Parte Three of That Which was Promised shalt Comme in Threes

Having arrived back at Seth’s in Scottsville, Arizona, and whilst packing for the flight to Anchorage in a couple of hours, I grabbed a quick cuppa and attempted to shake off the aches and pains of the frantic journey back from Las Vegas.  I was sad to leave.  There was so much more to see and yes, it’s as flat as a witch’s tit, as dry as a Jacob’s cream cracker, and hotter than Daenerys Targaryen in – well, let’s face it – anything you care to imagine, but it had charm.

The flight out of Phoenix was uneventful once we managed to board it. You see, someone wanted to swap seats in order that they may sit with their loved one and hold hands, gaze into each other’s eyes and swear that they will never be parted – until something tastier comes along in a few years – and I was asked if I’d move to accommodate them.  It ended up being a total farce which held up the whole flight, and the withering looks Seth and I got as we finally boarded the flight? More tuts than King Tut’s family fucking tree!

I gave it my best it’s not my fault look, as I made my way to my new seat, but I’d have had more luck trying to convince those oddballs that QAnon is a load bollocks, the world isn’t flat and yes, unfortunately, Elvis is definitely dead! Got my first ever upgrade for my pains though, which was appreciated, even though by the time we got up it was time to come back down.  Sometimes it pays to be nice.

As far as air travel is concerned an uneventful flight is always a positive, and eventually we broke through the clouds to be greeted by the now familiar sight of Anchorage Ted Stevens International Airport.  I had a warm comforting feeling of being back in familiar surroundings; of being home (Either that or I’d wet myself). It was good to be back.

A short trip to pick up some equipment from Seth’s main tooth-fixy place in Anchorage preceded a gruelling five and a half hour drive up to Seth’s new tooth-fixy place in Valdez, where we would be dropping off some tooth-fixy equipment.  I don’t mind going to Valdez.  It’s pretty and I get the chance to see glaciers up close.  However, driving through that barren wasteland with Seth always feels like travelling with a man who, whilst not quite on the edge, is definitely rolling towards it; knowing that one day soon, sanity will disappear like a cue ball down a corner pocket.

The truck was a close relation to the one I had used for the trip to Arizona: it was a ‘dually’, but it was louder and in not much better condition.  It wasn’t exactly the most comfortable ride; I can think of better: a chariot, a cattle truck, or maybe the tail gun turret of a Wellington bomber on a bombing run over Bremen, or maybe an 86 year-old prostitute?  Put simply, it wasn’t the best.

Now, when it comes to driving anything with wheels or propeller, Seth has only one setting: Aaaaargh!  He’s kinda like Jeremy Clarkson with a very gruff voice.  The feel of the accelerator pedal sandwiched between his foot and the floor of whatever vehicle he is thrashing to death gives him an erection.  This, in itself, isn’t so worrisome, but one also has to take into consideration a) a lack of sleep and b) a general mistrust in all things mechanical that fall under the jurisdiction of the Jorgensen clan; and c) Seth!  Issues, when they arise, tend to register between the spectacular and the oh fuck, as we shall see later.

So, with the rev counter bending itself out of shape at the top of the dial and the engine a screaming, drunken Gallowglas with hair aflame, we were back on the road and heading for Valdez, my hands tightly clutching the seatbelt across my chest and my arse ring becoming a suction cup on the cracked leather upholstery. Honestly, if we had hit something, I would have dragged that whole seat through the windscreen after me.

The landscape is beautiful, a vast barren expanse hidden under a carpet of snow, rolling away into the distance beneath a pale, grey sky; occasionally, patches of bare earth peek out, and black, rocky outcrops contrast sharply against the neighbouring low hills wrapped in their cold, white blanket; and the beautiful aquamarine-blue of glaciers, the sculptors responsible for this art, holds an almost hypnotising effect. Even though the sky is overcast and dusk is moving in, it only serves to enhance the beauty of this lonely, desolate landscape.

We leave the Glenn Highway at Glenallen and access to the town of Valadez is via the Richardson Highway, that eventually drops down through a steep high-sided fissure. Here the snow is in retreat and the occasional small waterfall cascades from high above; in freefall, water sparkles in the summer sunlight before bouncing off the rockface into bubbling pools below and joining the excited babbling rush to the sea.  The road runs alongside this small river and the steep verdant valley sides close in comfortingly.  We zip down this winding road, chasing the Lowe river for about ten miles, before emerging unscathed onto the flat land at the foot of the valley.

Dear reader, you might remember the name Valdez from the news reports in 1988, regarding the tanker Exxon Valdez that ran aground in Prince William Sound, spewing out millions of gallons of oil?  Valdez is the end of the Trans-Alaskan pipeline and it is from there that the tankers put to sea and crash horrifically onto rocks, whilst drunken Skippers slumber below decks, dreaming of Molly and her huge breasts and the amazing things she could do with handcuffs, a windlass and a Monkey’s Fist. We all watched on our TV sets and mumbled angrily about how the reported failings of those responsible disgusted us before promptly moving on with our lives.  “Poor seagulls!  But where’s the remote, cos Rita and Mavis are having a threesome with Ken, on Coronation Street!”

The incident caused massive damage around Valdez and it’s not until one sees the place that realisation sinks in.  It’s an area of stunning beauty, a jewel.  It sits snug-as-a-bug, surrounded and protected on three sides by high mountains, and the fourth side leads downriver and out to the open waters of Prince William Sound. And there’s bunny rabbits by the multitude!  Lennie would be in his element. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill stewpot rabbits. These looked more like your archetypal pet rabbit: black and white; brown and white; black, brown and white.  Someone must have lost one or two that then got together with other like-minded rabbits and did what rabbits do naturally: fucked like … er … rabbits!

It’s a hell of a drive over to the east side of the Kenai peninsula and the sun sets quickly, so when we eventually arrived it was darker than Lord Vader’s armpits and I was busy praying to every deity I could think of for the truck to both keep going and stay on the road.  There is always the danger of ending up upside down in a ditch with a moose-flavoured truck grille, and as the final strangled gasps of existence leave deflating, punctured lungs, one finds oneself looking directly into the surprised and bemused eye of the unfortunate beast, as aforementioned eyeball slithers slowly earthward down the windscreen, optic nerve dragging behind it like some giant alien sperm.

Luckily, we made it in one piece and the lights of Valdez greeted us with the ignorant indifference that street lighting has mastered over the years.  The office wasn’t too far so it wasn’t long before we were dragging ourselves wearily up the steps to the living quarters.  Lights out and sleep.  The unpacking could wait until the morning.

Sleep is underrated.  There is never enough time given over to sleep.  It’s either that or it seems to come along at the wrong time. Now, waking was difficult and fighting off that exhausted, heavy-limbed lethargy was much like fighting off a heavy cold: the body simply refuses to co-operate because muscles and joints have formed a union and called an all-out strike for better working conditions.  Food and coffee seem to placate the angry workforce momentarily and the promise of a warm, sunny day coaxes the majority of bodily functions, still grumbling, back to the pit face.  This was to be a short visit so after unloading the dental equipment we had brought along the previous night, I mentally prepared for the imminent return drive to Anchorage.

On the journey back we took time to stop at the aforementioned waterfalls to play tourists.  Cameras clicked and poses were held as meltwater tumbled merrily from above.  It really was a glorious day.  Down here the snow was a memory and the narrow valley was alive with living stuff; harsh rock had become carpets of lush green and the bright colours of summer basked in their own brilliance.  Nature most certainly had got out her paint brushes for us.  I imagine Bob Ross would’ve loved it; it’s not difficult to picture him there at his easel, painting trees, mountains and ‘little friends’ with that relaxed ease possessed only by those deemed masters of their craft.

Photos taken, memories secured, it was back on the road.

“… and we’ll paint-in a road coming down our valley, using a mixture a pthalo blue and a little midnight black.  There it goes.  Don’t be too neat, let the brush do the work; and down here, we’ll have a psycho crashing his red truck into our lake because – hey – why not?  And let’s give him a little friend.  Let’s add a terrified passenger because even psychos need friends.”

The Richardson Highway climbed higher and higher gradually exposing the frontline of the battlefield where summer and winter clashed.  The sky became grey and the temperature dropped.  Up here, out of the valley, winter reigned.  John Snow might ride past any moment, leading a bunch of Wildlings to relative safety, away from the danger beyond the wall.

Seth wanted to make it to a food place called the Eureka Roadhouse,  roughly halfway to Anchorage, in order that we could both stuff our faces full of some sort of steak dish he claimed was amazing.  The stop for photos had eaten into our time, however, and although he had the medal to the petal, darkness and closing time got there before us.  He wasn’t best pleased.  Neither did his mood improve when, upon exiting the truck, we noticed the thick spray of black engine oil coating both sides right down to the doors.  Something important in the engine department had had enough of being flogged to death and fucked off to thumb a lift back on its own; as a result, the engine was overheating.  For Seth, not being able to go full throttle is akin to taking a tit away from a hungry two-year old.  Enough said.  A petulant Mr Grumpy let his feelings be known all the way back to Anchorage in the form of either bouts of unbroken silence, or the occasional grunting response to a question.

(Silence …)

“What time will we get there?”

“Humph!”

(Silence…)

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Uh-hu!”

(Silence…)

“Are we there yet?”

… “ugh-hu!”

Ad nauseam.

Time dragged like a dick over sandpaper before eternity decided enough was enough and Anchorage bloomed before us, glowing orange in the dark. Soon we were rattling along eerily-quiet streets, making our way back to the dental practice, where makeshift beds had been made up in the main office. Grab one; lights out!

With the arrival of the new day, Seth went to pick up his friend ‘Little Al’ (who being taller than his father ‘Big Al’, was technically, himself, ‘Big Al’. But seeing as ‘Big Al’ had the advantage in years and was chunkier, the smaller of the two got the copyright on the name.).  I was left to wander the office, drink coffee and do whatever it is that virile males with a laptop and time on their hands tend to do.

‘Little Al’ would definitely be identified as a friend of Seth’s, being generously over-confident, loud to the point of deafening, and sporting a cream-coloured Stetson hat. In looks, he was the antithesis of Seth: tall, slim, clean shaven and ash-blonde hair slicked back.  He liked the ladies, too (However, I was never witness as to whether this was reciprocated) and many an hour was spent in the Salty Dawg down on the Homer spit, beer in hand, ogling the pretty girls that wandered in.

Dan arrived in Homer shortly after and we picked him up at the airport.  it was great to see the big lump’s huge, smiling carcass after a year. With his long grey hair and a beard like grandma’s vagina, he doesn’t fit the stereotype for the medical professional he is.  He resembled more a guy who had been stranded out in the back-of-beyond, drinking moonshine for too many years; a guy used to fighting wolves, bears, reality; the type of guy Native Americans named Weirdo Who Talks With Trees, and learned to stay away from.

Dan was a man with a plan. We weren’t stopping in Seldovia, he explained.  He wanted to take Long Boy round to Valdez, so Seth and his daughter, Sarah, could use it for whatever reason.  It was sat in Seldovia harbour doing nothing so it seemed a reasonable idea, and it was something interesting to do before the fishing season started.  Take the boat down around the coast, take in some scenery, do a few jobs at the tooth-fixy place and then drive back.  Easy. What could go wrong?

Dan and I jumped on the fast ferry to pick up Long Boy, moored in the berth just behind Okoboji, in the marina at Seldovia.

I do love the peace and quiet of Seldovia, a quiet ex-Russian fishing village a few miles south of the Homer Spit.  It’s wild and rugged and almost detached from the outside world.  It’s detachment, however, does have its drawbacks as there is very little to do, but the people are friendly for the most part, and I can’t help but feel at home aboard Okoboji.  But we weren’t stopping and had to get a move on.

Getting the Long Boy from Seldovia went without a hitch and a few hours later we were berthed in Homer harbour, not far from where Time Bandit, of Deadliest Catch fame ties up. (Mentioning this reminds of once seeing a two-man film crew on the walkway along the top of the marina, and being a nosey bugger, I stopped for a nosey.  Lo and behold, who comes wandering nonchalantly along the boardwalk? None other than Robson Green, doing his Extreme Fishing series (I think!).  He’s a great guy, very friendly.  I’d met him before, during a school Christmas bash, when they were filming a Christmas special for some show he was in.  I would’ve liked to invite him out fishing with us on Blue Eyes but our season had just finished.  It could’ve been my breakthrough moment!)

Later that afternoon we drove up to Homer airport and picked up Gene (Dan’s older brother) and ‘Big Al’, who were both down for a few weeks.  I’d fished with Gene a couple of times and he was aboard the day we bagged the monster catch which almost saw us all in the life raft.  He was also on board the time we broke down in a fog bank on the other side of the Cook Inlet.  I might get to write about those episodes sometime.

Having provisioned and refuelled the boat in Homer, said provisions consisting of Tetley teabags, water, milk; and other non-essential foodstuffs such as cans of sweetcorn, cans of chili tomatoes, diet coke, we made ready.  We were to sail south, following the coast, through the Kennedy entrance, north of the Barren Islands, before cutting in through the assortment of small islands and crossing Prince William Sound to Valdez.

We said goodbye to Seth and ‘Little Al’, who went off to do some male bonding stuff (Don’t worry, Little Al had picked up some free condoms from the Salty Dog bar.  I thought it was sachets of brown sauce he’d nicked.  I should’ve known better: as advanced and sophisticated as America claims to be, it doesn’t have brown sauce!) before driving up to Valdez to meet-up with us again.  I said goodbye to the pair of them before they left and ‘Little Al’ was a little confused.  The thing is that things happen and things change.  We – or they – might not make it to Valdez.  There’s always the possibility, so it’s always wise to say goodbyes whilst both parties are on the same side of the living/dead demarcation line.

We cast off and got under way.  Dan, Gene, ‘Big Al’ and myself watched Homer fade into the distance; a thin wisp of, white smoke drifting out across the water from a distant fire reminded me of the old saying: red sky at night, shepherd’s hut’s on fire! 

The sense of excitement built as we slowly made our way out of Homer harbour, the deck of Long Boy thrumming rhythmically beneath our feet as the big Volvo engine below knocked-out a bangin’ bass line.  Almost immediately, however, Doubting Thomas started with his doubting: would the engine keep running?  Would the weather hold?  Would we run aground?  And, most pressing of all, would I end-up fucking killing someone for snoring!  However, it was good to be doing something and going somewhere at last, even though the chances of getting from point ‘A’ to point ’B’ without incident were slimmer than the women on the Special ‘K’ adverts.  Although the sky was overcast and the mountains were sulking beneath chunky, grey cumulus clouds, the forecast was good, with 5ft seas and maybe just a bit of wet stuff.

The excitement that accompanies the start of many a journey soon gave way to the intense feeling of impending monotony that follows the excitement that accompanies the start of many a journey, and I settled into my routine of stowing, checking everything, and watching that no-one inadvertently throws themselves overboard whilst taking a pee over the side.

Both sky and water took on a cold, unfriendly grey tone that although not threatening, promised a more challenging journey ahead. To keep spirits up I donned my chef’s hat and cooked up the usual sweetcorn and tomatoes concoction that had seen us through previous summers’ fishing.  We all tucked in.  It was delicious. But it wasn’t long before a queasy, stomach-turning cramp gripped my innards and began to squeeze and the ominous effects of seasickness made themselves apparent. This was embarrassing.  I rarely do seasick but now, for some bizarre reason, the food decided it did not want to fulfil its prime directive and made a bolt for freedom, propelled most effectively by an oesophagus that seemed equally as pleased to see the back of it. I felt ill.

The thing about seasickness is that it most effectively drains every ounce of energy; it pulls the plug on the pacemaker of life and the sufferer feels the incredible urge for a little lie down and the immediate cessation of life. If one possessed the energy, the cry of, ‘Oh God, let me die now!’ would have been heard back in Homer, some twenty miles away, but now I was reduced to a quivering, sweating, grey lump of bile-dribbling sadness that just wanted to find his mother’s tit and snuggle-in. My shipmates’ show of concern was comforting. They had all succumbed, all suffered; been there, done that, puked-up on the tee-shirt. I curled up and disappeared into a world of self-pitying misery, as Poseidon giggled and the fish chowed down on my new recipe of Warm-Retch Soup.

We chugged along, pitching and yawing, with the sound of the Captain Pugwash theme tune bouncing around in my head. I was beginning to feel a little better and eventually rose from my deathbed, Lazarus-like, to join the living once again. It was getting dark and being close to the shore meant we had to find somewhere to drop anchor.

Not far ahead was a small inlet with the giggle-inducing name of Port Dick.  It would offer protection, and the chart showed it was quite deep even at low tide – which was now – but fortunately we would have just enough on the anchor to find the bottom.  (Please, no jokes about finding the bottom in Port Dick!)

The calm of the inlet was comforting after the precarious bouncing around outside, but it took several soundings before we could find somewhere shallow enough to drop anchor and the light was fading fast. We could afford no deeper than fifty feet.  Of course, the windlass had seized and much grunting, cursing, and WD40 was expended before it was given up as a hopeless cause.  I coiled the anchor line behind me and lowered the anchor and its ten feet of chain (about 100lbs in weight) over the side.  It eventually hit bottom with a little left to spare and Dan backed us up until it bit.  We all relaxed and I put the kettle on for a cuppa.

We decided on a watch rota for the night. I took first watch, Dan second, and I didn’t pay attention to who came afterwards.  As long as I knew who to wake up in three hours, I was happy.  Everyone settled down for the night and armed with my I-pod, I went out onto the stern.

The night was crisp and I was wrapped up as much as possible.  The cold didn’t detract from my appreciation of the natural beauty of the inlet.  I had Muse’s three-part Exogenesis Symphony (Click on the link) on the music player thingy, and gazing around in awe, I wondered how the hell I ended up here?  I wasn’t bothered about sleep; besides, I had a friend join me: a blue whale was circling the boat, feeding.  I watched, mouth-agape, as it surfaced and blew and dived over and over again before the dark finally overcame the day, turning mountains to silhouettes and somehow amplifying the crashing of waves against the tall, black foreboding rock faces some two-hundred feet off our starboard side.

I had two jobs: watch the depth and stay awake.  As the tide came in and the depth increased, so did the danger of the anchor breaking free and Long Boy smashing into the rocks before anyone realised. Both tasks were performed with due diligence for the three hours of my watch and cold and exhausted I went below to wake up Dan for his turn.  This proved – let’s say – a little difficult. He was gone to the world, as were the other two; all of them snoring a tuneless serenade in B-fart minor, a cacophony to wake the dead.

After several attempts, I simply gave up.  Besides, I wasn’t particularly tired and I was enjoying the quiet time.  Being honest, I wasn’t totally confident that the others would stay awake and to fall asleep here could end with a brief handshake and chat with Davy Jones, and bloated dead bodies (One of them a tea-flavoured Englishman), washing up on local beaches!  I decided, therefore, to keep watch for the whole of the night.

It was around three in the morning on one of my regular visits to the radar that I saw our position had changed.  The tide had swung the boat around and the anchor had broken free from the sea bed.  We were drifting.  There was no gentle nudging to wake Dan this time, just urgent shouting.  Give him his dues, when it comes to an emergency he’s up and running, and the two of us got on the case.

The little elf that lives inside and supposedly maintained the windlass had fashioned itself a life jacket out of a fishing cork, and using a wooden spoon, had paddled ashore in a tupperware box sometime during the night, deciding absence was the better part of valour (Like the other two below deck).  The anchor had to come up by hand and we were drifting closer to the rocks.  Dan went to start the engine and wake Gene and ‘Big Al’, but not willing to rely upon their prompt arrival, I decided a good early morning workout was called for and with feet braced either side of the bow, I began to haul up the anchor, hand-over-hand; yard-by-yard up it came.  My back was burning and I was sweating inside my layers of clothing but I was enjoying the battle, determined that I and I alone would heroically drag that useless lump of metal back to the surface.

Dan by this time had made his way back to the bow with the news he had been unable to wake the others.

“I’ve done it. It’s up.” I told him with more than just a hint of warrior-like, testosterone-fuelled, glib, smug, self-satisfaction.

He helped me make fast the anchor and we got back to the cabin; and even as the engine fired up, the other two slept, oblivious to the goings on above them.

The first and second anchorages

We pootled around the inlet for good while, checking the depth and looking for fifty feet of water.  We found it quite close-in to the rocks and after manoeuvring us into position, Dan gave me the okay and I sent the anchor back on its merry way to the sea bed, watching the line flying out over the bow and hoping the anchor found the bottom.  We were in luck. Once again Dan reversed until the anchor bit and after a few tense minutes watching our unchanging position on the GPS, we relaxed.

Dan offered to take watch but I told him I was up and dressed anyway and he would be driving the boat through the narrow channels between the many small islands tomorrow.  With a polite show of gratitude, he made his way back to his bunk to re-join the Catatonic Orchestra and I, stretching and yawning, made myself a cup of tea.

By this time, daylight had turned the tide of battle and had night on the run, nipping at its heels as it scampered away over the horizon.  The sky began to lighten and the stars said good-day.  I looked back on my night spent in the company of a feeding whale, and in my beautiful surroundings – one half of which was now obscured by the high and rather angry-looking cliff face we had anchored near to, a face that had Give me half a chance and I’ll fuck you over and drown you written all over it.

Around 6am, there was mumbling and muttering from below as the members of the Useless Gang stirred themselves and prepared to saddle-up once again.  I was tired, that kind of bone-weary tired that comes after tired has been, had a good long chat, drank all yer tea, and gone home to bed.  I got to grips with the anchor again and ‘Big Al’ came forward to lend a hand.  Together we hauled it back to the surface.  I was grateful for the help as I was spent.  It had been a long and eventful night.

Dan and I described all the night-time excitement they had missed as we fired up the engine and made our way out of Port Dick and around the coast.  It raised an eyebrow but that was about it.  Life-and-death struggles and backache don’t seem to do more than raise eyebrows any more.

The plan was to nip north of Ragged Island and head north east, before cutting between the islands of Elrington and Latouche and in doing so, knock a few hours off our trip.  There was room to manoeuvre but we still had to be careful: not only was there the danger of hitting the rather nasty rocks that jutted out along the narrow waterways, but also striking one of the many rather large chunks of tree that lurked here, watching … waiting…. stalking!

Water-logged logs in water are not always easy to spot as they tend to be just under the surface; some float end-up and can easily pierce a fibreglass hull as they bob up and down like a huge inverted game of Whack-A-Mole, but the risk was considered worthwhile and a course plotted. Now they were awake, Dan had some help, and the guys could look after themselves or drown. I was going to take a fuck-off big bite out of a big red enchanted apple and sleep for a hundred years – and it’d take more than the kiss of a handsome prince to wake me up.

Sometimes, dear reader, we get the overwhelming urge to commit an atrocious act of violence against our fellow man, a senseless act of horrifying depravity; it’s an urge that, although we try to control it, muzzle it, bury it deep, it eats away with that hackle-raising, snarling, fuming rage that has seen so many decent men succumb to its allure, and end up doing life at Her Majesty’s displeasure.  It’s the kind of rage that when sentence is passed, sees the perpetrator screaming Caliban-like at the judge, “It was fucking worth it!  I’d do it again!”

About ten minutes after crawling up onto a bunk and closing my eyes at long last, I was ready to kill.  The pitching and yawing are magnified up in the bow and with every wave I would bounce down the bunk, sometimes leaving its surface altogether before plonking back uncomfortably and in a totally different position.  Imagine dice in one of those bell jars that casinos have.  One moment they’re sat there wondering why everyone is looking at them and then suddenly they are twanged into the air, unceremoniously bouncing off the inside of the glass, over and over again, arse-over-tit, before coming to a dazed and confused stumbling halt. Couple this with a never-ending loud, thumping, sloshing sound of fibreglass bow meeting wave and you have a recipe for an early-morning breakfast slaughter.  Cereal killing!

This in itself was enough, but the worst thing was the incessant noise from the three amigos not more than six feet away.  The three of them together were having a great time, laughing and joking and shouting rather loudly over the noise of the engine, totally oblivious to the fact that I had been up all night so they could sleep.  The boat is designed in such a way that anyone stood in the cabin, facing the bow, will be speaking directly through the opening to the small sleeping quarters. There was no way I could sleep with that racket and it got to the point where I was going to drown all three of them and claim they had been eaten by an albatross, or something.

Bleary-eyed, I stuck my head up and almost begging told them please shut the fuck up!  Mumbled, heartfelt apologies from three naughty school kids, heads down and looking rather embarrassed is the closest I can come to the scene in the cabin, and in order that they may continue their unabated joviality, a blanket was rigged over the entrance to the sleeping quarters, which, although not blocking out the sound completely, muffled it somewhat to the point where I could attempt to pin myself down, close my eyes and drift off  … It lasted about ten minutes before the blanket fell away and they either didn’t notice, or couldn’t be arsed fixing it.

I was imagining what life would be like.  I mean life as in life: multiple counts of first-degree murder, malice definitely aforethought; dismembered bodies and a blood-smeared deck, when I felt and heard an enormous Clunk! Thunk! Thunk! from beneath.

After the initial, “What the fuck was that?” and having got both eyes open and pointing in the same direction, I was awake and off the bunk, struggling into my boots.  We had collided with something big.  All thoughts of tiredness disappeared and I was up, a sense of urgency overtaking lethargy.  I threw open covers, first to the engine room and then the lazarette, and checked the bilges, expecting to see bubbling, churning grey water gushing in from a rent in the hull.  They were dry; I shouted to Dan to inform him that we were okay. We weren’t in immediate danger but something was wrong.  The boat was vibrating like crazy.  He throttled back and we began to bob like a cork.

“We hit a log!” Dan shouted. “We’ve bent the prop!”

There then followed several minutes of general conversation on exactly what that meant, the  effects on our voyage, and what could have happened if the log had been a “deadhead”, or what Dan referred to as a ”Thumper”, where the log doesn’t play by the rules, ie, floating like logs should float in the time-honoured manner laid down in the book: A Log’s Guide on How to Float in a Gentlemanly Manner.  No, this Gringo hangs on-end, bobbing maliciously, peering upward, waiting to pounce.  A blow from such a beast would crack the hull like an egg.

There was no way of making it to Valdez in our condition so we opted to nip into Seward and get the boat out of the water.  Repairs could then be carried out and we could be on our way again by next day.  Said repairs required Seth and ‘Little Al’ meeting us in Seward where we would remove the prop for them to take back to Anchorage and have straightened.  They could then drive back before nightfall and we could refit the propeller and be back on our way.  Sounds simple but Seward was about five hours away at our drastically reduced speed.

Dan had to throttle back or suffer more damage.  In the narrow channels between rocky outcrops the sea was deep and churned viciously.  Without forward motion we would lose the flow of water over the rudder and so lose steering. Tension rose.  There wasn’t much clearance. We were in rather serious trouble.  So, dear reader, our choices were to shake the boat to pieces or crash onto the rocks. Once again Dan showed skill and dexterity one wouldn’t think him capable of for his size, balancing the throttle, affording just enough revs to keep water flowing over the rudder, thus giving us steering.

We donned life vests and he got on the radio to the coastguard advising them of our situation.  The coastguard covering the area was an example of calm, confident professionalism, gathering information on our position, our number, our speed and our level of danger.  Dan convinced him that we were making about two knots and so didn’t need a tow; but due to the unforgiving nature of our environment the coastguard arranged to check in every thirty minutes.  We all felt much better after that conversation, secure in the knowledge that someone was watching over us; and sure enough, as the minutes first ticked … then dragged … and then crawled like a dying man in the desert, almost to the second, the call came through to check we weren’t fish food.  This happened every half hour with the same accuracy, almost to the second.  Those guys know their stuff and I salute them!

The journey was slow and we had a long way to go.  I broke out the charts and along with ‘Big Al’, pondered and plotted the best course to Valdez.  Keeping Knight Island, Eleanor and the beautifully named Naked Island off our port, we eventually broke free and headed out across the open waters of Prince William Sound, with the Coast Guard – true to its word – checking on us every thirty minutes until with the sky darkening and evening settling in, we limped into Seward harbour and tied up.  I was shattered.

Seward is quite a busy place considering it’s more than a little out of the way.  It’s not big in the grand scheme of things, the Seward highway, heading out towards Anchorage, being the only major road, but its small streets are lively and it has a handful of bars that serve pretty good food, so after negotiating with one of the boat repair yards to have Long Boy pulled from the water next morning, we four wandered downtown to find something to eat.

We settled on a bar a few streets down town.  I can’t remember what it was called but it was your average run-of-the-mill Alaskan bar, nothing fancy: music, beer, pool table – but it was warm, the food was good and we were off that fucking boat!  Still, that weird sensation of bobbing up and down in time with the rise and fall of the deck – even though now on dry land – is rather disconcerting, and even though it’s a trick of the mind, it’s difficult not to believe one is looking a complete idiot, twanging along uncontrollably on legs made of springs.

It was black and quiet outside when we made our way back to the boat and turned in for the night. I went out like a light.

The commotion the next day was as one would expect when trying to haul a boat out of the water.  There was lots of cursing and swearing and shouting of instructions as Long Boy was lifted and then placed onto blocks.  The damage was immediately apparent. All three of the blades were bent, twisted completely out of shape, but that seemed to be the extent to which we had suffered.  The hull was intact and so were we.

Seth and “Little Dan” turned up around lunch time and by then the prop had been removed.  A repair guy in Anchorage had a spare he would lend us so we could continue our journey so that saved a whole heap of time.  (This would mean Long Boy being hauled out of the water again at a later date, but I wasn’t arsed.  I wouldn’t be around for that one.)  There was nothing left to do but kick-back, explore a bit of Seward, and grab a spot of breakfast.

Unfortunately – no dithrethpec (practithing my gangthta lithp) to Seward – but there’s not exactly a whole lot going on.  I mean, there’s a quayside market to cater for the cruise ships that stop off here, and there’s a small park, and a big wooden carving of a Native American.  Apart from that, there’s boat yards, workshops and bars.  I was just happy that whilst that lot were off doing whatever (and whatever they were doing I didn’t care), I had a bit of peace and quiet.

The new prop turned up later that day and although there was some difference in design and blade pitch, it went on okay and Long Boy was back in the water.  It had cost Dan a large sum of money to haul the boat, replace the prop and get it back in the water, but there was no other choice.  Boats will suck your bank dry because there’s no alternative – other than to sink them and collect on the insurance.  (I wasn’t even sure if he had insurance; if he did have, he never mentioned it- and if he didn’t have, he never mentioned that either.)

Once again, we said our goodbyes to Seth and “Little Al” who were going to drive up to Valdez, and we cast off.  The skies were slightly overcast but it wasn’t raining and Seward grew steadily smaller as we headed back out to open water.

The rest of the journey went without a hitch.  We zipped along, heading north, with Knight Island off our port side and the larger Montague Island off to starboard; all of us taking turns at the wheel, all of us in awe at the beautiful scenery stretched out before us.  It became quite choppy as we left the shelter of the islands, but there was no more talking-to-the-man-on-the-big-white-telephone; no more praying-to-the-great-white-porcelain-god.  All was back to whatever passed as ‘normal’ when out with the Jorgensens.

The beautiful panoramic view of the snow-capped Chugach mountain range is really something to behold: breathtakingly simple and breathtakingly beautiful.  As we drew steadily closer, guided by the boat’s satnav (No relation to Satnav of the F’kahwe tribe from previous exploits; if it had been, God alone knows where we would have ended up. Probably Russia!), the Valdez Arm, the inlet leading to Valdez hove into view.  We had made it!

Evening was beginning to tap her fingers in frustration as we made our way up the Valdez Arm and into Port Valdez.  Thankfully, there was no issue finding a berth large enough for Long Boy, and so after tying-off, we grabbed everything we could carry and without ceremony, headed up to Seth’s dental practice where a good night’s sleep in a decent-ish bed awaited.

I look back and remember thinking: All this and the fishing season hasn’t even started!  And of how what should have been a happy little jaunt around the coast, with the singing of sea shanties and the camaraderie flowing like liquid bon homme, had turned into yet another classic adventure of epic proportions.   If it were to have ended in disaster, it would have eventually become a movie, a tragedy in which man pits himself against a cruel and uncaring nature … and loses.  I can’t be arsed thinking of who would play the parts of Dan, Gene and ‘Big Al’, but me?  I would have to be played by the late, great Charlton Heston, handsome, strong, righteous, dignified – illusions of grandeur I know, but, please, dear reader, let me have my moment.

Footnote. It’s 3.45am and I sit here in bed, in my apartment, in Kuwait (Don’t ask!), in the midst of the Covid-19 outbreak (a real life-and-death struggle for so many), drawing Part 3 to a close.  Our world is turning to shit and I think back to how different things were then, and of how life has now changed irreparably for so many of us.  I think of how I miss Alaska and the wonderful people I am lucky to have spent time with.  I hope they are all safe and dear reader, I hope you stay safe, too.