Heavily lidded eyes watched footsteps weave down the familiar row, retracing steps known by heart. Wet salt and pepper hair hid behind a raincoats hood, hands dirty from weeks worth of work-dirt, he knew fair well they would stay stained for the days to follow. Reaching for another bottle of Old Crow, one already tucked under his arm, another gripped firmly in his hand, he walked to the register. This small Alaskan port town knew their fishermen well.
An exchange of cash and and an all too familiar look of apathy, Edgar tugged at his hood and walked out. "Good to see you're back in town" rang through the air, and with a simple gesture by raising his hand, he did not turn, but acknowledged the cashier.
He made his way down from the ship supply store off of Ballyhoo Road, to where he would reside and allow his addiction to flourish. A little over two-and-a-half miles straight down Ballyhoo Road to Salmon Way, he would find shelter from the mixture of rain and sleet in the only hotel on the isle: The Aleutian Grand.
He had just finished up a marathon run on the Northwestern (is what he'd like to convince himself) but the reality was- his brother the captain, booted him off until he could get his act together. After separate incidences of a bridle snapping, a hook flying recklessly, and multiple errors at the rail, he was no longer acting the role of a seasoned deck boss. No, Edgar was now just a danger to himself and those around.
Typically, morale on a fishing vessel (while weeks out at sea can try even the most stable individuals) is fairly volatile. However, have a vessel with 6 men, all with varying personal demons and a severe case of homesickness? You have yourself a floating, ticking time bomb. Never mind to mention the baseline of stress with this way of life, that is constantly coursing through the veins of the Bering Sea fishermen.
Nerves can be shot so easily on a vessel, tossed by 20 foot waves and 60 knot winds, especially when your mind is struggling to remain focused on a task at hand. A mere hesitation of thought can land you in the frigid Bering Sea, a place few live to talk about once taking a dip into her lairs. Edgar is one of very few who have lived to talk about it, but today is not one of those days he's feeling all to chatty or up to reminiscing of the time he almost lost his life to the untamed sea.
No, instead he was going to drown the sorrows of what his life had amounted to in a fitting place: The Aleutian Grand. In her first few months of business, she was packed with fishermen checking out the accommodations and locals of the quiet town of Unalaska wanting to see what the fuss was all about. As seasons shifted, and the fishing vessels reached their quotas, the hotel fell on flat business, oftentimes employing only a crew of 4 to man the 118-room facility. Over time, and limited funds, what was once a nice lodge, became the "Grand Illusion" - barely a shadow of it's former self. Now, the Aleutian Grand would grasp at any patron, without wowing them, while still keeping a tag of $150 a night. The curtains stained and dusty, the televisions outdated with rabbit ears in a crapshoot attempt at reception; Edgar called this place home more times than even he could accept.
Roughly halfway to his destination, Edgar approached the apex of Ballyhoo Road, he knew staying on track to Airport Beach Road would lead him to the destination of the hotel where he would inevitably end up. However, even on such a day, despite how most would feel, this was balmy to Edgar; a little detour down East Point Road would lead to East Point Drive and he knew from there he could hop Iliuliuk Bay and end up on 2nd Street. 2nd Street housed one of the most infamous and notorious bars in the world: The Elbowroom. Several years back, the original owner of the rough and tumble bar, Larry, sold it and the namesake changed to Latitudes. Word was, Jimmy Buffett who once played a set there in the 1990's was the bars inspiration.
At 39-years-old, Edgar was nearly 25-years deep into this business. "The good old days" were in the early 1980's when the fishing was good, the profits were bigger and a sailor was still a very rugged man; Edgar was 19, and many fishermen would end up at The Elbowroom after a trip, duration greatly depending on the luck and how the fishing went. It had been several years since Edgar's face was seen in the bar. Having dealt with and faced many drinking demons, most likely starting from the age when he first came up to Unalaska, he had valiantly stayed away from the bar that held so many memories and offered his weaknesses to him so unapologetically. But on this night, after that trip, his mind was made up before the question even came, as he headed southeast down East Point Road.
Known as a man of few but subtle words, Edgar was especially tight-lipped and less cooperative than usual. His motives tonight were to forget everything, forget the last two, almost three decades of his life, and for the night just be. Be whoever he wanted, act however he wanted, because for how he felt and where his head was, he had not a thing to lose.
Several moments later, Edgar had already tapped into the first bottle of Old Crow. In Unalaska, for at the time with a population of a little over 1000 people, a place like Latitudes wouldn't mind seeing Edgar walk in with an armful of liquor, so long as he still bought a drink or two inside. Not looking to score a hit, or another woman, Edgar was just wanting to sit, stare, think, and not have to move a muscle when it came to replenishing his drinks. The Hansen men came from strong, brooding and fearless Norwegian bloodlines, emotions typically were swept under the proverbial carpet and rarely reared any kind of expression on the face of the Norwegian Hansen men. Today was no different.
Shuffling in, drenched and soggy bottomed, his hood still overhung his eyes, he sat at a red plastic stool at the end of what could be no more than a 7 foot long bar top. Before a word was spoken, a white square appeared on the wooden bar top, followed by a tumbler, two ice cubes clanking as they settled at the bottom, and a long stream of whiskey poured filling it near the rim. Trying to figure out from the face of him if he were up for a chat, the bartender just kept his comment to himself and would let Edgar talk whenever and if ever he felt the urge.
Fishermen are a defined breed. They're business, but they're fun. They're wild, but incredibly courageous. They're one of the last true blooded American men; they carry on traditions often from their grandfathers and keep a family business alive. The lives of Bering Sea fishermen, and commercial fishermen has evolved over time, but one fact remains: 9 months of the year their lives are put up to a challenge: fight or flight.
For weeks upon weeks, fishermen are surrounded by the endless sea in any direction they look. Aside from fellow deckhands, the only signs of life come from seagulls resting on the bow or perhaps another fishing vessel miles out. You can try a mans sanity by throwing him on a Bering Sea-bound fishing vessel. Fight or flight sets in when the job becomes especially tiring.
A 19-hour stretch, slow fishing, fatigue and hunger plague the mind, while the will is determined to keep pace and keep up. Deckhands are not weaklings, they are not men that complain and cry about their inconveniences or misery. No, instead they are bred to keep quiet, do the job at hand, and help bring in crab so they can all head back to port and get another season under their belt. With all this, however, comes the mental drain. The hours of partial conversation and few exchanged words, leads to a lot of thinking. A mind can be hundreds of miles away, while the body still set on autopilot doing a job. It is now, in these moments where the fishermen face their true fight.
The danger often escapes their thought process. It becomes routine to face the rolling of the vessel, the waves crashing and pounding the boat, thrusting and thrashing against. Rogue waves, the "freak waves" can blindside, throwing everyone from their bunks and breaking windows, potentially crippling the boat so badly it can barely limp back to safety. The idea of having to frantically gear up in an immersion suit, all the things that could go wrong... it's all a part of the job. A part that sometimes they dangerously become so lax to that it comes to bite. Edgar would know.
It's now, these moments where fatigue meets reality, a raw and factual glance down the barrel of that shotgun that's right in your face, when these men crack. Often the trickle effect creates a snowball, and further down the line all the dominos go. Matt, Jake and Edgar, three men brought together by a vessel and bonded by their demons. This is a tale of where fact meets fiction. True lives are blurred. This is not a fishing tale or a factual event of what takes place aboard, so much as what happens to the psyche of men already worn down, who have one of the deadliest jobs, and face damning struggles. It's an evolving tale of family, friends, struggles and dramatic triumphs.
Welcome to: The Drifting Anchor