Thursday, June 9, 2016
Getting Back Into the Blogging Game
Holy Cow, it's been a long time. I see the last time I posted, I was in Alaska, working in the fisheries as an observer (field biology). I went out a few times, on different boats, and had pretty differing experiences. The long and short of it is that I saw millions of fish slowly die, and counted & ID'd more fishes than I can recall. The highlights? Saving a large salmon shark and a large octopus, that was in a crab pot that came up.
After that, I got my foot in the door of the PSO field (Protected Species Observer) in the Gulf of Mexico. Again, I went out on a few boats. The final one resulted in an unexpectedly short hitch, due to a broken knee cap and torn...well, everything. I was helicoptered off, after the medic said he wasn't sure what was wrong with my knee, but guessed it was several breaks/tears. Other than that last bit, Gulf of Mexico observing proved to be shockingly boring. I saw birds, jellyfish and trash everyday, but only one dolphin sighting. THE WHOLE TIME.
I had the oil company ship me to FL, to have the surgery there, and spent about 6 months there, with Mom, Tom and my former pets, Buffy and Toby. Once I could drive, I headed home, to MN, where I got back into the observing game, being a part of the coveted 2014 Arctic Project. I did a couple of hitches up there, and saw everything I could have hoped to see- including a polar bear.
I got to spend several days in Kotzebue, which is a village where ships come/go, in Northern Alaska. People sold Mammoth tusks like people in MN sell old mini fridges. The tundra was a little different than I expected- squishy.
In between contracts up there, I did substitute teaching to keep myself busy. After the final contract, I did a couple of long-term subbing assignments, and then got recruited for a FT position, teaching 6th grade math. Flash to 2015/2016, where I'm now a 6th grade math teacher. Bananas, right?!
Anyway. That gets us up to date with the basics. I'm starting this blog up again, as in a few days I head back to South Africa, thanks to some very generous benefactors.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Others have it worse
Dutch Harbor is the name for the most active port in the U.S. There are a few bays that make it up as a whole, and the actual name of the town is Unalaska. Before I left, I had over a week here, and made good use of my time.
There are eagles everywhere, and frankly, I'm ignorant as to how close I should get to them. So, that means I got as close as they were comfortable with. They're known for attacking, but I'd happily have taken a gnarly face scar in exchange for a story. On a hike, I stumbled across some going after a Sea Lion carcass.
Each time we go back to offload, I’m welcomed by the now, bright green summer hills (Bunker & Ballyhoo). The boat crew is also the warehouse crew, and they start to offload the minute we hit the dock, and don’t stop for about 24 hours. The top picture is the area when I left, in early June, and the bottom is during an offload in mid-August.
I didn’t realize people in America worked as hard as these people do. It’s no surprise that the vast majority of the crew (non-officers) are immigrants. Because of that, it’s like the old Christian bible story, “The Tower of Babel.” Everyone speaks different native languages (of course, most of them speak 2+ languages) from all over the world (mostly Africa and the Middle East, I think). Since there are so many, it’s hard to get used to the accents, and as a result, I have no idea what most people are saying to me almost all of the time. To top that off, lots of talking goes on in the factory, which is like being inside of a blender. I end up nodding and saying, “Yeah” a lot.
The general term for the factory crew are “Processors” (engineers are called engineers). Their jobs can be from making fillets (for fish sticks & sandwiches), to packing to digging in fish guts to make surimi (stuff for fake crab), or fish meal. They work almost non-stop, weeks at a time.
The accommodations are quite nice for us. Only two to a room, and two rooms sharing a bathroom. The regular crew have it much different- so I'm very lucky.
On the boat, everything (everything) is covered in fish scales- clothes, skin, hair- even at times, eyeballs. My sheets are littered with the little round bits. I imagine this is what a strippers bed looks like…if the scales were glitter. Here is a flashlight that’s obviously in heavy use in the factory.
There are many devil holes around, into which the processors must not only peer, but also climb! There are handles, wheels, knobs, levers and pulleys all over the place- absolutely sheathed in a layer of scales.
When Pollock come down the belt with their pectoral fins flipped forward, I call them, “Nicki Fish.” That’s an inside joke that only a few people will get.
The boat is a wonderfully mysterious place, with new twists and turns for discovery, each day. Some places are more inviting than others (machines screaming at you, etc.). I constantly pass things and thing, “What are this?”
My days are filled with 12+ hour shifts of:
I just try to keep in mind, that no matter how bad I think my day is, there’s always someone who’s got it worse.
Monday, July 22, 2013
I Saved a Fish
I saved a fish. One fish. Hardly a triumph considering over 200,000 lost their lives in this particular haul.
When the boat is ready to bring a net in (termed, a “haulback”) I am called so that I can watch for bird interactions. Apparently the life of one bird is more significant than the 140 metric tons of fish. With a heavy heart, I don my deck gear atop my factory gear (think fireman wearing a life-vest) and head up through ladders and sealed doors to the trawl deck.
For the early parts, I stand in an area shielded from the trawl alley (the area the actual net will slide onto) by 20 or so vertical steel poles about the diameter of my calf. The idea is, if the ropes (fibrous and metal) or chains (the links of which are larger than a huge watermelon) break, the bars would keep me from being sliced in half.
As each section comes up, the four deckhands move about their unspoken tasks in a well-choreographed manner that comes from endless repetition. If you thought dealing with Christmas lights was a chore- imagine a mile of wet ropes intertwined with anything ranging from dead fish to old 7 foot tall crab pots. As the ropes get pulled on board, the occasional stray fish, skate, shark or starfish start to appear, and the horror begins.
Motors are used to drag away the huge chains of the net it’s reeled onto massive spools that are taller than the deck level itself. During this seemingly endless process, I usually peek out a door in the hull leading to a 5 foot drop off to the sea surface. The birds accompanying the boat to the deepest regions of the Bering Sea are surely in the hundreds of thousands themselves. Many of which linger alongside the boat while it’s fishing or hauling, as food appears from the factory vents. Under my feet is a grating system that is heavily worn from its time at sea. Beneath it, rotting, bulging eyes stare blankly back up at me- fish from God knows when, stuck under the grating and left as stoic reminders of hauls past.
Finally, the actual net can be seen, bobbing in the water behind the boat, now buoyant without the chains. I turn from the birds and ready myself for what is generally the worst parts (plural- as we haul several times a day) of my day. Once the net starts to slide on board, the stern dips under the weight and it slides into place, the entire half of the boat is noticeably tilted to the side. Fish tails sick out from all over, some hang from their gills or are mangled beyond all recognition.
The end of the net is held together by a surprisingly simple braid, and all it takes is one of the deck-crew to tug on it, for it to start to open, like a thread being tugged on a sweater. Instantaneously fish burst from the opening, just like if an above ground pool were to be punctured. The fish spill out onto the deck and form a fish whirlpool. They flip and gasp while one of the tank doors slowly opens, into which they tumble. I have an up-close view of this part, as I have to watch for the composition of the haul, so I can design my sampling process accordingly. Standing there watching the fish, I see one on the ledge, flopping only inches from me. I look around, making sure no one is watching, and I quickly grab it and slide it off the ledge, and it slides down the ramp into the water. It’s little consolation when I see its comrades are being shoveled (literally, they use snow shovels) into tanks.
After the dump is complete, I head back to the hole from which I emerged, uneasily tromping through the bloody water and corpses. It looks like the Pollock had a civil war reenactment and there were heavy losses on both sides. By the time I see these fish again (if I and they are equally lucky, anyway) they will be dead and passing by me on the belt. They don’t bother me as much when they’re dead. It’s not the death that bothers me; it’s the life.
If fish made sounds as they gasped and flopped, or if their pupils moved and landed on onlookers, I wonder if consciences would be as clear. Whatever the reason, there seems to be something particularly un-moving for the general public in regards to the suffrage of fish. I wish I were similarly afflicted.
Next posting will have pictures and not be depressing, I promise.
When the boat is ready to bring a net in (termed, a “haulback”) I am called so that I can watch for bird interactions. Apparently the life of one bird is more significant than the 140 metric tons of fish. With a heavy heart, I don my deck gear atop my factory gear (think fireman wearing a life-vest) and head up through ladders and sealed doors to the trawl deck.
For the early parts, I stand in an area shielded from the trawl alley (the area the actual net will slide onto) by 20 or so vertical steel poles about the diameter of my calf. The idea is, if the ropes (fibrous and metal) or chains (the links of which are larger than a huge watermelon) break, the bars would keep me from being sliced in half.
As each section comes up, the four deckhands move about their unspoken tasks in a well-choreographed manner that comes from endless repetition. If you thought dealing with Christmas lights was a chore- imagine a mile of wet ropes intertwined with anything ranging from dead fish to old 7 foot tall crab pots. As the ropes get pulled on board, the occasional stray fish, skate, shark or starfish start to appear, and the horror begins.
Motors are used to drag away the huge chains of the net it’s reeled onto massive spools that are taller than the deck level itself. During this seemingly endless process, I usually peek out a door in the hull leading to a 5 foot drop off to the sea surface. The birds accompanying the boat to the deepest regions of the Bering Sea are surely in the hundreds of thousands themselves. Many of which linger alongside the boat while it’s fishing or hauling, as food appears from the factory vents. Under my feet is a grating system that is heavily worn from its time at sea. Beneath it, rotting, bulging eyes stare blankly back up at me- fish from God knows when, stuck under the grating and left as stoic reminders of hauls past.
Finally, the actual net can be seen, bobbing in the water behind the boat, now buoyant without the chains. I turn from the birds and ready myself for what is generally the worst parts (plural- as we haul several times a day) of my day. Once the net starts to slide on board, the stern dips under the weight and it slides into place, the entire half of the boat is noticeably tilted to the side. Fish tails sick out from all over, some hang from their gills or are mangled beyond all recognition.
The end of the net is held together by a surprisingly simple braid, and all it takes is one of the deck-crew to tug on it, for it to start to open, like a thread being tugged on a sweater. Instantaneously fish burst from the opening, just like if an above ground pool were to be punctured. The fish spill out onto the deck and form a fish whirlpool. They flip and gasp while one of the tank doors slowly opens, into which they tumble. I have an up-close view of this part, as I have to watch for the composition of the haul, so I can design my sampling process accordingly. Standing there watching the fish, I see one on the ledge, flopping only inches from me. I look around, making sure no one is watching, and I quickly grab it and slide it off the ledge, and it slides down the ramp into the water. It’s little consolation when I see its comrades are being shoveled (literally, they use snow shovels) into tanks.
After the dump is complete, I head back to the hole from which I emerged, uneasily tromping through the bloody water and corpses. It looks like the Pollock had a civil war reenactment and there were heavy losses on both sides. By the time I see these fish again (if I and they are equally lucky, anyway) they will be dead and passing by me on the belt. They don’t bother me as much when they’re dead. It’s not the death that bothers me; it’s the life.
If fish made sounds as they gasped and flopped, or if their pupils moved and landed on onlookers, I wonder if consciences would be as clear. Whatever the reason, there seems to be something particularly un-moving for the general public in regards to the suffrage of fish. I wish I were similarly afflicted.
Next posting will have pictures and not be depressing, I promise.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Quick Update- I'm in Dutch Harbor awaiting orders to board a vessel- likely tomorrow. It's' super foggy/wet/industrial here, but beautiful.
From Anchorage, where I was on perpetual standby, we stopped briefly at King Salmon to fuel-up. After about an hour, I opened the window and was shocked: snow covered mountains as far as the eye could see. It was like being on the plane over the red Namibian Desert- shocking.
As the little plane pulled in to Dutch, the mountains had given way to huge hills with green rounded domes and vertical rock cliffs. I saw what I thought was a kayak-er, but quickly realized it was a whale tail. To convey what it was like flying in, think of Jurassic Park, when the helicopter arrived on the island. Just like that- just not as many trees. I stole this picture off the web:
In town there are eagles everywhere (everywhere). Not only are they fearless of people, they can be really aggressive when they're nesting. There are warning signs in areas they are known to have attacked people.
There are lots of hills to climb, but it's hard, cause they have vertical edges, so you've got to know where to start.
I've played in the tidal pools, and found starfish, little hermit crabs and barnacles. While I love these rocky beaches, it makes me appreciate the diversity of the Western Cape all the more. There, every rock I turned over yielded something new. Still though, I'm not trying to take anything away from this paradise. If I find a nice mountain man, I may not come back.
From Anchorage, where I was on perpetual standby, we stopped briefly at King Salmon to fuel-up. After about an hour, I opened the window and was shocked: snow covered mountains as far as the eye could see. It was like being on the plane over the red Namibian Desert- shocking.
As the little plane pulled in to Dutch, the mountains had given way to huge hills with green rounded domes and vertical rock cliffs. I saw what I thought was a kayak-er, but quickly realized it was a whale tail. To convey what it was like flying in, think of Jurassic Park, when the helicopter arrived on the island. Just like that- just not as many trees. I stole this picture off the web:
In town there are eagles everywhere (everywhere). Not only are they fearless of people, they can be really aggressive when they're nesting. There are warning signs in areas they are known to have attacked people.
There are lots of hills to climb, but it's hard, cause they have vertical edges, so you've got to know where to start.
I've played in the tidal pools, and found starfish, little hermit crabs and barnacles. While I love these rocky beaches, it makes me appreciate the diversity of the Western Cape all the more. There, every rock I turned over yielded something new. Still though, I'm not trying to take anything away from this paradise. If I find a nice mountain man, I may not come back.
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