had consumed. He applied to register and license Time Bandit and signed up with a crabbing co-op and for our Individual Fishing Quotas (IFQs) with the State of Alaska. The bureaucratic requirements seem endless and often bewildering. And while the reasoning behind the paperwork seems sound to me—to bring order out of chaos—it also seems excessive to fishermen and boat captains. My brother is not an accountant. Five or ten years ago we sent money to the state for a plastic king crab permit card. We jumped on a boat and went fishing. Now Andy has to contact our attorney, our accountant, and our co-op manager and make sure they have our paperwork, and only then do we go fishing.
F inally, we reloaded the deck. We hoisted onboard bin boards, which prevent the crab from being crushed in the holds, and crab pots, spare buoys, lines, baradai hoods, cod triggers, extra shots of line, door rubbers for the pots, hooks, hoppers, sorting tables, new crane lines, and rigging.
Bering Sea crabbers conceivably could do away with every other item of fishing equipment except for the pots and, of course, the boat. The pots weigh around 780 pounds and though they range in size, ours measure 7’ x 8’ x 32”. Their frames are made of solid steel tubing covered with tough nylon webbing. Last year Time Bandit carried 137 pots on her deck. We moved them over to the Bandit on trailers from the cannery dock on the Spit and used our own crane to stack them. Then we rigged them. And finally, we repainted our numbers on the pot buoys and tagged each with the Alaska Fish & Game license authority.
Preparation, like what we do for Bandit, does not come cheap. A rebuilt main engine costs $60,000, and the Bandit has two. Swapping out the motor costs $110,000. A normal paint job costs $100,000, with the sand blasting at $40,000 and paint at $60,000. New fire extinguishers cost $350 each and $100 to service, and a ten-man raft costs $2,000 to repack, times two. New pots cost $750, and with line the cost rises to $1,000, plus shipping, which is another $200. Red king crab and opilio bait costs $50,000. Diesel fuel costs $2.60/gallon and the tanks hold 20,000 gallons—or $52,000 for fuel that lasts a month. We pay $10,000 for groceries. Travel and lodging comes off the top. Boat and crew insurance costs $45,000 a year, and before we started pooling with our co-op it was $90,000.
In short, Time Bandit needs to gross $1 million before my brothers and I start to make money. My salary is roughly $4,000/month plus a crew share that averages $100,000-plus as a boat share if any money is left over. Outsiders think we are rolling in cash. But we ask ourselves, “You know how a crab fisherman makes a million bucks? He starts with two million.”
L ast, before leaving our base in Homer, we hire our crew. I do not take this process as seriously as I might, and Andy has to clean up my mistakes. That has earned him the nickname Axe Man. A crew properly chosen can make a fishing season. And we invest too much time, effort, and money in the season ahead to let deckhands determine our fate. We choose the best we can get. Unfortunately, the best at sea are not always the best on land. The crew who work best on deck are animals who should be dropped off at the sea buoys on the way to port; we could pick them up on the way out. They are only trouble on land and end up in fights and in jail. I want the animals. But I do not want to take care of them.
Not long ago, Bering Sea crewmen were a motley lot of lowlifes mixed with a few of the best guys in the world. The work appealed to drifters and misfits and men running from the law, wives, alimony and child support payments, debt, addictions, and themselves. They looked for work on crab boats for fast money. They sought a quick way to get ahead so that they could start their ruined lives anew. They had nothing whatsoever to lose. They fought with their fists and complained and
F inally, we reloaded the deck. We hoisted onboard bin boards, which prevent the crab from being crushed in the holds, and crab pots, spare buoys, lines, baradai hoods, cod triggers, extra shots of line, door rubbers for the pots, hooks, hoppers, sorting tables, new crane lines, and rigging.
Bering Sea crabbers conceivably could do away with every other item of fishing equipment except for the pots and, of course, the boat. The pots weigh around 780 pounds and though they range in size, ours measure 7’ x 8’ x 32”. Their frames are made of solid steel tubing covered with tough nylon webbing. Last year Time Bandit carried 137 pots on her deck. We moved them over to the Bandit on trailers from the cannery dock on the Spit and used our own crane to stack them. Then we rigged them. And finally, we repainted our numbers on the pot buoys and tagged each with the Alaska Fish & Game license authority.
Preparation, like what we do for Bandit, does not come cheap. A rebuilt main engine costs $60,000, and the Bandit has two. Swapping out the motor costs $110,000. A normal paint job costs $100,000, with the sand blasting at $40,000 and paint at $60,000. New fire extinguishers cost $350 each and $100 to service, and a ten-man raft costs $2,000 to repack, times two. New pots cost $750, and with line the cost rises to $1,000, plus shipping, which is another $200. Red king crab and opilio bait costs $50,000. Diesel fuel costs $2.60/gallon and the tanks hold 20,000 gallons—or $52,000 for fuel that lasts a month. We pay $10,000 for groceries. Travel and lodging comes off the top. Boat and crew insurance costs $45,000 a year, and before we started pooling with our co-op it was $90,000.
In short, Time Bandit needs to gross $1 million before my brothers and I start to make money. My salary is roughly $4,000/month plus a crew share that averages $100,000-plus as a boat share if any money is left over. Outsiders think we are rolling in cash. But we ask ourselves, “You know how a crab fisherman makes a million bucks? He starts with two million.”
L ast, before leaving our base in Homer, we hire our crew. I do not take this process as seriously as I might, and Andy has to clean up my mistakes. That has earned him the nickname Axe Man. A crew properly chosen can make a fishing season. And we invest too much time, effort, and money in the season ahead to let deckhands determine our fate. We choose the best we can get. Unfortunately, the best at sea are not always the best on land. The crew who work best on deck are animals who should be dropped off at the sea buoys on the way to port; we could pick them up on the way out. They are only trouble on land and end up in fights and in jail. I want the animals. But I do not want to take care of them.
Not long ago, Bering Sea crewmen were a motley lot of lowlifes mixed with a few of the best guys in the world. The work appealed to drifters and misfits and men running from the law, wives, alimony and child support payments, debt, addictions, and themselves. They looked for work on crab boats for fast money. They sought a quick way to get ahead so that they could start their ruined lives anew. They had nothing whatsoever to lose. They fought with their fists and complained and
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