Over the edge of the cannery
dock, processed fish
innards are dumped daily—
lure for prowling scavengers
in Resurrection Bay.
My pole arcs, its tip pointing
to pilings below. I heave
and reel until a briny creature
breaks the surface. I grab
the grotesque head,
its mouth flashing needles.
It coils my left arm. Grip tightens.
I forget to breathe,
barely manage to scream for help.
An old dock hand ambles over,
peels wolf
eel from my arm.
Goot t’ing it wan’t a big ‘un,
he chuckles,
flinging
beast to bay.
Seward, Alaska, 1952
As a child in Alaska I quickly got the impression that my value as a human being had something to do with how competent a fisherman I became. My stepfather, a sport-minded man, reinforced the importance of this portal to manhood. I never measured up in his eyes, but that had to do with far more than fishing or with me. However, in the incident captured in this poem a kind, unknown grandfather gave me a hand with just the right touch. I was nine years old.
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