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242 Captain and Crew WELL, BY “CREW” I MEAN only John, my deck hand at the time. And I admit it’s a bit of a stretch to refer to myself as “captain.” I remember being uneasily amused when someone first called me that, sometime in the sixties. During those years the whole drift fleet monitored one main frequency on the old marine-band radios, and you could assume that everyone followed the talk. If you called one of your own cannery’s tenders, the skipper would call you by your first name. “Beaver, this is Sounion. Pick me up, Bill?” And Bill would answer, “Beaver back. How’s it going, Bert?” But if you called another tender, maybe to see about buying fuel or getting a tow, or if you called a tug that was towing a barge and headed your way, the skipper would probably respond to you as “Cap.” It seemed odd. There you were, alone on a little thirty-foot boat. What? You’re the “captain” instead of the grubby, not very experienced and slightly insecure guy who’s running this little operation by the seat of his pants? Years later, after I’d bought a good many marine supplies and attended the Fish Expo, I received advertisements that arrived in impressive envelopes addressed to me as “captain.” Even under different circumstances, when I wielded the full, official authority vested in me by the U.S. Army Reserve, “captain” didn’t fit all that easily. Once, serving my annual two weeks’ active duty at Fort Ord, I was actually injured in the line of duty as an infantry captain. This was during the years of the Viet Nam War, but I didn’t report the injury and have no Purple Heart to show for it. I was simply out of shape and unprepared for the rigors of official duty. Fort Ord was filled with recruits in basic training, and this made it tough on officers. Just walking around the base, or driving onto base, your silver bars were in plain view and every enlisted man would give you a sharp salute. Recruits would often whip you a salute, out of a passionate belief in the hierarchy or perhaps only out of fear. You had to salute in return, and, not wanting to show any disrespect Captain and Crew 243 to the passionate recruits, I snapped my return salutes with so much force that I tore the rotator cuff in my right shoulder. I had to avoid being seen in uniform. In my first three years of fishing, Dick and I were partners on Margaret, and neither one of us felt like a captain. After that I fished alone for several years and twice took on members of the family as unofficial deck hands, a younger cousin and a stepson. It wasn’t until my fourteenth year of fishing, in 1976, that I hired a regular deck hand. John was just thirteen years old then, a skinny little kid whose dad was a fellow professor at the university where I taught. John could barely carry five gallons of water, but it was good to have him aboard. He could take the wheel when I needed to do something else and he was a big help in all kinds of situations where two hands weren’t enough. He could hand me a wrench if I was trying to tighten a fitting in an awkward place. He was brave and game and he learned fast. He got seasick the first year, and lacked the strength and experience to be of much help picking fish. But he pitched them into the hold and cleaned the boat after we delivered. He earned the 3 percent share I paid him that first season, and within a few years he learned how to pick fish and hang net. We kept each other company as something like a nephew and uncle. Sometimes, at the end of the season during those first years, I’d take him to the airport for his return flight home, and his eyes would glisten when I thanked him for his work and hugged him goodbye. John worked with me for ten years, during which time he went on to high school and college. During his high school years he turned out for football and I attended a few games where he saw action as second team quarterback. He used his summer earnings to finance most of his education at...

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