Fishing in the Bearing Sea.

          One of the two times I blacked out and collapsed from pain was while working on a boat adrift in the Bearing Sea about 200 miles from Alaska. Dutch Harbor, located way out on the Aleutian Chain was our docking point where every 9-15 days we would offload millions of dollars worth of Mcdonald's fish fillets (Pollock). I did this work in 16 hour shifts, seven days a week, with the speed at which I worked dictated by a conveyor belt while rocking back and forth to the raging ocean.
          Our story begins while I was scrubbing off menstrual blood that homeless women would smear on the walls of the Denny's bathroom at 3am. I found myself heavily considering what my cousin Joel had told me hours earlier. Joel had just informed me that he was about to get on a boat headed for the Bearing Sea, work real hard, and make a bunch of money. He didn't sugar coat it and was clear that the kind of work he was referring to was considered some of the most grueling in the world. I knew my back was prone to pain, but my situation in life at that time was comprised of conditions that I couldn't sustain another week of. Pulling the night shift at Denny's for minimum wage was my "escape" from the crazy house I lived in that had random people partying in my room at 7am when I got off work each morning. I once returned to my room to find my closet absolutely drenched in fresh puke, I was reassured that the culprit got "his hair yanked out" for doing it. I didn't ask questions. Working endless hours in Alaska seemed like a pleasure cruise, so I put down my mop and went to the office in downtown Seattle to sign up. They had me fill out a novel sized packet of paperwork and put me in a room by myself with a TV in it to show me a video. The video wasn't like the cheesy, poorly produced instructional videos on how to clean out the fryer with a smile. It was a very serious in tone collection of testimonials about how real and hard the work is that I was about to commit to. I was impressed, a little scared, and more excited than ever.
           The boat was scheduled to leave in a day so all the positions were already filled. They told me that I was being put on the reserve list and that if anyone decided they couldn't make the trip in the next 24 hours, they'd call me. I went home, sat on my bed, and waited with the phone in my hand. The hours ticked by, the boat was leaving port in less than two hours and the woman at the office finally called. Unfortunately, she was calling to tell me that no one had backed out and maybe there would be room in five months. I collapsed on my bed and just stared at the ceiling. I couldn't stand it so I packed my things and drove to the dock. I marched down the pier and stopped at the ramp that led up to the boat and informed the guy at the top that if for any reason someone couldn't make it that I'd be right here. He thanked me but told me that everyone was already there (a crew of 100 people or so) and to please go home. I stayed. Hours went by and the sun had long gone down. The moment came where the last person was done loading on supplies for the journey and on board.
          Right before they pulled up the ramp, I noticed the entire crew had formed into a congested line on the deck. Moments later they began marching down the ramp silently. Everyone emptied onto the dock where they stood in groups and began murmuring to each other. I noticed my cousin and his friend Jordan and ran over to them. Joel clued me in that they were undergoing a surprise drug scan then pointed to a couple of cops holding the leashes of two German Shepherds walking up the pier. They boarded the boat and searched it for about an hour while we stood there in the dark. Once they came off, they singled out three men that were standing away from the rest of us as if they already knew their fate would not be escaped. Everyone else were waved back onto the boat by the captain who then walked up to me and with an approving nod indicated that I board the boat as well. I learned my first important life lesson of my Alaskan fishing experience at that moment. I was proud of myself for ignoring the woman in the office, then the man on the dock who told me I was not going to Alaska. I've applied this principal of determination to a number of subsequent events in my life and almost always have ended up beating the perceived odds.
          A lot of the events that I can remember well from this voyage occurred in the first seven days. That is because there was no work during that time, that's how long it took the big boat to get to the bearing sea where the large schools of fish were. There wasn't much space on the boat for hanging out, most of it was full of complex metallic machinery. It was a processing boat, that means not only was the boat equipped for catching the fish but also for cleaning the fish, sorting them into perfectly weighed out boxes of fillets, and flash freezing them to be ready for delivery. Let's talk about this last step first because it was what I learned about first. The ship was 253 feet long and built into six levels. the top level is the wheelhouse where the captain and four other officers control the boat. The next level is the Galley (where the kitchen is) and a few sleeping quarters. The floor below that is the rest of the sleeping quarters and below that is the two floors of processing where 90% of the workers on board will spend 90% of their waking hours moving fish around on a conveyor belt. The lowest level and the largest was the freezer. It was about two stories high and kept at a temperature of negative 35 degrees fahrenheit so the fish would freeze as fast as possible (flash freezing). This method ensures the freshness of the catch and makes the product more valuable. Before going into the freezer on the boat, the coldest temperature I had ever experienced was 8 degrees on the coldest day I ever snowboarded. That day on the mountain was so cold that most people went home. I was only able to keep riding because I had a large furry hat that covered all of my face with my goggles on. Negative 35 is a whole new level. The few guys who worked down there wore these crazy blue suits called freezer suits that made them look like a cross between an astronaut and someone who cleans up after a nuclear disaster. Even though they always wore the suits, through red snotty faces they complained of being too cold at every meal. One day on our way to the Bearing Sea a group of us were selected to go assist the freezer crew for an hour to help organize something, I can't remember what exactly. What I do remember was I didn't last very long down there. The extra help that included me were told to layer up with everything we could fit on because they didn't have extra freezer suits. I felt like I was lucky because I brought my snowboarding jacket with me. I layered up and climbed down the ladder and the second I crawled through the hatch it hit me. First all the moisture you have anywhere instantly freezes with a crackling noise. My nose suddenly sealed shut because all my snot was now ice. Breathing was difficult because each breath in would freeze the inside of my mouth and then unfreeze with each exhale. Even my eye lids would freeze to my eyeball between blinks so every time I blinked I would hear a tiny crack. Once down the 30 or so foot ladder I realized that no matter how tough I thought I was, I was completely useless because I couldn't feel my hands under my thick gloves. I told someone and they instructed me to get out. I began climbing the ladder which I quickly found out was pretty hard without hands. I began to pull myself up by putting my whole arm into each rung, bending my forearm over each bar, and lifting myself up with my feet. It was difficult and painful but it worked. Needless to say, I never wandered into the freezer again.
          Most of the crew complained of the boredom they were experiencing during the first seven days. I couldn't really blame them, after all, they weren't getting paid for it and the ship isn't exactly designed for leisure. I on the other hand, was loving reading books while looking out the window which for most of the trip was the stunning Alaskan and Canadian coast with enormous glacier cliffs meeting the ocean.
          One of the days I spent a few hours carving the likeness of the boat we were on out of a bar of soap. I showed it off during lunch and people were quite impressed. Later I made a snowman out of three balls of earwax rolled in dandruff. Joel and Jordan were the only ones I showed that masterpiece to who told me that it was unfortunate that the boat didn't have a psychiatric ward.       
          Occasionally there were reminders that caught me by surprise as to where I actually was. Once I was walking to my room and passed an open door to another one and saw five or so Filipino guys watching porn together. I didn't hang around long enough to see what else they were doing in there. There were all walks of life on the boat from ex-convicts to foreigners who were making enough to support their whole extended family for the next year. I guess I shouldn't say "foreigners" as if I wasn't one myself. When the vessel your on is no more than 10% any one race and you're bobbing around in the middle of the Pacific ocean, everyone's a foreigner. Needless to say, most did not speak English well or at all.    
          I made good friends with a very positive Mexican named Alejandro that slept in the bunk below me. He was always smiling no matter if he was in his 15th hour of his shift, or resting in his bunk. He once got real excited and showed me a new Led Zeppelin CD that he had unopened in his bag. I communicated that I loved Zeppelin as well. We hummed a few riffs together from "Black Dog" and made a great connection. Later I watched him open it up and listen to it. He frustratingly cycled through the songs and ten minutes later took it out and put a different disc in. This was very confusing to me, why did his new Zeppelin CD not deliver? Especially since he was in such a good mood all the time already? I thought about it for a while and days later I got a closer look at the disc and discovered it was a two disc set of an interview with the band. Not exactly the best album for a fan who doesn't speak English.
           Joel, Jordan, and I met an interesting guy named Brian. Brian was full of crazy stories about his life and he told them like he was bored out of his mind. Occasionally he would end a story in the same bored tone with an apology; that he was sorry but the whole story he just said was a lie. At first we would laugh real hard because his stories were so detailed and praised him for his creativity. A few dozen stories later Jordan asked him if anything he said at all was true. Brian shook his head in defeat and without changing his tone confessed that he was a pathological liar and that his repressed Mormon upbringing was to blame for it. After this awkward revelation, Joel and Jordan began talking to him less for fear that they were just being lied to, which they undoubtedly were. I felt bad for Brian's condition and just decided to play along when he talked and found that it was better to keep him close than to hear the rumors he started through a third party instead. For instance, he once started telling people that the boat was being turned around because they picked up a dead body in the nets. Knowing it came from Brian I was one of the few that wasn't asking a million questions in the galley during lunch that day.
          Seven days of leisure finally came to a halt and it was announced one morning that a large school of fish had been located and that processing would begin immediately. My Alaskan adventure changed considerably that morning. I went from having the most relaxing stretch of days I had had in years, to the longest shift I'd ever worked, only to get up and do it again the next day and the day after that. Three half hour breaks were scheduled in each day but it took ten minutes to get my gear off and ten minutes to put it back on so I ate as fast as I could in the remaining ten minutes. I figured out that there were two moments of each day that were the hardest to get through mentally and if I could bring myself to get through those each day, I would make it. The first of those moments is when the alarm clock woke me up in the morning after about five hours of sleep. Feeling like you need five more hours of rest and knowing that instead you have 16 hours of hard, wet, fishy work ahead of you is a tough one. The second was after my third "break." 12 hours of my shift has passed at this point and my body feels done. Ah, done ye not! There are four more hours to be a slave to the conveyor belt. The latter moment is probably the tougher one when I really think about it, which brings me to the conveyor belts.
          I remember the first few days being difficult to keep up then after hours and hours I slowly got faster and started developing a more efficient technique. The job is simple to describe; freshly filleted fish would come toward me on the belt in a large pile and it was my job to make each fillet go up and down side by side neatly so the next guy could scoop them up and place them in a box. The machines in there were so loud that everyone had to wear ear protection, so that adds to the monotony of the task. As soon as I felt like I was a fillet straightener pro, out of the corner of my eye I saw the foreman climb up on top of the machine that the belt was attached to. The veteran processor working next to me turned my way with a wicked smile and shouted over the noise: "Here it comes!" Before I could wonder what was coming, the foreman turned up the speed on the conveyor belt to twice the speed it was. Why not? Faster belts means more production. I had to start developing an even faster technique immediately. There was no way I could do the job with only one hand. Rapidly moving both hands and never looking away was the only way to keep up and even then I missed about every tenth one. Once in a while over the noise I would here people start to yell and cheer. I would look up and somewhere along the four belts with people working on both sides of each one, there would be two guys holding hands over the table and straightening their fish using only one hand each. The idea was first guy to miss a fillet would have to let go with his other hand and retrieve it and thus loose.               "Go Alejandro!" I shouted as my bunk mate found himself in such a competition once. They lasted an impressive three minutes or so before he won.
         "Yeaaahhh!" I shouted along with everyone else on my side of the belt when Alejandro's competitor had to nearly dive to catch the rest of the fish on his side. This sort of stuff was pretty exciting given the situation we were all in.
          There were no windows where we worked. None in my sleeping quarters, and the Galley only had a couple. So once every few days I would take five minutes before or after my shift to go outside. Walking out onto the deck before fishing started was a lot different of an experience than doing so after fishing started, because of the seagulls. Let me explain. From nets until frozen there are about 20 or so steps each fish has to go through. It's a game of speed, not accuracy, so fillets get dropped at each step. Furthermore, the fillet only makes up about half of the fish's mass so the head, tail, guts, and skin have to go somewhere too. Finally, although the boat searches for schools of Pollack with high tech fish detectors, there's no way to not accidentally pick up other sea creatures as well. Sharks, whales, sea lions, etc. were among these unwanted species and rarely made it back to the ocean alive. When all was said and done the boat's Pollack take would average around 25% packed and frozen compared to the tonnage pulled in from the nets. I know this figure because they would post it on a wall in the galley every morning to encourage people to be more careful. Since the boat would bring in over a million dollars worth of the cheapest fish in the world at cost price every ten days or so, you do the math. That's a lot of Seagull food spraying out the back of the boat 24 hours a day. In fact, the cloud of Seagulls that showed up once fishing began literally blocked out the sun. There are millions possibly billions of seagulls living in the Bearing Sea who are sustained year round by the endless supply of fresh food deposited from these types of boats. I'm told that sharks are plentiful as well but aren't visible from the deck of course. It might not be very sustainable but it's the fastest method for filling up the boat and that means more money. The irony of it all is this method of fishing is the reason we were fishing in the Bearing Sea in the first place. That small area of the world is one of the last spots left where fishing like this is even possible because the rest of the world's oceans have already been hit with large nets over and over. I read recently that commercial fishing the way we do it now will only be possible for another 30-50 years.        
          About a month went by working like this and the pain in my back increased a little more each day. It never was slightly better, it never leveled out, just consistently worse than the day before. Working on a boat in the middle of the ocean along with some of the most questionable men the world has to offer is an interesting situation. You can't just quit and go home. I've never been to prison but I don't think I would be entirely misusing the metaphor here. Also there was the rule that they warned you about before getting on the boat: If you quit you don't get paid. Furthermore, when they drop you off in Dutch Harbor you have to pay for your own flight back. I had no money and didn't want to have a life as a homeless beggar in Dutch Harbor, Alaska so I worked through the pain. I overcame it mentally until the breaking point. The last thing I remember is pouring sweat and convulsing while standing at the belt and still trying to reach out and grab fish. I woke up lying down in the same spot after momentarily blacking out to three guys checking my vitals. They helped me up and carried me up to the galley. Captain Andrew (He might have been first mate I can't recall) eventually poked his head out of the wheel house and asked me if I could walk. I had rested a bit by this point and told him I could. He invited me up to the wheel house where he conducted a brief test of my mobility asking me to turn my head right which I couldn't do. He was very friendly and caring and told me a story about when he used to work the nets and got injured. I eventually got up enough courage to ask him about my destiny over the next few days.
          "The good news is you'll get paid just as much as anyone else here this month because it was an injury" he replied, "the bad news is most of the guys here know how it works and know you're getting paid for sitting here while they work out the rest of the week. Because it's a back injury, some will think you are faking it. I would recommend that you stay in your bunk during meal breaks. I'll tell the cook to save you some food so you can eat it later. When we dock I'll give you a fifteen minute head start to the airport." I was scared and reassured all in the same moment and I didn't know how to respond.
          "Would you like a cigarette?" he asked. I accepted and looked out over the endless ocean with Andrew for the next few hours before going down to my bunk. A few days later the boat filled up and once again we returned to Dutch harbor. Once we docked, as promised Andrew gave me a head start. I quickly said my goodbyes to the few I had made friends with. I saw Brian coming down the hall and it occurred to me;
           "Brian that Mormon upbringing stuff was bullshit as well wasn't it?" I called out as I passed him in the hallway. "Yep, see ya later Jon" he said in his typical deadpan voice. I saluted him then quickly marched down the ramp. I turned around to give Andrew up in the wheel house one final wave before limping to the airport at the end of the pier.
          A year later I saw on the news that the boat I was on caught fire and everyone was safely evacuated. A couple years after that Joel sent me an article about Captain Andrew. I was stunned to read that the night before leaving for another five months at sea, Andrew tragically took his own life. Out of everyone on the boat, he seemed to have it the most together. I guess you have to be a certain type of crazy to handle Alaskan fishing as a lifestyle. Glad I got out. Rest in Peace Cap'n, you're in a better place now.     

Jon of All Trades, Master of None.

          I have had more jobs than anyone I've ever met. "Jon of all trades, master of none" my dad would affectionately joke. Before I made my living doing what I love (film making) and working for myself on my own schedule, I was a slave of sorts to whatever my task was at the time.
I was not able to hold down a single job for more than 9 months straight from age 15 to 28, mainly because of my chronic back pain -that not one of my plethora of employers fully understood. "Everybody's back hurts!" was the line I hated hearing the most. Yes, back pain is common but blacking out and collapsing from it is not, and that happened to me a couple of times. Back pain is horrible for two reasons: it covers such a large portion of your body that you can't change positions to avoid aggravating it. Even worse than that, it's impossible to communicate to someone just how bad your back actually hurts. If someone has a cast on their leg all they have to do is point to the cast and the boss will surely not request that they start climbing a ladder. When I would point to my back, sweating bullets nearly out of breath from the searing pain, my employer, whoever they were at the time would just think I was "acting" to emphasize how much I wanted to get out of doing my job. It can be completely humiliating. I still have chronic back pain but it's a lot more manageable now that I'm not beholden to the time clock five days out of the week. Sometimes I would end up quitting because the pain was so intense, sometimes I would get fired because I couldn't concentrate on my task because of the pain. It was always a factor either directly or indirectly. Oh, and if someone ever tells you about their back pain in the way that I just did, please don't ask them "have you tried stretching?". Yes I've "tried stretching" as well as acupuncture, physical therapy, meditation, reiki, I've tried it all. They always ask as if they know of this mystical herb that they were lucky enough to have been bequeathed to by a shaman's called "stretching" and that I should probably get my hands on it soon before the DEA bans it.
          Because everything I did involved hurting my back somehow, I was constantly on the look out for something completely new to do to keep a roof over my head which over several years elongated my resume to look like three wandering lives combined. I've been a roofer, I've worked out at sea, I've made pizzas, delivered pizzas, I've picked up dog poop, built fences, I once drove a RITZ moped handing out crackers for 12 bucks an hour, the list is endless but for this blog entry I'm going to focus on three strange work experiences I've found myself doing over the years. Maybe I'll make "crazy jobs" a recurring column here, we'll see how many I can remember. 
          Among the three different times I was a door to door salesman, one of them was cold-knocking doors (that means no leads, just find someone's door and knock on it) and in this case, trying to sell them a forty pound box of frozen meat. There was some bullshit speech I was supposed to deliver about how I just sold one to their neighbor, and they can have this at cost, and it's the same stuff that gets delivered to all the steak house restaurants, and bla, bla, bla, bla. There were three options; the beef collection, the chicken collection, or the seafood collection. I personally wouldn't recommend any of them. I would get $50 at the end of the day for every box I sold. In my week doing the job I sold one box. This was one of the most miserable jobs I've ever had and I officially made the least amount of money compared to hours put in to anything I was ever hired for. For my training day they threw me in a car with a woman who was obviously heavily addicted to some sort of speed and was craving her next fix badly. She was driving around so aggressively I thought I was going to die. Four hours went by of rude encounters with strangers at their doorstep while I stood helplessly about 20 feet behind her trying to astral project myself onto a beach in Hawaii. To my shock, right near the end of a shift of no sales she sold three boxes to some old lady in a trailer who had no idea what was happening. The guy they had me train (yes, they had me train someone even though I only had one box sold in my entire career thus far as a door to door meat salesman) was a kid who apparently had made it to the final 40 or so in American Idol and had delusions that his moment in the limelight was just a few meat boxes away. Studio time is what he was saving for of course. He was one of the most talkative, annoying people I had ever had the displeasure of driving around with for five hours. The worst part about this kid was all the other meat salesman would treat him like a movie star back at the office, further enforcing his enormous ego and idiotic blathering.
          There was the time I worked for a gardener that I'm pretty sure was an escaped convict (he hid behind a bush whenever he heard a car coming). He was a foul man who was constantly itching his groin and wincing in pain when he did so. I don't want to wonder what STD he had contracted and worse yet, what he contracted it from. Although, contrary to the meat selling singing sensation, listening to his endless stories in the truck going from house to house was my favorite part of the day. He once told me about when he and his buddy were shooting up coke (who does that?) and as soon as he had the syringe in his arm, his buddy yanked it out of him on his way down from collapsing into a fit of convulsions. He continued to explain that his buddy was experiencing "some bad shit", understood that it was causing him to overdose, and had the presence of mind in his last second of consciousness to pull it out of my boss's arm just before he shot it up as well. Having avoided the "bad shit" himself, my boss was able to drive his buddy to the hospital where they revived him moments away from death. These types of stories, and ones including details about the different whores he picked up over the years, were a constant flow from his mouth at yelling volume because the truck ran so loudly.
           The way it worked was he would show up at the Safeway parking lot every morning at 7am and choose among a group of homeless dudes who were the two he would take along that day because he only needed two people a day. I wasn't homeless myself but I was having a particularly awful morning having not slept the whole night before because of stress of not having a job. Did I mention I'm also an insomniac? it goes hand in hand with back pain unfortunately. I was walking by at the just the right moment and was "chosen" as one of the two workers that day. I later understood why he developed this method instead of just hiring two guys because he would basically choose whoever were the least two fucked up at that time. There was always one that would be absolutely smashed at 7am and it was a different one every day. I usually got an easy walk on because I was on time, not fucked up, and most of all I had an old pickup truck and on certain days he needed two trucks. Once I was late, and that was the one thing he absolutely couldn't tolerate so when I showed up to the parking lot at 7:05 he was already gone, I knew I had just missed him because there were three disappointed looking drunk homeless guys still milling around. I was driving back to my apartment and to my great surprise a few turns away from my place, I pulled up right behind him at an intersection. I honked and he saw me and indicated I should follow. We drove back to the Safeway parking lot where "Bear" got out of my boss's car. A rarely sober and serious Bear proceeded to give me the stare that said "I will kill you someday". We then continued to the job site. It didn't take me long to realize that I had just replaced Bear for the day, probably because I had the truck. I worked the remainder of that day, got my hundred bucks cash and never went back.
          Another job worth mentioning among the unique jobs list I've made over the years is when I was a traveling Karaoke machine salesman. I got the job by joining a conference call with a few hundred others from all over the country. The number was placed on a Craigslist ad and said to call it if you can sing, sell, and had your own transportation.
         The instructions were simple: during the holiday season, drive from Costco to Costco up the west coast and sing karaoke to people with the machine (that was provided on location) as they entered the bulk warehouse. There were teams of three and while one was singing the other two would convince people to buy them. We rotated like that all day for 12 bucks an hour plus $30 in commission for every machine sold. For most, it was a tough sell because they were grossly overpriced at $300 a machine. The whole "machine" was a just a mic that you plugged memory cards into and then into your own TV and stereo system. The actual music sucked as well. It wasn't real Karaoke tracks, rather cheap midi files that barely represented the song. Even the lyrics were usually written wrong as I assumed they were poorly translated from somewhere in China. They were made of cheap plastic and throughout my two months of singing into them, three of them stopped working for no apparent reason. Despite the shortcomings in product quality, I sold an average of 10 units a day making me the national top salesman and plenty of commission. I only had one problem. The paycheck came months later (of course it did, what was I expecting a 401k?) and I took the job because I was flat broke.
          I forget what I did for gas money at the time, I must have had some cash but I certainly had no money to stay in hotels as well. The car I had at the time was a little Dodge Neon and after sleeping in it for a week with no shower I was ready to quit even though I was killing it with commissions. When I was in Eugene, Oregon I decided to do something about it. I didn't know anybody in Eugene but I knew there was a university there and I knew where there's a university there are fraternity houses. I figured among the chaos that daily ensues at a typical frat house, who would notice an extra dude crashing on the couch? The plan wasn't perfect but I was desperate and I ended up getting lucky. After talking with a few drunk bros on frat row I discovered that one of the large frat houses was recently decommissioned as a frat because of too many alleged rape cases and was now being rented out room by room to college kids that hadn't all jerked off on a cookie together (it's worth mentioning that the same thing happened to a frat house two blocks from the Safeway where the gardener would recruit from in Seattle, I hate frats).
          I discovered that the new shared housing experiment was currently only about half way rented out. The front door was locked so I climbed in through a window on the second floor by using the fire escape. As much as I hate frats, in this particular case I did appreciate that no one around was going to question a twenty something dude climbing a fire escape after dark into one. Once in, I saw two dudes coming my way down the hall with a bong and I just said "wussup". They replied "sup" and we passed each other without any questions asked. I made my way to the basement where I discovered a stack of foam mattresses. I used one for my bed and the rest of the stack as a partition to hide my bed. I stayed there for a week in comfort and quiet. Foam is also a great insulator of sound as well as makeshift fort material. I even got a fresh shower every morning in the large bathroom down there before serenading people preparing for the apocalypse with Blind Melon at 9am. That was the only time I was ever a squatter in the true sense of the term and although it was comfortable, the experience certainly contributed to the way one must think as a van dweller. The mode of thought that appreciates common comforts that the average person takes for granted.