inFlux '99 | One Last Catch

Jean Millies' eyes scan the vacant horizon off the Newport, Oregon, coast. Gentle swells and a soft pink sunrise soothe her. It's a calm morning. A time for Jean to think. Glancing down at her once-manicured hands, now covered with saltwater and grime, she recalls the decision she made five years ago to trade in her soft dresses for rubber slickers. She thinks of the pride she feels when she drags 100-pound crab pots from the ocean. The long days at sea make her body sore, but it is always "a good tired," an ache of accomplishment. Ira Koker, her partner and co-worker, is already at work on the Orca's back deck. Most fishermen do not want to work beside a woman. With Jean aboard, Ira couldn't find a third crew member. But he stayed with her and taught her the trade. Out on the deck, he prepares the lines for a full day of salmon fishing.
On this September 1996 morning, Jean is still in the wheelhouse. Her fingers won't bend. Her wrists are like rusty hinges. She sits quietly in front of the heater trying to warm her hands and feet to reduce the swelling. Jean looks at her puffy legs and fumbles for her sea-sticky boots. She pries them halfway on, but blisters have started to form on her heels and calluses have hardened her fingertips. For the next two hours, she pulls, pries, worries, and wrenches the boots over her calves. At 43, Jean knows she is too young to be this sore from fishing.

Jean found out she was infected with hepatitis C in March 1993--in the midst of herring and crab season--but it had never affected her like this. If she had indeed contracted the disease from a needle prick at the Portland-area clinic where she once worked, then several years had passed without a reaction. Prior to diagnosis, she had been sick for a month, with the flu-like symptoms of lethargy and aching limbs. If the virus progressed, she knew that irreversible liver damage could eventually kill her. She knew a liver transplant could provide only a temporary second chance in most cases. Yet after seeing her doctor, Jean felt healthy enough to resume fishing with Ira and ignored any internal warning signs.

She hopes the swelling in her legs is just another isolated incident; but the disease seems more threatening on this morning. Today is Jean's last day on the Orca.
Three days after Jean left the Orca, Ira prepares to fish alone. He decides to leave while it is still dark. An early departure means getting to the fishing grounds by sunrise. The hanging fog gives the aging fleet a ghostly appearance. With the turn of a key, the Orca rumbles to life. Engine and oil checked, hold full of ice, and boat untied, Ira kisses Jean goodbye. "Catch lots of fish. I'll call you on the cell phone," Jean says, maintaining her composure.

The night wind blows to the northwest as the ship pulls away from the weathered dock. While the trawler motors into the ocean, Jean fires up Ira's truck and heads toward the Yaquina Bay Bridge. She drives over the structure and stops on a bluff where the end of the bridge meets the edge of the bay. Local fishermen call it "Chicken Point," a hill dominated by a lighthouse where generations have made the decision either to brave the sea or stick to shore. From the point, Jean focuses on the Orca. The back deck light is on. Her eyes well up with tears, blurring the horizon. She gazes at the red and green lights on opposite sides of the boat, designed to help sailors determine the direction of oncoming ships. The red light is Ira's. The green light was hers.

An hour-and-a-half later, Jean starts the truck and drives away from the bluff. Rambling down the hill, she can see Yaquina Bay through the fog. The damp, salty ocean air gnaws slowly at the fleet and canneries. Like a silent disease, it rots new rope and warps wooden docks. Large corporate-funded boats tower above the Orca's creaky clones, most of which are in disrepair--victims of the larger ships that consistently out-fish them. Along the town's front street, art galleries and tourist attractions blossom amid Newport's run-down docks. Romanticized seascapes beam down from murals on cannery walls, a sign of the city's efforts to merge its influx of art money with its fishing traditions. Kiosks advertise the whale-watching cruises that some fishermen now offer to supplement their limited income. The tanned fishermen, who know another winter will soon blow in, feel the urgency of these Indian summer days. Sideways rain and salty winds will soon bludgeon the town and its fleet as an annual reminder of the Pacific's power.

Fishing is a cyclical industry in which catches and market prices ride natural crests and troughs. The commercial fishing boom ignited in the 1970s when the government created low-interest loans to help independent fishermen enter the struggling industry. But as more fishermen went to sea, the ocean was unable to keep up. In order to protect dwindling fish stocks, the government imposed tighter catch quotas that addressed shifts in consumer demand and fish populations. Many fishermen have been forced out of the water. Smaller boats with fewer capabilities were the first and hardest hit. Ginny Goblirisch, a Newport marine extension agent, predicts the industry's economic troubles will pass. She says the industry will simply end up with a smaller, more efficient fleet.
Jean and Ira fear they won't be a part of that fleet. In 1971, the Orca became Ira's $31,500 ticket to the sea. Since then, it has carried him everywhere from Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, to the abundant fishing waters of Ketchikan, Alaska. It has weathered hundreds of storms, three marriages, and put food on the table for three children. Now the 48-foot trawler bleeds rust from its metal joints. Its fuel tanks are leaking. It has caught fire several times. Upkeep is expensive and Ira is deeply in debt. "The way it goes, you just carry on until they either lock you up, tie the boat up, or you go out of your gourd and find something else to do," he grumbles. "It's really too late in life to be facing bad times."

Bad times seem more common each year. In 1991, Jean and Ira spent two days fishing off Cascade Head and caught 3,700 pounds of crab. A good day of crabbing used to bring in 7,000 pounds, but Jean was proud of the catch. As the couple unloaded the ship at a bay front processing plant, they were promised $1.35 per pound. They walked to a local diner and celebrated the catch and good price over a cup of coffee. Five hours later they went to collect their payment. The plant would pay them only $1 per pound, despite the earlier agreement. Angry and demoralized, Ira and Jean refused the price and reloaded their crab. They were forced to dump half of their catch because so many had died during the five hours between unloading and reloading. The couple piloted the boat to the dock and set up signs to sell the rest themselves. That afternoon they sold the remaining stock off their boat for $3.95 per crab, underselling the cannery. After losing the Orca's business and potential customers, the cannery owner twice ripped down Jean and Ira's handmade signs.


		Jean Millies' eyes scan the vacant horizon off the Newport, Oregon, coast. Gentle swells and a soft pink sunrise soothe her. It's a calm morning. A time for Jean to think. Glancing down at her once-manicured hands, now covered with saltwater and grime, she recalls the decision she made five years ago to trade in her soft dresses for rubber slickers. She thinks of the pride she feels when she drags 100-pound crab pots from the ocean. The long days at sea make her body sore, but it is always "a good tired," an ache of accomplishment. Ira Koker, her partner and co-worker, is already at work on the Orca's back deck. Most fishermen do not want to work beside a woman. With Jean aboard, Ira couldn't find a third crew member. But he stayed with her and taught her the trade. Out on the deck, he prepares the lines for a full day of salmon fishing. On this September 1996 morning, Jean is still in the wheelhouse. Her fingers won't bend. Her wrists are like rusty hinges. She sits quietly in front of the heater trying to warm her hands and feet to reduce the swelling. Jean looks at her puffy legs and fumbles for her sea-sticky boots. She pries them halfway on, but blisters have started to form on her heels and calluses have hardened her fingertips. For the next two hours, she pulls, pries, worries, and wrenches the boots over her calves. At 43, Jean knows she is too young to be this sore from fishing. Jean found out she was infected with hepatitis C in March 1993--in the midst of herring and crab season--but it had never affected her like this. If she had indeed contracted the disease from a needle prick at the Portland-area clinic where she once worked, then several years had passed without a reaction. Prior to diagnosis, she had been sick for a month, with the flu-like symptoms of lethargy and aching limbs. If the virus progressed, she knew that irreversible liver damage could eventually kill her. She knew a liver transplant could provide only a temporary second chance in most cases. Yet after seeing her doctor, Jean felt healthy enough to resume fishing with Ira and ignored any internal warning signs.

		She hopes the swelling in her legs is just another isolated incident; but the disease seems more threatening on this morning. Today is Jean's last day on the Orca. Three days after Jean left the Orca, Ira prepares to fish alone. He decides to leave while it is still dark. An early departure means getting to the fishing grounds by sunrise. The hanging fog gives the aging fleet a ghostly appearance. With the turn of a key, the Orca rumbles to life. Engine and oil checked, hold full of ice, and boat untied, Ira kisses Jean goodbye. "Catch lots of fish. I'll call you on the cell phone," Jean says, maintaining her composure. The night wind blows to the northwest as the ship pulls away from the weathered dock. While the trawler motors into the ocean, Jean fires up Ira's truck and heads toward the Yaquina Bay Bridge. She drives over the structure and stops on a bluff where the end of the bridge meets the edge of the bay. Local fishermen call it "Chicken Point," a hill dominated by a lighthouse where generations have made the decision either to brave the sea or stick to shore. From the point, Jean focuses on the Orca. The back deck light is on. Her eyes well up with tears, blurring the horizon. She gazes at the red and green lights on opposite sides of the boat, designed to help sailors determine the direction of oncoming ships. The red light is Ira's. The green light was hers.

		An hour-and-a-half later, Jean starts the truck and drives away from the bluff. Rambling down the hill, she can see Yaquina Bay through the fog. The damp, salty ocean air gnaws slowly at the fleet and canneries. Like a silent disease, it rots new rope and warps wooden docks. Large corporate-funded boats tower above the Orca's creaky clones, most of which are in disrepair--victims of the larger ships that consistently out-fish them. Along the town's front street, art galleries and tourist attractions blossom amid Newport's run-down docks. Romanticized seascapes beam down from murals on cannery walls, a sign of the city's efforts to merge its influx of art money with its fishing traditions. Kiosks advertise the whale-watching cruises that some fishermen now offer to supplement their limited income. The tanned fishermen, who know another winter will soon blow in, feel the urgency of these Indian summer days. Sideways rain and salty winds will soon bludgeon the town and its fleet as an annual reminder of the Pacific's power.
		Fishing is a cyclical industry in which catches and market prices ride natural crests and troughs. The commercial fishing boom ignited in the 1970s when the government created low-interest loans to help independent fishermen enter the struggling industry. But as more fishermen went to sea, the ocean was unable to keep up. In order to protect dwindling fish stocks, the government imposed tighter catch quotas that addressed shifts in consumer demand and fish populations. Many fishermen have been forced out of the water. Smaller boats with fewer capabilities were the first and hardest hit. Ginny Goblirisch, a Newport marine extension agent, predicts the industry's economic troubles will pass. She says the industry will simply end up with a smaller, more efficient fleet. Jean and Ira fear they won't be a part of that fleet. In 1971, the Orca became Ira's $31,500 ticket to the sea. Since then, it has carried him everywhere from Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, to the abundant fishing waters of Ketchikan, Alaska. It has weathered hundreds of storms, three marriages, and put food on the table for three children. Now the 48-foot trawler bleeds rust from its metal joints. Its fuel tanks are leaking. It has caught fire several times. Upkeep is expensive and Ira is deeply in debt. "The way it goes, you just carry on until they either lock you up, tie the boat up, or you go out of your gourd and find something else to do," he grumbles. "It's really too late in life to be facing bad times." Bad times seem more common each year. In 1991, Jean and Ira spent two days fishing off Cascade Head and caught 3,700 pounds of crab. A good day of crabbing used to bring in 7,000 pounds, but Jean was proud of the catch. As the couple unloaded the ship at a bay front processing plant, they were promised $1.35 per pound. They walked to a local diner and celebrated the catch and good price over a cup of coffee. Five hours later they went to collect their payment. The plant would pay them only $1 per pound, despite the earlier agreement. Angry and demoralized, Ira and Jean refused the price and reloaded their crab. They were forced to dump half of their catch because so many had died during the five hours between unloading and reloading. The couple piloted the boat to the dock and set up signs to sell the rest themselves. That afternoon they sold the remaining stock off their boat for $3.95 per crab, underselling the cannery. After losing the Orca's business and potential customers, the cannery owner twice ripped down Jean and Ira's handmade signs.