The calm before the storm |
Into the Fire
Let me set the scene first: The C-Quest was basically falling apart around us the whole season. We had engine problems, bad guages, bursting hydraulic lines, oil leaks, exhaust leaks, and an electrician's nightmare of radar and loran wires, radio wires (we had 4 radios), pumps, stoves. . . ah yes, the stove.
On many boats the stove runs on oil which is fed into a big pot when the burner is turned up. Normally, a small trickle of oil keeps the pilot light lit. Our pilot light, however, had the habit of flickering out when we got into rough weather. This happened one stormy evening. (Un)fortunately, we were catching tons (about 9 tons actually) of fish and the pilot light was the last thing any of us were thinking about. After selling our fish, we anchored near a sandbar with several other boats and everyone crawled in for a well deserved rest.
During the night the electric feed to the stove continued to drip oil into the bowl but, without a pilot to use this fuel, the bowl just continued to fill up with oil. . .
Karl, being first out of bed, noticed the stove had gone out and proceeded to light it. Of course Bruce was the only one of us with enough experience to know how these stoves work and that one should always check the bowl (to see if it has filled up with oil over night) before lighting the pilot.
The rest of us awoke to the wonderful smell of fresh brewed coffee. . . and Karl, quietly saying "this stove is getting pretty hot. . ." Then louder, "Hey you guys, I turned the stove off but it's getting hotter and hotter!" Bruce and Joe were up at this point and Bruce, having figured out what had happened started asking for fire extinguishers.
In the Naknek River |
This is around 8AM and, having fished hard the day before, everyone in shouting distance from where we were anchored was fast asleep (and this is a deep, zeta, fisherman sleep mind you). As the iron stove surface turned to a molten red, the wood paneling surrounding the stove burst into flame. Bruce took aim with one extinguisher while Joe dove into the bunk area for our backup. As the flames started working on the ceiling of the cabin Bruce pulled the trigger on the extinguisher. A tiny puff of greyish powder--like timelapse footage of spores bursting--sprinkled out of the black tube like the wheezing gasp of a dying man.
By now the cabin had filled with smoke and I was on the back deck dipping buckets over the side and then stuffing Joe's wool blanket into them to try and absorb some water. Inside flame and smoke were spreading and Joe was trying the backup extinguisher which gasped even more pathetically than the first. There was little we could do (or see) in the cabin and with an oil fire and no extinguishers on our floating '32 death trap, we began to yell for help. While Joe was inside trying to suffocate the blaze with the wet wool blanket, I was taking a hard look at that icy, green water, which was looking a lot better than our burning cabin and melting stove. As flames shot out of the little pipe on the roof, I wondered how flammable our engine room was with its omnipresent slick of sludge and grime swirling around the twin deisel engines.
The Crew |
Fortunately, two boats and then a third shooshed by and tossed us their shiny, new extinguishers. Four extinguishers later, the smoldering iron stove was out. I picked up one of our discarded extinguishers from the floor of the cabin and read that it hadn't been checked in over 4 years.
Our cabin cleanup revealed that we were a lot closer to disaster than any of us knew: Not only did the bowl in the stove fill up with oil but all the pots and pans in the cabinet below were overflowing with the stuff. And since the stove served as the heater for our cabin, the rest of the season was cold and wet. Socks and long underwear that used to dry over night were now icy and stiff in the morning which made getting into our fishing clothes and raingear all the more enjoyable. But, as I often told myself, what's 8 weeks? I can put up with almost anything for 8 weeks . . .
We would have to go up the river now and take care of some long overdue repairs and buy some replacement extinguishers for the boats that came to our rescue (Bucks Deluxe is one that I remember) as well as a few for ourselves. This, I thought, was a good time for mutiny.
Hitchhiking to the airport |
We were chugging toward the river. Bruce was up on the flying bridge. "I want off" I quietly said. "I don't need this. Burning boats, hydraulic fluid in my eyes, leaving a slick everywhere we go, pumping all that oil into the bay . . ."
He let me quietly vent in the bright morning sun and then said, "Well, we've made it this far. We only have a few more weeks and you can go . . . but I need you now." He knew I was only shaken up from the fire. We all were. "That was pretty scary, wasn't it?" he asked turning to look at me.
"Yeah," I nodded, and we chugged on, continuing to warm in the sun. Getting off of the boat early never came up again.
Soon it was July 20th and I had just taken my second shower of the season. I pulled out the clean socks and tee that had been quietly waiting for this day in the bottom of my duffle, jumped off of the boat at the docks in Naknek, and ran into town for a cup of coffee. By 9 am I was hitch-hiking to the airport for a 10 am flight to Anchorage and then home to California.