November 30, 2002
Saturday - 1:05 pm

Not long ago, before the cold winters returned to the Alaskan Panhandle, I went out to retrieve some logs with the old man. Although I didn't know it then, he would have a profound influence on the way I would work as a logger. I had been getting too much rest in those days, having recently married, and I was sporting a pear-shaped outline. As my young bride's father, the old man intended to fillet away my soft side in no time. His lifelong pursuit of outdoor activity had hardened him into the synthesis of a man and a logging machine. The key was herbal tea and never to work yourself into a sweat, he said, as we loaded our supplies onto his old tugboat. His faded bluejean eyes kindly assured me I would find in him a ready ally. My near future was in his hands. I figured as long as I didn't fall overboard, or some other blunder, we would both enjoy a week on the boat working together.

We set out from Ketchikan at noon for Prince of Wales Island, 20 miles or so to the west. I had never been out to work aboard a boat before. My experience logging was limited to the collection of firewood and mistletoe, and other such mundane experiences as are befitting an unlikely landlubber from a sparsely wooded midwestern state. Yet, I became supremely confident as we left the city behind and sailed out on the old tug. The tug was a fifty-two footer with a steep bow and a flat aft deck for loads. She was solid as a rock. There on deck was where the old man stood, teaching me to coil rope, bail the skiff, and to identify the tools of the trade. I learned the peavey, the winch, the hand pump, the line, the wire rope, the hammer and staples, the shackle, the pike pole (which he pronounced pie-poe), and how to tie the boat loose.

Once we had stowed the on-deck gear, there wasn't much left to do on the trip across to Prince of Wales. The old man sat in the pilothouse, smoking, with the windows closed. I clambored down into the hold, curious to see what other kinds of equipment we had.

A short ladder deposited me at a smelly six-cylinder diesel motor in the boat's center, where a dim light cast just as much shadow. The engine roared as it powered the running gear. I could make out a hollow toward the rear leading to the aft hold. Cradled in the floor was the rotating shaft for the propeller. This was not a place for children to play. A low workbench covered with boxes of tools lined the right hand side.

I imagined the old man crouched in there with a leak in the pipes, his ability to cast quickly for the correct tool to seal the break. I picked up a ballpeen hammer, checked it for use. Dents around the striking end. I looked closer at the boxes of wrenches and hammers, and realized that everything in the tool area was designed to deliver a blow or to split a thing apart. Things were a little rusty. I got a grip on the fact that there weren't many tools for working any moving parts. If it won't go with a quick thrashing, it needs replaced. My old man was like that, too. But the pipes weren't leaking anyway.

Forward, a doorway led to the crew's cabin, the fo'c's'le. An old wooden table crouched inside beneath a solitary bulb. The floor was infested with boxes. I found milk crates full of blocks and hooks and shackles and rope and five or six chainsaws. A cardboard box under a bunk revealed a cache of molding paperback westerns. A lawnmower engine hung from the ceiling; some kind of gear with chain attached to it ran through the hull. Jerry jugs huddled and swayed against the roll of the tug's forward motion. I remember it reminded me of my grandparent's attic. Right above the boxes was my bunk.

We anchored in a secluded bay for the night. The weather was fine for a March evening, around 40° with light rain. We gathered in the galley for a chat after dropping anchor. Tea and cheese were on the menu, since we weren't really having any dinner. It was about seven o'clock and the old man told me that cheese would settle my stomach and aid in digestion. I think my wife must have learned a lot about cooking from his wife.

After a few cigarettes, the old man went up to the pilothouse to sleep. I went outside, and standing on the aft deck of the tugboat, took in the sum of all my senses. The bright lights on the aft end of the boat screened me off from everything. I switched them off and experienced for the first time since birth a completely, indescribably ubiquitous darkness. I gripped the rail. All alone, miles from civilization, I breathed deeply of the virgin atmosphere and said a prayer of thanks for our safe crossing. As my eyes adjusted to the deep blackness, I could make out the faint shoreline nearby. Not much happening here. The herbal tea began to affect me and make me sleepy. I crept along to the foc's'le. That night I slept alone for the first time since my wedding.

The next morning we had a chance to talk over breakfast, but the old man gave me no indication of his plans. He was saying something about government and real estate. I wanted to swing him over to a useful topic. Instead, we took our tea on deck and examined the locale. Our nighttime arrival had us anchored next to a small island by the uninhabited shores. A light rain still fell around the tug. I was clad in bibs and boots with a baseball cap. The old man began to punctuate his work with helpful tips. He pointed at the small island on the port side and explained that no matter the weather, you could leave anything you wanted there and it would never break loose. We were pulling cable out on deck when he confided that he knew the weather better because he tuned in to the Canadian weather channel. I learned to read his personal gear. His wool cap, wool pants, wool shirt and suspenders meant clear, colder weather. I made a mental note to get some wool clothes.

We climbed in the skiff, and drove around to the far side of the small island. There were six logs, mature spruce and hemlock, bobbing gently in the morning tide. We threw the anchor over a log and set to work.

During the next two hours we worked at a leisurely pace, securing the logs together with cable, staples and the pike pole. The old man worked at one end of the logs while I practiced on the other. The logs were all six over 100 feet long, about five feet in diameter. In very little time, I had the greenhorn's sense of awe and discovery firmly entrenched between my ears. I couldn't really concentrate on the task at hand. Everything seemed to boggle and become difficult. I spoke up, remarked about the lack of similar tree diameter in Kansas, how I had a treehouse in the biggest tree on the block and it wasn't so big as these. The old man shook his head from time to time and mumbled and fumbled with a 150 foot tape measure. I stood by him to write down the diameter and length of the things. The logs were bigger than the boat!

Walking along the tops of those logs gave me an ant's view of the world. All around were mountains, trees, and more mountains and trees, a winding wilderness unfettered by ribbons of asphalt. Our old tug was so small. Here were unexplored rainforest timberlands and 3,000 foot peaks. We could see the deer carousing on the beach. Amidst the distracting bliss of my awe, I stepped on the log boom which, in my estimation, should have supported my weight as the logs did. However, it was a small retaining boomstick with an anchor to the bottom, and it did not. I fell off into the mild waters.

The sea rushed into my boots and raingear as I kicked to keep my head out of the water. I sprayed a salty cry for the old man, and he lumbered straight to my rescue. He towed me along to one of the logs with the 18 foot aluminum pike pole and offered a light sermon on wool fiber's natural heat retaining capabilities. Speechless, I emptied out my boots, gratefully accepting his advice. A little out of breath, I dragged myself to the galley to fix something hot to drink. A few minutes later he came in, too. He stretched out his fingers and hunkered over the stove while I climbed down the ladder to get into some dry clothes. My face flushed as I warmed up. I cursed silently at myself for not paying attention.

But the time was right, so we took a break for a bite to eat. He had smashed his left hand once logging, so badly that his fingers were mashed to the point they should have been cut off. He'd had them sewn on and flew back out to camp the same day. Ever since, he holds his hands over the stove to warm them up. They don't bend like they used to. They stay cold all the time, even in summer. I dug around in the cupboard for the bread. Whoever said "Worse things happen at sea"? Working out in the woods is where people get maimed.

He fixed himself a peanut butter sandwich on white bread, heavy on the peanut butter. We ate off of paper towels, folded once. His father was a deep sea salvage diver back in the fifties. He used a hard helmet and full suit, complete with lead-lined boots. The old man was responsible for his father's boat and air pump while the diver worked. He had to maintain the air pump for hours, until the job was done or the diver came up for a cigarette. And then there was the time his father came up with the bends and begged the old man to shoot him. Boats sailed by in sight and nobody answered his signals.

After lunch, the sky cleared off. The sun reflected bright and cold on the waves. I had had a good meal of peanut butter sandwiches and hot tea. I scorned danger, and continued to make light of the little "falling in" incident as we drove back to the logs. Needless to say, the old man shared my good humor. Our buoyant spirits rippled together in the sun.

The next challenge was to finish securing the logs together as a raft by rigging a tow line, then to tie the raft behind the tug and take them to the city. This we set about to complete with both patience and determination.

Running a cable around a partially submerged log truly involves little skill and much perseverence. Fortunately, the old man had enough of these for both of us. I couldn't get the hang of grabbing the cable with the hook on the pike pole. Grumbling, the old man took over. The cable kept slipping from his pike pole back into the water too, and the raft was not happening. In no time at all, he taught me to swear continuously for a single breath. I had never heard anyone swear such a string of insults in my whole life. I laughed out loud at his condemnations. The old man targeted me with daggers in his glare. I straightened as I stood by to do whatever I could, carefully keeping my hands in sight. Secretly, I was deeply pleased by the old man's glib ability to insult things. New to his form of self-expression, I found myself suprisingly fleet of wit when it came to colorful metaphors, and pursued every opportunity to formulate novel and imaginative combinations while he worked with the tow line. The old man grinned at a couple and nodded in agreement at others. At some point, though, I realized that the insufficient preparation for logging in my life was causing me to repeat myself. There is more to working in the woods than meets the eye, I thought out loud. By the old man I was goddam right.

After about 45 minutes we had the cable looped around all the logs and stapled into place. We brought the tugboat around and ran a line between it and the shackle on the towline. I tied us loose from the logs and he started up the old tug. He ran the controls from the steering station on deck, where the tow line ran out over the stern. First the old man had me winch up the anchor, then he sent me to stand by in the skiff and monitor the event while he eased the tug out. He didn't want me on deck if the line snapped under the strain. I didn't ask him who would be driving the tug if the cable snapped.

Even though I had virtually no experience in a boat, not to mention alone in a small boat on the Pacific Ocean, I was eager to demonstrate my natural outdoor aptitude. I tied loose the skiff from the tug, hauled in the line, and set myself adrift. The rope to start the motor spun, and as the outboard's oily exhaust boiled out I reminded myself what my wife had said. The sea is not your friend. Right.

My mission was to unsnag, uncoil, and otherwise disentangle the cable as the slack played out and the logs moved into tow behind the tug. The tug's motor keyed up to speed. Armed with my pike pole, I kept a vigilant eye on the cable, idling adrift and watching for trouble. My skills were not called upon, though, and as the line went taut, the old man waved me in. I was uneasy in the little boat. When I tried to steer back to the tug the skiff had other plans. I steered to the right. It went left. I reminded myself not to overestimate anything. Nature is unforgiving to a fault. God made time, but man made haste. I stopped to idle and refigure. I was a little confused, and that old boggling feeling settled over me like a fog. My thoughts turned to the origin of the problem. Not only was the old man over there wondering if I would be able to support his daughter. It seemed that my parents had doomed me to suffer this malevolent, traumatic embarassment by choosing to raise me in a landlocked state. I was a victim of my background, but beyond the fears the old man was idling away aboard the tug.

An abrupt epithetic pronouncement and a shove on the tiller made the small craft veer sharply to the right. I was thrown off balance. I leaned into the turn as the ocean zoomed towards me, large and unforgiving. My stomach turned flip-flops. The angels sang. I swallowed a dry lump and managed to hold my tongue long enought to pull back on the tiller and limit the influx of seawater to a brief swell. Quickly, my boat turned a short, shallow circle and then straightened out. I kept the dark green tug in sight and spun the throttle open to ward off the approaching log raft.

In less time than it takes to say it, I drove to the tugboat. The old man was waiting for me astern to land the skiff. He called out to me to announce that he lived long because he was never in a hurry. People down below, there, why they're all crazy. Brain dead from that liberal system. Rushing around because they have too much time on their hands, and the politicians. Ought to string them all up on the telephone poles. Just wait till 1995 when the Eurodollar hits the market. Then they'll all have to wake up and get to work. I nodded and tied up the skiff.

The old man remained unimpressed by my educational experience in small craft boating. I wasn't even sure if he had noticed, but now that his crew was safely on board, he returned to the controls on deck. I turned to keep an eye on the logs, and in a matter of minutes my mind wandered back to the common sense for boating, which I lacked, and my inadequate upbringing. I felt like the proverbial babe in the woods. Out here on the wide open bay, anyone interested might have learned all the wrong things to do in a boat, demonstrated in proper fashion by me. My father in law wasn't meeting my eyes. I swore under my breath. He depressed the lever to activate the winch and let the logs out further for towing.

The old man peered out from behind his cap and increased the speed of the tugboat to a confident cruising speed. The heavy floating parcel dragged further behind. Then, the shackle securing the log raft to the tow cable slipped its position, with the result that the towing cable had wrapped around a log, and was towing the raft from an angle. The whole log raft was trying to dive under as our speed increased. Water ran from front to back over the logs. It seemed to me the raft would keep floating ok. I wasn't worried about it too much. But the old man slammed his wool cap on the deck and gestured wildly. As the bright Alaskan sun burned overhead, I lost track of the swearing. I realized then that the sea is no man's friend.

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