­ri­o­rat­ed to two days of gales, Cap’n J and I made a bee­line for Lituya Bay. (If that bee’s line was a spray-sat­u­rat­ed UpDownSLAMcrash-rid­den trek, that is.) The last boat across the bar before the tidal-dic­tat­ed door closed for the night, we fell into fraz­zled sleep min­utes after the anchor was dogged.

Chaos on the ocean, peace­ful oasis in Lituya Bay.

Over the next day, the bay filled with trollers who’d fled every cor­ner of the Fair­weath­er Grounds, includ­ing one of the fleet’s élite. An icon­ic steel beau­ty, she was on her final trip with the high­lin­er cou­ple who’ve trea­sured her for over twen­ty years. Anoth­er fish­er­man had put his mon­ey down and the paper­work was com­plete, but their nego­ti­a­tion was firm: They would fish their baby for one last king opening.

These folks spent their career as reluc­tant parade mas­ters. Couldn’t shift their tack three degrees with­out a cav­al­cade of tag-alongs imme­di­ate­ly adjust­ing course to match. The final trip of beloved com­mu­ni­ty mem­bers would require equal atten­tion and hoopla.

“A day like this calls for a beach par­ty,” declared one of our part­ners. His eldest daugh­ter set off in their skiff, the offi­cial taxi ser­vice for the fes­tiv­i­ties. Chron­i­cal­ly under­es­ti­mat­ed by those who don’t see the tough spir­it with­in petite, Swede-pret­ty pack­ag­ing, she cranked the John­son from idle to wide open, rock­et­ing around the har­bor with qui­et con­trol that belied the outboard’s roar.

One skiff-full at a time, it wasn’t long before the bay’s pris­tine shore­line was host­ing a rager. Four code groups rep­re­sent­ed, mem­bers min­gled ami­ably over a 5 gal­lon buck­et full of Rainier, fresh­ly-caught shrimp, and a fifth of Jose Cuer­vo direct from one captain’s win­ter in Mex­i­co. A vat of seafood chow­der bal­anced over the beach fire. As the num­ber of par­ty­go­ers exceed­ed the avail­able bowls and spoons, the few we had became com­mu­nal, scraped clean and passed on to the next per­son. We ate smoked black cod drip­ping with oil and gooey-frost­ed choco­late cake from our fin­gers, then licked them clean.

It was hard to believe folks could be so casu­al, forced to take a day off at the start of our time-lim­it­ed, high-stakes open­ing, but as one fish­er­man observed, “Crap weath­er, crap fishin’…Might as well enjoy our lifestyle.”

Just a quar­ter of the Sit­ka sneak­ers ashore that day. (Pho­to by Angela Amos)

An intense tran­si­tion is hap­pen­ing with­in the South­east troll fleet right now, as one gen­er­a­tion phas­es out and anoth­er steps up. Fish­er­men I grew up view­ing as extend­ed fam­i­ly, pseu­do-uncles and aunts who kept a watch­ful eye on dock rat boat kids, are plac­ing hand-let­tered “For Sale” signs in their cab­in win­dows. I’ve rarely seen the chang­ing of the fleet as clear­ly evi­denced as it was on the beach that day. Young skip­pers joked with the deck­hands from whose ranks they were only recent­ly removed, while old timers cir­cled togeth­er, marked by the wide-legged stance of men who’ve spent decades urg­ing their bod­ies to hold fast against the sea. Watch­ing our elders rem­i­nisce, know­ing gath­er­ings like this would become lean­er each sea­son and we would nev­er regain their his­to­ry and knowl­edge, I wished the force of their shared mem­o­ries could stop the relent­less pas­sage of time.

His­to­ry you can’t replace, among this bunch.

But when the beer buck­et con­tained only emp­ties and the glacial silt-heavy shore had been reworked into boot-suck­ing quick mud, the clock began tick­ing again. The taxi ser­vice fired back up. Boats who’d raft­ed togeth­er peeled apart, and trolling poles unfurled like wings. With the fore­cast giv­ing the go-ahead, reju­ve­nat­ed trollers streamed back to work the next morn­ing. After all, as Joel and I jok­ing­ly remind each oth­er, “We are here to catch fish and make money.”

Mid­way into the after­noon, we real­ized we hadn’t seen that leg­endary boat back on the drag. Turned out her own­ers had head­ed back to town. They’d caught enough to fill their freez­er for the win­ter, and tru­ly, how do you fol­low up the biggest retire­ment beach par­ty in recent his­to­ry? So this one’s for you two – you know who you are – with grat­i­tude for your years, from the pro­tec­tive eye you kept on the boat kids of yes­ter­year, to wav­ing a friend­ly hand on the tack to the new skip­pers of today. Enjoy the nov­el­ty of a sum­mer ashore, until we see you again. A spot on the drag is wait­ing, yours to right­ful­ly reclaim, aboard what­ev­er ves­sel brings you back.

The par­ty over, tak­ing the taxi home.