NORTH COAST TIMES E A G L E , AUGTEMBER 2002
Skipper and I suggested Ben do likewise, which he did. I climbed
the ladder to the topside bridge and wedged against the upper
wheel. I gripped the rail as the boat lunged shakily to starboard
and clung to the deck with much less elegance than a spider.
My legs pumped like oil rigs. I was frightened, certain with sad
perception that we were not going to make it this time. Regard
less of all the dangers the old boat had survived, Falling Star's
luck had run out and she was about to die.
I lose all of my girlfriends, I thought, trying to make a
joke of it, wishing I was down below in the house telling it to the
others, wisecracking in the sallow paleness of my fear. I stared
at the buoyline, saw a big tankership plowing out to sea, seem
ing to almost run over bouncing smaller boats that clustered
around it like flies. I saw also two heaving blue swells launched
from the opposite side of the bar, one on top of the other in a sort
of piggyback fashion. They raced toward us. I watched them,
mesmerized. My brain calmed with sudden clarity almost
omniscient. I waited as the twin waves approached, two blue
stallions straining for the finish, lifting other vessels in their path
and setting them loose because we were their prey. They were
living things, gnashing and boiling, whipped to roaring frenzy
by a fierce wind. I could see each detail, each tiny ripple like the
intricate webbed flesh of leaves, every cell in interlacing rhythm,
reborn every grasping inch, here and there a brief slash of silvery
white spray across their faces, the late morning sun broken into
gleaming prisms, water reflecting on itself, at the last second
hurling in close for a combination punch, slamming into our port
beam with a shuddering crash that threw us down, the second
fist finishing us off.
Falling Star rolled over as if to make love to the water,
its long body engulfed, undecided at first, then violently
surrendering — as my former girlfriend had the first night we
made love, holding one another, breaking for a moment as she
lay on her back in the darkness, then she rolled onto her side
with an almost sad moan, the last sound I heard from the
stricken Falling Star the instant it fell back from the reeling slap;
and without fear or surprise I also surrendered, riding the boat
over as if I was standing on a descending escalator.
For a second I wondered if Falling Star would come back
but its entire length was under water which was already swirling
around my knees. Almost in a dream I considered that the boat
might roll completely over, which would probably trap and drown
me. I thought to jump clear but surf pounding on the jetty
dissuaded me. I saw a boat running out of the main channel
toward us, a boat quite like Falling Star except for its brown
paint.That same instant I was aware Falling Star would not
roll on its back. It was settling into the river by its stern instead,
like an old arthritic dog. My deck had become the narrow railing
that was slipping quickly underwater. I grabbed a long-bladed
fishknife from a sheath on my belt and started cutting through
a tangle of lines, cables and chain. I heard the Skipper shout at
someone in the house, which was no longer below my feet but
directly at my back. He forced the motor, straining to somehow
pull Falling Star back up on its keel. I saw the last crabs spilling
into the river. You have to win once in awhile, I whispered in
acknowledgment of their triumph. I noticed also the red buoys
that trailed from the capsized boat like streamers and felt relief
that I would not have to clean them or the crab pots after all.
Water rushed to my waist as Falling Star sank deeper.
I felt immersed in silence that lasted only a few seconds yet
was absolute, and sounds afterward seemed more distinctly
separate. "You okay?" a voice inquired. I looked at the Skipper's
worried bushy face peering down at me from the port gunwale.
He had the expression of an anxious child concerned about how
to get down from a roof. I wanted to laugh and tell him a joke I
thought of when I saw the crabs fleeing into the water.
"I’m okay," I said and cut loose some of the lines that
held crab pots to the boat. I thought less weight might help
Falling Star get to its feet. I was not sure I was right about the
principle; I was looking for something to do that might be useful.
"Give me your knife," the Skipper ordered. I handed it
up to him and climbed across the capsized deck to the upended
port side which was all that was left for a deck. I saw the open
window and was aware of how the other three escaped the
overturned house. Kamiju smiled. Ben quaked with fear and
uncertainty. "What happened? Did you see what happened?"
he gasped in shocked disbelief. I thought of the joke suggested
by the crabs when they abandoned ship. "The crabs jumped
overboard in a daisychain and pulled us over,” I said. Kamiju
laughed but Ben was unamused, as was the Skipper. He cut a
rope that held a stack of pots to the fallen mast and the surge
tore them away from the boat. The pots went to the bottom and
the red buoys joined others in forming a necklace around Falling
Star.
The brown fishboat hove to about a hundred yards
outside of us. It was wracked by swells and its captain must
have decided it was too risky to get closer. The Skipper cursed
the other captain I could see boats coming directly at us from
the main channel and figured they must have been radioed out
by the brown trailer. The Skipper suddenly jumped through the
window into the house. I impulsively followed and dropped into
waist deep water. Water poured into the house and into the
foc'sle where the lifejackets had been stored. The hissing
rushing sounds of water drowned the coughing spasms of the
dead motor which the Skipper grimly attempted to restart. He
was bent over like a boy trying to pick up a bicycle. One hand
gripped the only portion of the wheel still above water, the other
punched hard at the starter. He seemed like one of the motor's
pistons as he jerked back and forth, jamming his fist into the
PAGE 15
PAULA PIUKKULA
button. Then just as suddenly he gave it up. He could not break
the water's hold. Falling Star was not his anymore. His eyes
were intense and angry. "We better get out of here," he said and
I climbed out, turning and giving him a hand up. He tried to stand
but the boat's convulsions were too much and he nearly fell flat
trying to sit down on the planked hull
A small boat approached us the same instant that a
part of the stern fell straight down which lifted the bow clear of
the water. We were almost pitched off the hull. The man at the
helm of the small boat drove his bow into our side, barely
avoiding the overturned mast which jabbed straight at him like
a spear. Kamiju was the closest and the Skipper motioned to
him. He leaped aboard the small boat, slipped and fell on his
butt. He looked around at us and grinned as the boat backed
off and made room for a gillnet fishboat that plowed stolidly
through tangled rigging and only just missed the mast. I heard
the fisherman shout he could take two aboard. Ben jumped.
The Skipper was perched above him, and without really thinking
I shoved him off with my left foot. A loud stream of abuse flowed
from his mouth as his body hit the other deck and sprawled
heavily, but the roar of the gillnetter's motor overwhelmed his
shouts as the boat backed out from the mass of tangled water
whipped lines and cable.
Falling Star slid deeper into the river and I scrambled
higher up the bow. I stroked and patted the wood planking.
I whispered my sorrow to the dying boat and apologized for
everything I had said to shame it in the past. I looked around.
The big tankership was clearing Cape Disappointment and about
to disappear into the blue brushstroke of ocean. The brown tuna
boat sat and rolled with the swells, watching over me, ready to
pick me up if I jumped or fell into the water. It was too big to
rescue me, would probably hole itself on the mast or tangle its
screw in the wildly dancing rigging that thrashed the water and
beat against the upended hull. Only a smaller boat could dash
in and out of the wreck without fouling itself I looked for the boat
that had taken Kamiju off, saw it circling outside the gillnetter
Kamiju stood in the bow, braced against the bucking and rolling,
leaning forward as if he was ready to reach out a hand and pull
me off my tiny island. I wondered what I looked like from that
distance, probably not very stoic, I decided, shuffling my fanny
closer to the prow each inch that went underwater. I glanced
back over my shoulder and saw that the house had almost
disappeared, then at my left arm. The brace was wet and the
sodden Ace bandage had unraveled into a flapping pennant
The small boat raced straight toward me. I got ready
to jump and hoped that I would make the deck instead of falling
short into the water I could hear Kamiju shout for me to hang on,
curious about where the clown imagined I would go if I chose not
to. I realized it would be close. The bow was about to go under
with my last patch of dry wood and I worried that suction would
drag me to the bottom of the river with Falling Star But I was not
frightened. I was calm with certainty there was nothing I could
do but wait for whichever occurred first, my rescue or possible
drowning. "Hey Taxi!" I shouted and waved at Kamiju. I laughed
at an absurd image of standing atop the sinking bow, water
NORTH COAST
TIMES EAGLE
A JOURNAL OF ART & OPINION
PUBLISHED IN ASTORIA, OREGON
757 27TH STREET 97103
MICHAEL PAUL McCUSKER
EDITOR & PUBLISHER
lapping at my chest and neck, waving goodbye with the Ace
bandage flowing in the wind.
I jumped. Kamiju's arms reached out to catch me as I
landed on deck and lurched off balance.
The gillnetter fell in behind the small boat and together
we circled the wreck. Only the final inch of the bow was above
water and part of the mast and a pole. The red buoys continued
to surround Falling Star and marked its death. I saw a shining
white boat coming toward us and thought it might be a Coast
Guard rescue vessel from the Cape Disappointment station.
My eyes barely caught the last of Falling Star. A large
swell rolled over its final tip of bow. When it passed the boat was
gone A swirl of bubbles rose to the surface for a few minutes. I
thought I felt the stern hit the mud and saw the boil of displaced
water as the rest of the boat rolled over and crashed on the river
bottom Loose boards floated amidst the ring of buoys.
The gillnetter pulled alongside the Coast Guard boat.
The Skipper and Ben jumped aboard. Next was our turn. Kamiju
clambered across while I held the boats together. I thanked the
man who rescued us. He smiled around a pipe in his mouth
and touched a finger to his yachting cap. I leaped into the Coast
Guard boat. After salvaging a few loose boards where Falling
Star sank, the helmsman turned his craft toward the Washington
shore The gillnetter and the boat that saved me were by then
anonymous among the crowded shipping in the buoy line. The
brown tuna boat was also out of sight.
I asked the Skipper if he might someday forgive me for
not allowing him to be the last man off his boat. He glared at me,
then wiped his mouth with the hand that had only one finger and
thumb "Why do you think I should?" he asked.
"The guy said he could take two," I said. "You were the
closest."
"Know how I lost my fingers?" he asked and shoved the
mangled hand toward my face. I shook my head. "I thought I
knew what I was doing,” he said.
Before I could ask what he meant he went into the
wheelhouse and stood next to the helmsman.
The skipper's father, who had been a merchant sailor as
well as a fisherman, picked us up at the Coast Guard station and
drove us across the four mile bridge to the Oregon side of the
river He spared none of us his contempt at the loss of Falling
Star but reserved special abuse for his son the captain. Two
days later an insurance company tried to accuse the Skipper of
purposely sinking the boat. That night he got drunk and started
a fight in a bar, lost and spent most of a night and day in jail until
Kamiju and I raised bail. Other fishermen, some he had known
all his life and a few who had lost their own vessels, criticized
him for capsizing his boat and treated him like a Jonah. He took
it pretty hard "I feel like I'm going crazy," he said one afternoon
while we sat at the bar of the Mermaid Tavern and watched
boats and ships bobble past a confused network of rotted piers
and charred pilings that held up canneries and saloons before
the old waterfront deteriorated and burned. Three albacore boats
were tied up at a fuel dock. A rabble of shrieking gulls whirled
around them. "I've been thinking of suiciding," the Skipper said.
He brushed his one-fingered hand across his forehead then
tangled it in his unkempt beard. "One thing I'll tell you for sure,"
the Skipper said and held aloft a half empty glass of beer. "This
is the only schooner I'm ever taking across a bar again."
I saw my former girlfriend in Portland a few days later.
We were civil and civilized with each other and drank coffee
together in a small downtown cafe. People were starting to leave
work and poured onto the sidewalks. She told me about herself
and new boyfriend. I told her about Falling Star. Her eyes went
cold. An unfriendly smile dimpled her face. "First you lost me,"
she said. "Now you've lost your precious boat"
I met her hard stare.
"I'll find another," I said.
The artists on these pages are local Oregon coastal.
Alice Ann Petrie lived in Newport when she made this drawing
of a docked fishboat in the early 1980s; she and her husband
Don Petrie now live in Beaverton. David Ewen drew his version
of a fisherman for the first publication of 'Schooners Across the
Bar’ in Michael Marsh’s AXIS magazine in 1974. Two drawings
by Paula Piukkula are from a series of pen & inks of derelict
fishboats and decrepit cannery buildings on the Astoria riverfront;
the third is of Peter Iredale eroding on its own well attended
beach Charlotte Bruhn has drawn several views of Astoria.