In the heat of the season

July 7

The days are starting to blur together, I'm having a hard time telling if its morning or evening, we fish for eight hours then sleep for a few, fish for ten, sleep for a few, each day feel like two.  And the sky is only dark for a few hours.  The mighty salmon have been good to us this year, not killer good, just good enough, the seas have been calm, it's pulled my food out of me only once.  And it's put food in many times. Last night we filleted, breaded and fried another salmon, cooked up black African rice and green beans, had a priceless feast anchored there on the south line among 500 other boats filled with fishermen who miss women all over the states. I'm listening to Peter Paul and Mary, getting very nostalgic for the 60s and 70s, and for free people, and for receiving and giving complete love, and for pushing to one. 

I'm grateful for Casey, my fellow crew, talking about life and the universe and the course of the human race on the back deck as we push through the seas and lay our net and call to the fish to culminate their destiny giving to us. Pulling jokes on each other and laughing and dancing.  Creating ideas together that rival the best shows.

And now it's time to fish, and watch the Alaskan ocean, and a 360 sky filled with clouds like you've never seen before, depth, color, texture, and a horizon of boats, and rejoice over every splash in the net.