Mr. Clean

 When I moved to Alaska and discovered that I could be paid to catch fish, I was ecstatic. All I needed was a boat and a license, both of which were procured within two years of moving here.

Like most jobs, there are certain aspects that are enjoyable and others that aren't so much so. Catching fish was a lot of fun; cleaning up the mess it created didn't bring nearly as much joy.

Because I was catching salmon using hook and line, the fish brought a higher price than ones that were caught in nets. Each fish was brought on board individually, stunned, and bled by cutting the gills, and then cleaned and put in ice. Salmon have a tendency to put up a fight and even though they may be clubbed and gaffed, they sometimes would thrash around the deck, especially Humpies. Pink salmon, or Humpback salmon- Humpies, are the smallest of the Pacific salmon, ranging from two to five pounds on average. They are worth the least amount of money and are the hardest to kill, frequently tearing off the hook and thrashing around the boat spattering blood all over the bulwarks, the floor, the windshield and of course, the fisherman. At times they would flop all the way to the bow. Sometimes they would actually jump out of the boat. They are spastic little creatures.

Because bringing fish onboard is such a messy business, every boat has at least one bucket, a gallon of bleach and a bottle of Joy dish soap. I don't know why Joy was so popular, I guess because it could be used to remove any sign of gas or oil on top of the water, plus it had a pleasant lemon scent. A scrub brush was a necessity as well. You needed something stiff enough to get fish scales and blood off the surface of the boat, but soft enough that you could really put some effort into it without scratching the heck out of the more delicate parts. One last thing  almost all fishermen needed was a good set of rain pants. In part because we lived in a rain forest, but even more so because the blood that inevitably spattered on them could be removed with the same brush that was used to clean the boat.

One summer morning, after a successful fishing trip, I sold my fish and motored to the transient dock inside the new boat harbor. One side of the dock had a few sailboats and pleasure craft moored to it, and the opposite side was taken up almost entirely by a large, flat, wooden barge named the Roughcut. It was a floating saw mill owned by a logger from Oregon. A number of loggers came up looking for work in the newly formed Whitestone Logging Company just outside Hoonah. They were a tough group of people, rough around the edges, moving from one logging camp to another, like nomads of the forests.

After tying to the float opposite the barge, I grabbed the bucket and leaned over the side of the boat, filling it with clean salt water. After I put in what I felt was the right amount of soap and bleach, I dipped the brush and got to work. Blood and scales had dried on the bulwarks and they were starting to dry on the deck. I was scrubbing pretty vigorously when I noticed a fellow standing alongside my boat. When I looked up at him I could determine that he was a logger right away.

The standard dress for everyone working in the woods was a blue and white striped shirt, which very much looked like the ticking on a pillow, and a pair of dungarees, usually loose fitting with pockets and loops for hanging small tools from. Every logger I ever saw had cut the hem of their pants off, leaving them ragged with threads hanging down. Most either wore heavy leather or rubber boots called corks. They had spikes on the soles that allowed them to walk on the slippery logs that they felled.

I'd never seen the man before and wasn't sure what he wanted. Stringy grey hair was sticking out from under his dirty cap, and he was sporting a few days growth of beard. He stood looking down at me for a minute, picking his teeth with a splinter before he finally spoke. I was working up a sweat trying to disinfect my small vessel when he said, "When you get done with that, I've got a pair of shorts that could use some attention." The image that was racing through my mind was less than pleasant, and I was relieved when he started to chuckle. It was a strange introduction to a man who would one day be my neighbor.

I'm happy to report that I got the boat clean, and whether or not he ever got his underwear washed, I'll never know, fortunately.