Using the end of my
picking hook, I peel scales off my face and scrape dried sea salt from my
pores. Today marks day eight with no shower. My eyebrows are thick and crusted
with something I guess is fish slime. Out of habit, I comb my fingers through
my hair, stopping when I feel something hard. I rip it out to find three dried,
solidified salmon eggs. The dark spots that speckle my face are shards of kelp.
Purple-black streaks of jellyfish line my left cheek, until they're wiped away
by tears that clean my littered face. My dad calls this an Alaskan face mask.
This day also marks
day eight of my only human contact being my dad. I look across the boat's cabin
and muster a smile at him. His skin is like mine, the days' worth of grime
making our cheeks salty and stiff. The
salt water brine cracks our lips. We don't have the luxury of time to wash our faces
after every set.
I hook up the cork
line to the drum and have the net rolling on board in eight and a half seconds.
I have fished commercially with my dad every summer since I was seven. Time has
made me efficient over the years; no movements are wasted. I'm standing on the
back deck in my raingear, boots, and a shirt cut off at the sleeves,
threadbare. I feel the sun blazing, almost unbearably, on the dark tops of my
boots. Once this set is over, I'll dip my feet in the water, I tell myself. I
can't let my mind think about it now, though. The sun beating down on my
shoulders balances out the cool sea water dusting up over the stern roller as
the net is reeled in. This is my favorite kind of day. When the sea is calm,
the sun is high, and the fishing is good. Every so often, a breeze dances
across the calm water and teases my hair across my neck. Off the water,
reflects the happy shine of the midday sun. It streaks bright across my face,
and I swear I can feel my freckles popping. Flopping over the stern roller,
fish come four at a time. A smile floods to my face. In between fish, I glance
out on the water. It's the most authentic beauty I've ever witnessed. A sea of
rich blue topped with flickers of crystal, reflecting every passing thing.
Hard work is
necessary on my dad's boat, but cleanliness is not. What I look like, with a
crusty smile and hands that look twice my age, doesn't affect how much we
produce on our boat. It's not a factor at all in how I choose to live my life.
Every stroke of my rain pants sweeping past each other, each fish I toss
forward, is just another reminder of how lucky I am to be working in such a
genuinely breathtaking place. Every breath I take is honeyed with the reminder
of how happy I am to be precisely here at this moment living beautifully
through hard work. This is the life.