The thought catches me off guard as I bag my freshly mended net to put away for next season. These may be my favorite colors, but bagging nets is definitively my least favorite job. Yet somehow it has been assigned to me, all dozen or so of them. Hanging, mending, bagging, whatever the need, nets have been deemed my responsibility in this partnership. Bagging nets is tedious, awkward, and boring, with no ideal way to do it. A job made only slightly less agonizing this time with the help and company of my 14 year old son and absolute favorite partner, but essentially alone with my thoughts. I find myself startled by this musing, the irony of this reflection. 

This idea that “home” exists somehow within this web of nylon. A feeling of belonging, contentment, and happiness attributed to this pile of lines and twine. Safety and security residing within this net that we have made a life of working on, in, and with. It is a notion--or perhaps an identity--I have been struggling with for some time. One that I find welcoming in its opposition, to what I felt mere weeks ago in preseason April and May. Sheepishly, I admit openly to myself and others that I began this season with a poor outlook. A sense of dread and apprehension. No feelings of comfort or home on the horizon. I felt disheartened, but for reasons I couldn’t quite pin down. In truth, there were too many. Our old crew members had found other avenues and interests to pursue, and I found myself with little motivation to search for new ones. Talk on the docks was of poor prices and small runs, feeding into the doubt and anxiety over the season to come. Frustration and discord flourished amongst the fleet, leading to finger pointing and blame. Supporting organizations took the heat for the burgeoning worries of a fleet trying to muster up a living in these ever-warming and changing oceans. It was all I could do to set aside my uncertainty and keep packing. To table the risks, the hurdles, my self doubts, and scrounge up a new crew. I had to muster an enthusiasm I lacked, pep talk my new teammates, and drag my family, new crew, and our fleet of skiffs out of safe harbor and across the sound to the unknown. 

I wrestled intensely this spring with my sanity, my self-worth, my life decisions. I questioned what I was thinking for pursuing this course in life. Why hadn’t I gone on to law school? What do I have to show for my aging self? Am I going to be physically able to continue this into some sort of retirement, and for how long? And, what on earth was I thinking dragging my kids into this imprudent pursuit? This bit of livelihood that has severely limited my off-season career options for the past 15 years. Six to eight weeks that shape the rest of my year for better or perhaps often for worse. What kind of human am I? What is my contribution to this crazy world we live in? And, what kind of mom am I for forcing my kids into this lifestyle and stealing their “normal” childhood? 

Then we arrived. Safely. I released the breath I had been holding for so long and inhaled the fresh salt air, the musty damp cabin. Fish or no fish, we had begun. I quickly forgot all the worries, all the anxieties, all the doubts. I forgot to think about potential tsunami’s, health emergencies, injuries, breakdowns, and all the pre-season overwhelm. Soaking up the routine, in the presence of history, (both familial and not) almost immediately brings me a certain level of calm. Add to that the sun on my face, the rain on the roof, the lap of the tide on the beach, the stillness of our cove, a quiet coffee taking in the sunrise, watching the waves with my dog and the total peace of a late evening alone on the net and I am fully at peace. I soak it all in, and it fully permeates my soul. It is all worth it. Every day, every time, every year. How easily I tend to forget in the daunting spring preparations. Here I get to watch my six year old daughter as she spends hour upon hour turning over rocks looking for critters on the beach. The same sweet girl, made of pure sunshine and joy, swimming for hours in the frigid ocean, kicking her way to pure bliss. The muscled shoulders of my 14 year old baby boy rapidly and tragically becoming a young man before my very eyes. And one more year or so of silliness flashing before me as my 12 year old transitions from carefree child in the woods to reliable deckhand beelining rapidly toward adulthood. 

Time truly is a thief, and here for a moment it seems to stand still while simultaneously passing in a blink. This season is already worth it. Already worth every moment of stress, every second thought, every long minute crossing the sound, every doubt, every anxious projection. Already worth dealing with greenhorns, patching together help, making space in our tiny living space for other people. People I barely knew, people that don’t get it, but might come to truly understand and value, given enough time. And then the fish came. We were given a decent stretch of time in which to fish, thanks to Fish & Game. Not enough to exhaust us, nothing like the early days with 12 hours off twice a week, true brutality in fishing form (though I would take it back in a second). But thankfully a reasonable amount of time to have nets in the water. A sensible amount of time between the anticipatory stress of setting nets and the intense physicality of picking them back up. That helps our total catch a lot. The fish kept coming, we kept picking, and the processors paid decently for our catch. Better prices than we expected, better than anyone anticipated in the doomsday pre-season predictions, enough to satisfy. We still find ourselves wondering why everything else in this world has gone so drastically up in price, yet we are not getting paid any more today than we did 15-20 years ago? And yet we are satisfied. It was possibly a record run, which was a huge boost to morale. In all honesty, it really doesn’t take much. 

The mental turmoil of preseason is obliterated for now. This is what we do, and we are assured that it remains worth it. The ocean is our office, the forest and the tideline is our playground. Family, history, tradition, work ethic, it all resides here. The physical and tangible element of setting nets and picking fish is sublimely satisfying. The kids grow and learn and experience in a way that few get the opportunity. Our hearts and our wallets are filled for the moment, we are satiated and content. We are home. This year our doubts have been eradicated. We are not fools to do this, we would be fools NOT to take this opportunity and everything it entails, for ourselves and for our children. In spite of its limitations and the constraints it places on the rest of our year, it remains a treasure. Both in experience and in income. There have been many challenging years with empty nets and empty wallets, and we fill those gaps with whatever it takes to survive. But this summer, with battered bodies and aching hands, we return home triumphant. It is time well spent. We sort through our torn and tattered gear, mending and repairing, upgrading and rehanging, reveling in the beauty of the deep greens and blues while we ready our nets for next season. Always hoping for the best, yet planning for the worst. Strategizing for what is to come, good and bad. What improvements are overdue, where do we invest in our business, and where we just accept what we have. We hedge our bets--as gamblers do--and stash away all we can, both mentally and physically. Renewed and reinvigorated, we try our best to bank our enthusiasm for the doubts that will inevitably grow over the long winter and infiltrate next spring. For now though, at this moment, as the bag fills with web and lines, our hearts are full as well. Grateful, satisfied, and home. Right where we belong.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Lynnette Wright

Lynnette Wright is a third generation commercial fisherman, aspiring writer, and full-time mom. She began commercial fishing in 2003 and became a set-gillnet permit holder in the fall of 2010. Along with her husband and growing children, (and other family/crew helpers) she and her family fish a total of three set-gillnet permits in the Eshamy district in Prince William Sound. Two of those sites have been in her family since the 1960’s and the cabin and property from which fish-camp is operated is privately owned by her maternal grandmother and her children, making it a true family heirloom.

Lynnette treasures the strong undercurrent of family that underlies her entire fishing experience. That bridge between past, present and future makes it incredibly special. In addition to that, deep family connection, the excitement of fish in the net, the peace of a quiet moment alone on the vast ocean, sunshine on the beach on a day off, and the freedom and simplicity of life at fish camp is what keeps the whole family coming back, even more than the fish themselves.