Tele Aadsen

writer - fisherman - listener

Many Hooked read­ers respond­ed to the Mother’s Day post, avail­able here. In true Libra com­mit­ment to bal­ance and equi­ty, this one’s for my dad, Ken Aadsen.

Peo­ple often ask how I became a fish­er­man. It wasn’t an obvi­ous path. I was born in Alaska’s Matanus­ka-Susit­na Val­ley, a region that would lat­er achieve infamy for its par­tic­u­lar­ly potent strain of mar­i­jua­na and an equal­ly mind-numb­ing pub­lic per­sona. Land-locked, we were far from the briney deep.

My par­ents were vet­eri­nar­i­ans, and in the late 1970’s, their prac­tice was the only one avail­able for miles. I was bare­ly a merg­er of sperm and egg when a client’s horse kicked my dad. A shot full to the face, he recalls, “It was like being hit by a four by four.” Sur­geons strug­gled to rebuild his nose and cheek­bones. As he lay in crit­i­cal con­di­tion, my mom told him he was going to be a father.

The injury degrad­ed his already-lim­it­ed eye­sight to a few degrees from blind. To call my dad a work-ori­ent­ed indi­vid­ual is a laugh­able under­state­ment, and he sought a project to stave off the ensu­ing depression.

Some­one else might have tak­en up mod­el air­planes or the gui­tar. He began build­ing a 45-foot sail­boat in the back­yard. I was an only child, but the Askari was my sib­ling. To the tune of a sta­t­ic-crip­pled AM radio and my dad hum­ming along with Willie Nel­son, my play­room was the boat barn, car­pet­ed with wood shav­ings and silky shards of fiber­glass. I mim­ic­ked his metic­u­lous work, nail­ing one block of wood clum­si­ly to anoth­er. While oth­er kids checked beneath their pil­lows for the Tooth Fairy’s deposits, I peered into the Askari’s new­ly-installed stove to see if “the Oven Fairy” had left a Toot­sie Roll on the shelf within.

When you sur­ren­der 7 years of your life to build­ing a boat, you sure­ly deserve the reward of tak­ing that boat to sea. The Askari said bon voy­age to her Wasil­la birth­place, cruised down the Parks High­way on an “Over­size Load” trail­er bed, and bobbed con­fi­dent­ly in the Port of Anchor­age, where Ship Creek meets Cook Inlet. My par­ents sold the vet clin­ic and chart­ed a course across the Gulf of Alas­ka. Nei­ther had much ocean expe­ri­ence, but they trust­ed their cre­ation, chris­tened “pro­tec­tor” in Swahili.

I had nev­er seen water like that, a sur­round­ing blue so expan­sive that it swal­lowed even the mem­o­ry of land. A black-foot­ed alba­tross pad­dled along in our wake for days, our sole com­pan­ion. When we land­ed in Sit­ka, the dock swelled with fish­ing fam­i­lies. “This looks like a fun way to make a liv­ing,” my par­ents thought. They quick­ly rigged up the sail­boat as a hand troller. And with that, we were as hooked as each salmon that graced the Askar­i’s broad deck.

That was both a begin­ning and an end.

Anoth­er 7 years and anoth­er boat lat­er, I watched my dad pull out of our Wash­ing­ton dri­ve­way, his blue Ford Tau­rus sit­ting heavy on the shocks. Staunch devo­tion to silence was my family’s reli­gion, and the word “divorce” was nev­er spo­ken. I learned he was mov­ing to Los Ange­les because a good job await­ed him, one that would sup­port our strug­gling fam­i­ly in a way that fish­ing couldn’t.

Our ini­tial phone calls — week­ly, Sun­day evenings — rolled like tum­ble­weeds across emp­ty prairies of word­less­ness. We became pen pals instead, exchang­ing long, dis­cur­sive emails that revealed far more than either of us ever would have in per­son. He sent Pri­or­i­ty Mail envelopes stuffed with months’ worth of news­pa­per clip­pings – arti­cles on top­ics he knew I’d be inter­est­ed in, and those he thought I should be. I came to rec­og­nize those bulging envelopes as the cur­ren­cy of my dad’s affection.

Grow­ing up pro­tec­tive of his lim­it­ed sight, a self-appoint­ed care­giv­er, it was easy to view him as an inno­cent bystander in my par­ents’ divorce. Today I under­stand that rela­tion­ships – their entries, their exits – are nev­er one-way streets. It’s hard coun­try, liv­ing with the word­less. I’ve come to believe that humans are con­nect­ed by sto­ries and shared expe­ri­ences, more than by blood or legal bonds. If your part­ner swal­lows their sto­ries and speaks as if being charged by the syl­la­ble, where do you find and nur­ture a point of connection?

In moments of pes­simism, I’ve won­dered if peo­ple are capa­ble of true, soul-deep change. But pes­simism is not my nature. I have no stronger evi­dence that peo­ple can indeed choose anoth­er path than my father, a man raised on the cur­dled milk of sus­pi­cion, para­noia, and judg­ment, who now con­scious­ly embraces love, accep­tance and forgiveness.

The past 70 years took him from Montana’s cow­boy coun­try to the Alaskan bush, from the fish­ing fleet of South­east to the fer­tile fields of the Pacif­ic Northwest’s farm­lands. His time in L.A.’s urban machine led to a new career in D.C. as an inter­na­tion­al seafood inspec­tor.  I received post­cards from Viet­nam, Chile, the Phillip­ines, Oman (to name just a few), and stood in atten­dance as he and my delight­ful South­ern step­mom mar­ried. These days, his pass­port does­n’t col­lect new ink at such a rapid pace. The spir­i­tu­al jour­ney he’s on now does­n’t include clear­ing customs.

I am my father’s daugh­ter in that we’re both lis­ten­ers, quick to sti­fle our own sto­ries in favor of hear­ing some­one else’s. But I’ve learned shar­ing my voice is as valu­able as mak­ing room for anoth­er. Inti­ma­cy is built upon equal invi­ta­tion and vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty. I’ve learned as much from my dad’s over­sights, as from his inten­tion­al teachings.

I’m thank­ful for those teach­ings.  Along with my mom, he bequeathed a work eth­ic so fero­cious it bor­ders on com­pul­sion. More than once, he’s respond­ed to major life tran­si­tions not as trau­mat­ic, but as oppor­tu­ni­ties. He’s encour­aged me to find val­ue in all peo­ple and expe­ri­ences — par­tic­u­lar­ly those I find most chal­leng­ing — and to seek the lessons offered.

Not least of all, I’m thank­ful that his dream took me to sea.

This was the most fun I’ve had since retir­ing,” he said of his two weeks’ help­ing me with boat projects.

This was orig­i­nal­ly intend­ed as a Father’s Day post. Best of inten­tions. Instead, it’s post­ing on my birth­day week­end – trib­ute to my dad’s part in bring­ing me to this life, this pro­fes­sion, this day. Love you, Dad – thanks for all of the above.