Alaska Dispatches
# 20  —  9 June 2001

Herring 

The long days of summer seem to have decelerated the already leisurely pace of life here in Piniq. As soon as school ended all of the Kassaq teachers left town. Many villagers are also away, off at Bristol Bay either fishing for salmon or processing it at one of the canneries. 
This made the unfamiliar Kassaq faces that started appearing last week even more striking. They turned out to belong to Fish and Game workers, here to monitor the commercial herring season. Fish and Game were preparing to test the fish, tenders were on their way up the coast and the first “opener,” the regulated period when men could fish commercially, could be called anytime.
Sunday morning Peter phoned to ask for help with some boats. Sunday is generally observed as a day of rest so I was surprised to find so many people down at the slough. A dozen boats had wintered high and dry on the bank, and we started to put them in the water one by one. Even Jesus takes a back seat to commercial fishing.
The boats are 22 to 28 feet long aluminum shells called Yukon Raiders and Eskimo Boats, much longer, wider and heavier than the skiffs used for seal hunting and subsistence fishing. Several, including Peter’s, have homemade wooden cabins. A few, not including Peter’s, are equipped with mechanical winches for reeling in nets or long lines.
With about 10 men lifting, we could just manage to nudge the boats free from where they had anchored themselves into the mud last fall, eventually inching them slowly toward the edge until we could finally slide them down over the bank and into the water.
Somewhere along the line as we hauled boat after boat into the slough Peter told me that he, Tom and I would fish together for herring. I was excited about the prospect of fishing with a pair as experienced as Peter and Tom, an elder. I told everyone I ran into all day. In the steam that evening I learned that Peter had been joking. I was crestfallen.
The next day the first opener was called, but Peter didn’t go out. I had no idea if he was planning to fish, or, if so, if his plans included me. His eldest son, Walter, had come in from Bethel to fish with him. The following morning Peter rang and told me to get ready.
Openers were called with 2 hours advanced notice, and lasted for 6 hours. I was at the boat and ready to go at 9:00 AM when the opener started. Walter showed up an hour or so later, and then Peter remembered something he needed back at the house. We finally pushed off close to 11:00, traveling downriver about a mile to where we found several boats with their nets in the water. The fish weren’t hitting. After four hours of setting and pulling in nets we had only about 1200 pounds of fish, looking meager spread out over the 4 sections of our hold.
As happens so often, I was left guessing about so much. Did we miss the fish, or were there no fish? Did we fish the wrong spot? Had we used the wrong size mesh? Abiding by the deeply entrenched local ethic to rely on oneself, and also wanting to be helpful and not a burden, I held my tongue.
I was, as I find myself with so many things here, starting from scratch. By the last opener I kind of realized what I was doing, but each time out was a series of constructive criticism: “Don’t step there.” “Don’t shake the net so hard.” “Don’t throw the anchor that way.” And of course the constant refrain: “You’re thinking like a white man again.”
Herring swim toward the bank to spawn. To try to catch them we set gill nets, 50 fathoms long and six to eight feel wide, parallel to the shoreline. A cork line floats on the surface, and a heavy lead line keeps the net vertical, even in fairly strong current. Pulling in gill nets empty is a chore; when they are loaded with fish, and especially when you are pulling against the tide, your muscles burn. Sometimes we fished two nets tied together end to end, making the pulling in seem to last forever.
Hauling in nets without a winch is a two-person job. One person works the cork line, and the other the lead line. You must pull together to keep the net coming evenly. When things go well, the net comes over the side rail freely, and a gentle shake causes the fish to fall into the makeshift bins formed out of plywood partitions along the bottom of the boat. Sometimes, however, the net gets caught on a protruding bolt, and more often larger fish stubbornly stick in the mesh and must be shaken free or ripped apart.
When the net is full of fish pulling it in is a lot harder, but also a lot more fun. There is nothing more heart wrenching than watching a net for over an hour and then pulling it in empty. I have seen pictures of  ‘plugged’ nets with a fish in every mesh. Unfortunately, in the several openers we fished, our net was never plugged.
On all but the very worst of our outings, I wind up with pounds of herring scales on my rain gear, on my boots, on my hands, in my hair and on my face. Even though it is 40 degrees outside, I sweat under the weight of the nets, so I learn to bring a few fresh tee shirts for the ride home. Outside the sun and wind challenges my stamina; inside the cabin is crowded and dank. I always seem to be missing one piece of gear, but managing just the same.
After a few openers, I become immune to the fish, the countless fish, flopping in the hull. I shake the net as hard as I can, ripping the heads off of the fish at times, always trying not to let any escape over the side of the boat. I am up to my knees in herring, roe and blood. I fish for six hours and have six hours off. There is a constant stream of coffee and tea; asaliak (fry bread) and dried salmon never tasted so good. We leave for an opener at 1:30 AM and I am running on pure adrenaline.
Herring are beautiful fish, silvery-blue, about 12 inches long. The eggs are the only part of herring buyers are interested in, and Japan is the only country buying herring roe. Fish and Game announce the price of the fish, which varies depending on the percentage of roe in each delivery. This year’s price was rumored to be $50 per ton, or $100 per ton for higher than 10% roe. Someone else I spoke with mentioned that the price paid at delivery was an advance, and that a final price would be paid when the fish were sold to Japan. Even at $100 a ton, it seemed hardly worth it between the cost of gas ($3.27 a gallon; about 25 gallons used per opener), the nets (about $700 per net; nets last a few seasons at most) and the time.
I heard that in the 80’s the price for herring was as high as $2200 a ton. In those days people could earn $30,000 in a week of fishing. Boats were forced to wait 4 or 5 hours for their turn to sell fish to the tenders, so crews wouldn’t even bother to go home between openers. Cynically it occurred to me that perhaps this was all part of a master plan. With the high profits, all these Eskimos along the coast bought big boats. Now that they are stuck with the boats and permits and all of the equipment necessary for commercial fishing, they are indentured servants who must fish to pay off their investments.
This year there were three barges buying fish, all flying the same Norquest Seafoods banners. The tenders anchor in the middle of the river, near the fishing action, and blare enormous lights that can be seen from miles away by day, and that produce a glaring oasis each night. The tenders use huge vacuums to suck the fish out of the hulls of the open boats into enormous scales. A worker fills a laundry basket to test for roe percentage.
I wondered what the tender crews thought of the Eskimos fishing for $50 a ton. The workers addressed me, even though it was obvious that Peter was the captain of our boat. I am sure that they see my friends as people who fish for $50 a ton, and not as the great hunters they are, or as survivors who lasted a week on the frozen tundra without food, or as amazing storehouses of knowledge and a culture in danger of fading away.
Calls from Peter came it at all hours. I crawled out of bed, picked up the phone to hear a simple “get ready.” The first night the second opener was called for 10:00 PM – 4:00 AM. I was thankful when we called it quits at around 2:00 AM, since we had only caught a few dozen fish. The sun is setting after 1:00 these days, and it was gorgeous out on the water. I was exhausted, but stayed outside for the ride home, watching the sun set off to one side, and a full moon rising over the village on the other.
The runs had been so bad that Fish and Game shifted to 8-hour openers. We left at around 11:00 AM for our last opener. Peter’s son had thrown in the towel, so we went out with Junior and Jerry, older cousins of Peter’s who were, like me, fishing without a permit. We motored out on our own and set net down river not far from where the river opens up into the Bering Sea.
We waited a couple of hours, and I caught a couple of devilfish with a rod and reel. Then the herring hit. My companions knew immediately from the water. I might have noticed a slight discoloration on the surface when they pointed it out. We swept the nets, pulling them over one side of the boat, shaking out the fish as the net moved over the hold and then passing the net directly into the water over the other side of the boat, rather than loading it into the boat and taking a break before setting it again. Sweeping is grueling work but keeps the nets in the water more than hauling in and then re-setting them. After a few sweeps, we set net with floats and left to sell our load to the tender.
Unfortunately, although we had almost two tons of fish, our roe percentage was low - around 8% - so Peter was disappointed. We went back to our nets, and they were teeming with fish, although as we again swept the net, Peter noticed a lot of males, which he threw back, since they would only serve to lower our percentage.
Throwing back fish is technically illegal, as is fishing with two nets tied together, as is fishing without a permit. Peter related that when prices were high there was more enforcement, and that penalties are stiff. For example nets must be out of the water at the close of a period, or the captain is fined $5000. But these days, no one has that kind of money. Also, the waves were rough, so Peter was confident that Fish and Game wouldn’t come out in their small inflatable raft.
We kept shaking and pulling until we started to come up against the close of the period. There were too many fish to enable us to unload the nets in time, so on our last sweep we tied off the nets so that they wouldn’t collect fish. We shook and shook, and then finally loaded the nets into the boat, shaking off the fish that were caught despite the tied net.
We cruised slowly back to the tender closest to town, our motor straining under the weight of all the fish. It turns out that we had hauled close to 7000 pounds of herring. The percentage was better at our last sell-off, so at least we ended our season on a high note. All in all, though, the results were dismal.
I was glad to play a part in commercial fishing when the fish hit. Peter remarked that I would have a good story for my grandchildren. Surely he realizes that I am in it for the experience. Once in a while Peter will tell me that not all kassaqs are like me – delving into Eskimo ways. But when he remarks on my telling stories, I wonder how he truly views my participation in all of these adventures this year. Does he see me as an interloper, an odd bystander, an invader, a helpful neighbor, a menace, an ignoramus, a friend? Most likely, some constantly shifting combination of all of these things.

©2001, Michael Thornton Wyman