By Seán Malone and John Sweetman
Seán and I have had many adventures on boats over the decades. Some involved fishing and crabbing, but most involved “outboard” motors which were always cranky and infused with “trouble.” Trouble starting, running, and just plain ordinary reluctance to do what they were supposed to do.
Seán and I had different theories as to what could mitigate these issues. His theory was to involve the inanimate beasts in a war of creative words of a nature, let us say, not suitable for a wholesome family environment. My approach was to find tools.
One time, we planned a trip to Blake Island on his boat, “Odeon,” a 1960s vintage 25-foot Coronado. We prepped well with ice, juice, water, beer, and Cheetos, as well as various grill items, but planned on fishing and crabbing to add to the larder – plenty of gas for the old Johnson 5HP.
We made our desultory way out of Quartermaster and set our crab pots, picking them up some hours later, with sufficient keepers placed in a five-gallon bucket. It was June and light all day, so we slowly made our way around Point Dalco just as the tide turned. At about that point, our small tank of gas, about two gallons, appeared to run out, so no worries as we had a full five-gallon tank in reserve.
Seán tried changing the tank over, and soon arose a “great noise,” as the little hose connector somehow lost a spring and the little ball that sealed it to the motor. The “great noise” was Seán displaying a clever (and even unique) assortment of muffled curses only slightly diminished by the fact that he was upside down in the aft engine well.
Since we were in the midst of a series of minor whirlpools and slightly adverse winds, I went forward to clip on the jib … just “in case,” but merely 25 feet away from the source of creative cussing was not enough, even though I had taken a bag of Cheetos with me. Later, I made an effort to apologize for the orange stains on the slightly mildewed jib.
After a suitable interval, I suggested we just add the fuel from the five-gallon tank to the working two-gallon tank, although I think by then rationality had re-appeared and our solution thinking converged. This concept was harder to accomplish than it might seem.
As space was limited and the funnel was somehow misplaced, we made do with a paper filter, but the coffee tasted funny the next day.
Eventually, we made our way to Blake and enjoyed our crab, although there were certain problems with the rigging and sail raising, but that’s another story which did not involve cursing, except on my part because the boom fell on my head.
At Blake, our mutual cursing was extended to the raccoons who crept on board and ate a loaf of bread. Since everything worked out, I have faith that vigorous and sincere cursing is just as effective as having a 10 mm socket and an extra fuel fitting on hand.
Seán elucidates with an even earlier story:
I was four years old, and Dad had a cranky old 10-horse Johnson that only started when it wanted to. Dad rented a kicker boat in Elliot Bay at the mouth of the Duwamish River. I wore my life jacket, and Dad tied me to the gunwale, as he did my fishing pole, in case I caught a 40- pound King salmon.
Dad had a string of epithets that would embarrass a dying pope. The starting rope was not retractable and was wrapped around the flywheel. His cussing did not help to start the engine as we drifted across the mouth of the river. I ducked as Dad pulled the rope, and the knot in the end of the starting rope hissed as it passed overhead for the last time. We rowed home disappointed.
Shortly after that, we moved to Vashon, where Dad and Mom had purchased five acres a half mile south of the Cove Store. We would hike to Cove to fish for pogy’s between the planks of the float at the dock. The pogy is a kind of perch, flat in body.
“Fish on!” I yelled, as we could see 20 or 30 fish circling our baited hooks. By deftly turning the fish sideways, I pulled it up through a crack in the planks. Dinner was on its way, though we didn’t like their extra bony bodies, more difficult to eat than Cutthroat trout.
We had a creek on our property that emptied into Colvos Passage. It was only a half-foot deep at the mouth, but small Cutthroat would swim up the creek, looking for food. We used fish eggs or worms for bait and fished until we had enough for a family of five.
Dad rented a boat at Lisabeula Beach. It rode on a steel cart on railroad ties, guaranteeing that we wouldn’t get wet loading up. We fished the incoming tide line for the wily Silver salmon, the hardest-fighting fish in Puget Sound. We motored through the drift until one jumped, our signal to lower our lines.
Dad carefully baited our hooks with a small herring, shaping the bait to dart and swing from one side to the other, mimicking a wounded fish. “Fish on!” I yelled, and a giant Silver jumped three feet out of the water, trying to disengage my hook. I fought him for ten minutes before bringing the eight-pound Silver to the side of the boat where he swam into Dad’s net.
If we saw a sea lion, fishing was over as he scared the fish away while looking for his dinner.
