They didn’t come by their nicknames “The Foghorns” without good reason. Ivan and Skipper had moved to the ports of Seattle, accepting positions as first mates on Omar’s fishing boat, the Fat Cat. From the time they got their ‘seal-legs’ at point of adoption, they’d start every day before the sun, headed out to sea with a shopping list that changed with the tides. Ivan would stand starboard and Skipper port, their whiskers glistening with salt spray as their noses twitched in anticipation. Ivan was the serious one, methodical in his approach, navigating by sound, smell and pure gut feeling. Skipper navigated by pure gut alone, sneaking snippets of bait when he thought Omar wasn’t looking.
By mid morning, when the majority of the world was looking at their watches to see if it was lunch time yet, the Fat Cat would be trolling into port, nets overflowing with the day’s catch. If they were lucky, vacationers out for their mid-morning stroll could hear the Foghorns relay the success of the morning. Wheelbarrows of salmon would make their way from the port to the fish market at Pike’s, where they’d be prepped for the crowds that flooded the Market to see what was fresh.
I was tickled at the thought of spending a full day with the boys, and my taste buds tingled at the thought of fresh salmon right from the ocean. It had been years since I’d visited with them, and I was looking forward to seeing them as full fledged shipmates aboard the Fat Cat.
Predawn came early – barely the faintest hint of light tickling the docks as I made my way to the boat. One would have expected everyone to be fast asleep, but the pier was bustling with activity as everyone readied their boats for the day. My ears perked up as whispers of the best locations were shared between crew members in a hush discernible only to the best trained ears. I made my way down to the end of the pier as instructed, scanning the decks for a recognizable face. It wasn’t long before a familiar sounding foghorn attached to quite a stout body greeted me. “Ahoy, matey! And welcome aboard!” Skipper came padding forward, all 18 pounds of him, his toothless grin stretching from ear to ear. “Hop skip, not a moment to be lost.” I clambered on board, nodding ever so slightly to Ivan who was busy surveying the equipment. “Right,” said Skipper. “Over here’s the bait. I’m in charge of the bait. Got to make sure it’s fresh. Anchovies and herring, that’s my favorite. Works great. Tastes great. Everyone’s happy.” And his head disappeared inside the bucket. “Yup, this’ll do, we’re all set” said he, smacking his lips, a suspicious looking silvery tail disappearing quickly. “I think we’re ready.”
Without another word, we were off. Ivan obviously had a plan, and he wasn’t to be swayed. He kept keen eyes on the horizon, sounding his foghorn as schools were spotted, barking orders to Skipper whose mouth remained suspiciously full. Having been a number of years since I’d sailed on a boat, I found it took the majority of my concentration to stay balanced, and it wasn’t long before I wondered whether I’d become the first ‘emerald point’ Siamese. Luckily, the weather cooperated, the ocean remained somewhat calm, and I didn’t toss my cat chow.
The morning was a success. The boys had it down to a science, and while it wasn’t any mystery how Skipper had become so portly, it did seem strange that there was enough bait left over to catch the amount of salmon we did. It was barely mid-morning when we swung back toward land, heading at quite a clip towards the market. “Got to be ready for the lunch crowd,” Ivan explained, “that’s where the action is.” I nodded in agreement, hoping whatever action there was at lunch was followed by a good, long siesta.
Yours Truly,
Howard Beakman (For more sealfaring stories, follow my blog)
