Discovery Channel - Deadliest Catch Diaries

Fishing Strategies

While we were fishing this morning, I was joking with Capt. Sten.  I explained that since I have fished with many of the famous captains of the Bering Sea, I could act as his consultant and offer him some fishing advice.  He looked at me sideways and cocked one eyebrow.   I continued, “If you want to fish king crab like Johnathan Hillstrand, I’ll show you where to throw down a horseshoe-shaped string.  If you want to fish late opies like Sig, I’ll take you to a set of canyon terraces that can help you mop up after the grounds have been picked over.”  He began to laugh as I went on “Or … if you want, we could do a thread-the-needle on a strip of sand between a couple of rocks just east of St. Paul -- like Ricky on the Maverick!”  We were both roaring with laughter as he rose from the captain’s seat and headed out to run the crane.

Sten stood on the upper deck looking aft, operating the hydraulic crane controls.  He was still laughing as the boat rocked and motored forward into the waves -- guided only by the ship's autopilot.  He was wearing his thick blue “freezer suit.”   His wild hair stood up through the top of his black headband, shaking stiffly like a field of tall reeds in the wind.  The North American’s skipper was effectively working the deck while he was driving the boat to the next pot.  He is the only captain that I have ever seen do this during fishing operations.

As I filmed him working, Sten skillfully pivoted the crane in order to drag a pot past the North American’s sorting table, which was now overflowing with opilio crab.  He glanced over to me and motioned at the table. “Your new crab-fishing consultation idea has a major flaw,” he said.  “Who would listen to you? Every captain will only fish his own way.”  I zoomed in, struggling to hold a tight shot of his face. The captain continued, “My style is to let them soak, give the bait ample time to do its work.”  While I continued to film the scene, I contemplated what he had said.

So far Sten’s strategy seemed to be working.  From my position on the upper deck, I could see how his successful strategies had affected the whole crew.  They were working very hard. Travis had lost the usual bounce in his step.  D-Bo, the vessel’s greenhorn, was exhausted.  He appeared to be unable to keep up with his dual tasks, sorting and continuing to make bait. The rest of the crew was in “grind mode,” operating with precision, maintaining a heads-down silence, except to berate the greenhorn from time to time.

As Sten swung another pot, he looked over to me and said.  “If the numbers keep coming up like this, we may end up setting our pots back in this one place all season … until we are done!”  I reflected on this, thinking about all of my past experiences on other boats, always re-setting our pots.  Sten released the hydraulic controls and added, “Fishing the whole season in just one spot ? I don’t think that I have ever heard of anyone doing that before!”  As Sten turned and I followed him back into the wheelhouse, I said to him over his shoulder, “I guess I will need to record these coordinates.”  He shook his head and laughed again.

Photo: Marc Carter/DCL

Bigger Than the Rest

Throughout the day today, the wind has been blowing hard out of the west and the Bering Sea is bigger and more ferocious than I have ever experienced.  What is even more unusual is that the crew of the North American has been fishing in these conditions.  On deck, the boys were struggling to stay on their feet while we pounded through waves that were at least 30 feet high.

At the wheel, Capt. Sten was anxious and trying to concentrate.  My questions were unwanted distractions.  He dealt with this by ignoring me, or calmly answering my queries with “Not right now!”  I decided to let him be.  He obviously needed all his concentration to scan the horizon and look for rogue waves.  He was focused on trying to protect the guys on deck as they pulled yet another string of full pots.

As we dropped off the back of another large wave, I turned my lens forward and tried to film the waves as they approached.  It has always been frustrating for me that the waves never look as big on camera as they actually are.  It is difficult to capture the true scale of the situation.  In addition, it is not easy to shoot and hang on at the same time.  As a result, I often find myself floating across the wheelhouse. Gravity itself seems to be variable in these conditions.

Climbing yet another peak, I spotted an approaching wave that was much bigger than all of the rest.  It was still six or more waves away from us, but it was visible above the other crests.  As we dropped again I asked the captain, “Did you see that wave?” Sten continued to stare ahead, but this time he chose to answer the question, “Yeah, it’s a big one!”  There was no way to avoid it.  We were going to hit it.  With each rise and fall, the giant wave drew closer.

When it finally arrived, I looked for something to hold on to.  Sten grabbed the throttle and pulled it back, slowing our speed.  He then reached for the hailer and warned the deckhands to hang on.  My eyes were glued to the rapidly approaching wave.  It was at least 40 feet high, and its face was almost vertical

As the North American climbed, the wave began to break, its crest falling down toward us.  Our bow cut through the white water, tilting to the starboard as we rose. We eventually crested and stalled, then abruptly fell down the wave’s back, still leaning to one side.  When we hit bottom, there was a big impact and a resounding thud.  I barely managed to stay on my feet.

Once the wave had passed, the boys on deck began to jubilate with hoots and cheers.  Capt. Sten wasn’t celebrating though.  He was thinking that it was time to call it off.  The seas had finally gotten too wild for fishing.  He reached for the hailer again, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke into the microphone, “All right guys, secure the deck and come inside.  We’ll pick it up again tomorrow.”

Photo: DCL

Flying Fish

Captain Sten is really on the crab now.  As a result, the table is overflowing.  “D-Bo,” the North American’s new greenhorn, is exhausted and is trying to keep up with his duties.  There is a lot of work to be done, but D-Bo is staggering about the deck, moving so slowly that it causes the other deckhands to pounce on him repeatedly. 

Terje gets my attention and says, “Watch this!”  We both observe D-Bo, crowned with a Viking helmet with green horns, as he stops several times on his way to bait pots.  Each time he stops, he sets the bait down and rests a bit before stumbling on his way.  All of the deckhands have been closely watching him.  Terje looks back to me and rolls his eyes.  John and Davin shake their heads.  Travis looks from one to the other and simply shrugs.

When D-Bo finally arrives at the pot he climbs in, but one of his helmet’s horns gets caught in the pot’s webbing and his head is jerked to the side.  As he comes to an abrupt stop, the bait he is carrying slaps him across his face.  Terje yells, “Come on, hurry up!” and D-Bo reaches deep one more time, calling upon his fading strength.  He climbs out of the pot, closes the pot door and then weaves his way back to his “office,” the area that holds the bait bin and chopper. 

As he begins to fill up a couple of bait jars, the full-share boys see the moment that they have waited for.  With nods to each other they quickly scramble to the sorting table where they have secretly collected six live cod for their next hazing ritual.  As D-Bo lifts his head from the bait bin the attack is on.  The other deckhands swing and throw all six fish at him at once.  Of course, there is no defense for such tactics. Pinned in the corner, D-Bo gets hit with at least four of the fish.  The deckhands roar with laughter and then leap back to work as the next pot comes over the rail.

Later, at dinner, the whole group is in good spirits.  Though he has been nipped at all day D-Bo is still considered to be one of the boys.  As they laugh and banter, D-Bo climbs to his feet and begins to clown it up, break-dancing for all of the guys, who respond with clapping and laughter. 

I am pleased to see that there really is no ill will toward the greenhorn.  These guys are just living their culture.  D-Bo, also known as Darrell Labay, is just paying his dues the same way that a thousand greenhorns have before. As D-Bo’s silly antics and dancing continue, I laugh and look from face to face and wonder if each of these men once raised their own head from a bait bin, only to be assaulted by flying fish.

Image: Darrell Labay, a.k.a. D-Bo, in his "office."
Photo: Marc Carter/DCL

One of Their Own

Having returned to Dutch Harbor for the upcoming opilio crab season, I sought out the North American and found her at the North Pacific Fuel Dock.  As I stepped aboard, I immediately sensed that something was wrong.  Capt. Sten Skaar and the other crew onboard met me with a straight face and a somber mood.  I caught the sideways glances that passed between them, and since nobody seemed to be forthcoming with information, I had to ask, “So … what’s up?”  Terje Kavinge, our new deckhand and cook, glanced at the captain quizzically, obviously seeking permission to tell me.  Sten shrugged and nodded to him.  Terje took a deep breath and then slowly explained that there had already been a terrible incident in the crab fleet: Davin Nes,  a deckhand on the North American, had just lost one of his brothers, Jeffrey Nes. 

This was grim news for all of us on the North American and for all the fishermen in the fleet.  It was especially painful for the Nes family, one of the legendary fishing families of the Bering Sea.  They had lost one of their own. 

Terje continued explaining what had happened. Jeffrey was working aboard the Sea Warrior, when he fell from a stack of pots, four high. Terje told me that Davin and his other brother Johnny, who was fishing on another vessel, had just flown home to attend services for their brother.

This was not the first time that I have been directly exposed to situations involving loss of life in the Bering Sea.  On my first journey I had been present during the rescue and subsequent loss of Terry Rosendahl, who had fallen overboard on the Shaman.  The next year I happened to be on the Maverick when we became involved in the search for survivors when the Big Valley went down.  That was a particularly dark day in the history of Bering Sea crabbing. Only hours after our search party had located the sole survivor of the Big Valley incident, one of my new crab-fishing friends, a bright and friendly Samoan named Manu Legard, fell off the stack while fishing on the Sultan and perished abruptly in the icy waters.  Each of these incidents affected me greatly, and also provided me with a sense that the danger is very real for every individual in the fleet. 

Looking ahead, I knew that I was now involved in another sensitive situation. On the one hand, I knew that this unfortunate incident would certainly affect Davin during the upcoming season.  As a producer, I knew that I had the responsibility to tell this story.  On the other hand, I also knew that I would have to do so very gently. In my telling of stories, I seek to honor the fishermen and respect all the sacrifices that their families make and suffer.  I do not want to be a bull in a china shop.  I knew that Davin would soon be returning to Dutch Harbor. I knew that when he did, I would have to ask him some difficult and uncomfortable questions.  Faced with this unusual situation, I decided that I would first ask Davin’s permission, and then seek his help in making a fitting tribute to his brother Jeffrey Nes, a seasoned professional deckhand who sought adventure and gain in the Bering Sea.

Image: Davin Nes, North American deckhand

Photo: Marc Carter/DCL