Work Song #3

Work Song #3

After a few drunken debacles

Of shore leaves they wouldn’t

Let us off the boat

There were no fish and so

No work and

We were moored right there

In Resurrection Bay and at

Night a bunch of us gathered at the rail

And stared in at the lights of Seward

Cursing and full of mutinous

Hatred but then the fish

Started hitting out in

Prince William Sound and we

Raced on down there and

Got to work unloading

The black cod off the

Long liners

You’d get your rain gear

On and rubber boots and down

You’d go into the holds

Of the boats that were packed

Solid with fish

You had to shove your whole

Arm right into the wall

Of fish and slide as many as you could

Down into the net of the brailer

Then the brailer would swing up

And hesitate for a few seconds

Dropping strands of fish

Slime back down on us

And then swing over to our processor

To be dumped and frozen and boxed

You had to lean right into the

Packed pile of fish bodies and

Get a good arm full get

A good deep lung full of fish

Smell and keep on heaving

Them and throwing them

Filling up the nets while

Up above the bosses in

Their red hats peered down

Watching to make sure you were

Working as fast as possible

But you were out of sight part of the time

Down in the depths of the

Holds flinging fish

And every once in a while you’d get to

Sit down right on a pile

Of half frozen black cod

And catch your breath

Kiley and I were working

Side by side hour after endless

Hour unloading one boat

Then another and

Then another so

You got half delirious slap

Happy from exhaustion

And the sickening smell

And the rocking of the boat

Kiley started throwing fish eyes

Up at the red hats or

Who ever was looking down from

The rail or we’d duel

Standing back to back

In the icy water pink

From fish blood walk

Five paces turn

And shoot flinging

Fish that slipped out of

Your rubber glove and spun

Through the air and that’s

When Randy the chief red hat

Started getting on us

Calling down “Kiley, how many

More brailers you got there?”

“Let’s see,”  Kiley said.  He looked

the load over thoughtfully,

holding his gloved hands out

as if to measure “I’d say five

to seven, Champ”

“Five to seven to go?”

“Yup, five to seven, Boss.”

Twenty minutes later Randy’s face

Appeared again over the rail

Of the processing ship and called

Down and again Kiley measured

Thoughtfully, even taking off a glove

And rubbing his chin then called

Up “Five to seven, Killer”

“Five to seven?”

“Five to seven.”

“You said that a while back Kiley”

“It can be tricky to figure, Boss. But yeah

five to seven, I’d say.”

“Ok”

And that’s how it went

Through the June morning each

Time they called down as

Pissed off as they’d get they’d

Get the same answer

“Five to seven, Buddy Boy”

“Five to seven, Handsome”

And then he’d say something to me

Like “unless they want to fucking come

down here and unload it themselves,

right?”

and at some point after

 the day had changed from grey

drizzle to bright sun

and we both just

flopped down on a pile

of fish and stared up at the

sky as a bald eagle

glided by looking down

for fish scraps and Kiley

who was a happy 4^th Avenue Anchorage

bum when he wasn’t working

said “you know something Foster? You’re

going to miss Alaska when you go

back to New York”

We lay there looking up

Watching the eagle come in

And out of view

And I said “Yeah Kiley

I think I will”