dean anderson

"sean! get up. go pull the hook!"

the sun was just cracking in the distance. it was probably around four thirty a.m. this was a more pleasant wake up call i received during my time on the boat with dean anderson. i could never figure out why he always referred to the anchor as the hook. usually, his gutteral groans and expletive filled complaining were our wake up call. other times, a conversation would travel from the cabin in the bunks. who dean was talking with i will never know or understand, but he seemed to enjoy talking to himself. dean talking to dean conversations would go something like this.

"i can't believe that sno pac is shutting down for the day. my luck. i decide to transfer to ugashik and what happens? boats are getting thirty thousand pounds an opener in naknek (dean has a tendency for the dramatic because only one boat, one time in naknek landed thirty thousand pounds in one opener). i should call and see how my dog is doing. why am i out here? i don't need to be doing this. i want to watch the net for while. good thing i'm this. my hand hurts. why isn't this stove working? i am freezing! i am starting to feel like and old man (you are an old man)."

his conversations with himself were mostly incoherent, scattered and often a tool to make james or i feel bad for sleeping (to be fair, dean usually doubled if not tripled my sleep). his conversations were in all actuality much more colorful because dean has mastered the use of all expletives in noun, verb, adjective and adverb forms to say the least. during my first week of work with dean, i thought dean was attempting to create conversation with me. i interjected my thoughts at one point and dean turned to me with surprise. he was so accustomed to talking to himself that he was unaware that a.) he spoke aloud and b.) that another living being could interact in his conversations.

dean is probably in his mid to later fifties. he lives in cour de laine, idaho and he loves potatoes. apparently in idaho or "dean world", potatoes are "taters" (pronounced "taiters"), a term i do not think i have heard since second or third grade. dean loves taters with breakfast. he loves taters with lunch. he loves taters with an afternoon snack. he loves taters at dinner and he loves taters as a midnight snack. he loves taters cooked with a whole onion and fried with a whole bottle of oil. i sabotaged his tater-loving one night. i woke up to empty out our five pound bag of taters into the dark river waters while dean dreamed of his wonderful tater breakfast. i have never felt such satisfaction for such a hateful action.

to further elaborate, dean's eating habits are comparable to some sort of hyena mixed with these bugs i recently watched on planet earth whose sole purpose is to eat bodily excrements. needless to say, dean has never been married. dean has/had a nervous eating habit. when struggling with a decision, dean eats. i saw him put down two whole packages of oreos in one sitting. during another tough decision, a whole container of jelly beans met its end. he emptied cookies and candy during these decisions without blinking an eye. if dean were a jellybean, he would be some sort of combination from the harry potter jellybean collection. maybe mix an earthworm, earwax, rotten egg and dirt jellybeans and you would discover dean anderson.


dean is oddly shaped, maybe like a pear. mainly, this is due to his very unorthodox eating habits, but his shape is not helped by his very unflattering clothes (see next paragraph. after spending two weeks of preparing (every morning) a breakfast better than what most kings eat (pancakes, eggs, bacon, taters and onions), james and i could no longer digest anything dean desired. we brainstormed a new plan. "the great bacon and grease sabotage: our efforts to permanently clog dean's arteries and end the salmon fishing season". we chose not to eat anything i cooked for breakfast because we believed dean would eat it all regardless. when the sun came up, i would fry up dean's breakfast, including that pound of bacon he craved. everyday without any help, dean ate it all. sometimes, he would use the bacon for bacon and mayonnaise sandwiches. dean continued to stretch sweatpants that did not need to be stretched any further.

i wish i could truly describe the magnificence/horror of dean's choice of clothing. one of the greatest parts of fishing is that all one has to wear are sweatpants, t-shirts and fishing boots. as simple and non-descript as these outfit creations can be/are, dean's nonetheless demanded attention. these outfits caused you to cringe with horror. but still as bad as they were, you could not look away. He pulled his sweatpants above his belly button and right below his nipples. the legs of his sweats looked like an adolescent who has outgrown his pants. he would pull his socks up and attempt to tuck his sweats into his socks. then he would put on a flourescent striped (think hammer pants) shirt and sweatshirt and tuck them into his sweatpants which would be already giving a wedgie better than any junior high bully. it is hard to make a statement with your clothing in alaska, but dean could drop jaws wherever he went.

"so, do you have any more hunting trips planned?" i asked dean sensing that he might start feeling excluded because of james' dominance in the story telling arena.

"well, last summer i went on a hunting safari in africa. i would like to hunt red deer in england or new zealand," he replied as he watched our net out the cabin window.

"really? new zealand or england? hmm. those are two pretty different place," i shot back with excitement to see how dean's grasp of geography was.

"no they are right next to each actually," he responded confidently and leaving me grateful for having passed mrs. brunkal's map tests in eighth grade.

up to this point, i have only shared about the humorous memories that make up the character of dean anderson. these are the thoughts i try to remember rather than the side of dean that darkened days in alaska. i try to forget how he threw countless plastics and waste into the ocean with no regard. his anger over meaningless tasks would only trigger a rage to throw more and more harmful waste into the water. dean is a liar. he lacks integrity in his work. throughout the trip, dean would receive calls about real estate back in idaho and many times the calls were about money issues in which dean had cheated and lied to clients or partners. never once have i seen our capacity for darkness as i did this summer. the deception on our boat ran deep and i walked carefully along the web of lies dean spun. whether with james or dean, they both sought and cared only about their own well being. shadows lay over each man's heart and endless greed and exploitation ran through their veins. dean's selfishness was unlike any i have ever experienced. he cuts all corners. he burns all bridges. dean desired to do the least amount of work (preferably none), experience the least amount of danger, and leave james and i with as little as possible along the way.

this is a sad story because part of why dean talks to himself is because he is lonely. he has no one left that he has not betrayed or hurt. fishermen speak poorly of him and how he treats his crew. i was told on numerous occasions to look out for how dean spins finances. i have never felt so cheated. yet, i have come home to a place where i am known and loved. dean goes home to a dog, a business where he continues to cheat anyone he can and conversations with himself. i wish that i could write about seeing a change in his story, but unfortunately, the dean i met has never sought out any sort of redemption.

i recently read what i had written in my journal during one of my last days in alaska when i learned about how dean had purposely deceived me. the first is a quote from mother teresa and the second is from romans 14:17-18.

"love to pray. feel often during the day the need for prayer. and take trouble to pray. prayer enlarges the heart until it is capable of containing god's gift of himself. ask and seek, and your hearts will grow big enough to receive him and keep him as your own."

"for the kingdom of god is not a matter of eating and drinking, but of righteousness, peace, and joy in the holy spirit, because anyone who serves christ in this way is pleasing to god and approved by men."

i just started working on my post about captain dean. i have been studying for the g.r.e., playing tennis and such at home. i should have it up in the next couple days. until then, here is a video to capture either the madness or greatness of spring sing.

james robinson

james robinson is twenty four years old and from boston, massachusetts. he is a couple inches shorter than me, but i think his arms are larger than my thighs. i met james in the king salmon airport on june twenty fourth. wearing black cargo pants and a black, sleeveless t-shirt, he lifted his army bag over his shoulders upon hearing his name called in the small airport. i'm not sure what i expected, but i was somewhat not surprised.

"alaska. i can't believe i'm here. twenty hours of flying. i'm doing this so i can get on one of those crab boats from the deadliest catch. have you met any of those guys?" james asked me with a thick boston accent as he lit a cigarette.

i hadn't met anyone from the show, but i would soon enough and i didn't really want to dash his dreams by telling him that salmon fishing and crab fishing are quite different. so i asked james where he was living back in the lower fourty eight.

"yeah i live in florida. kinda a hic town. i really knew i was a redneck when my wife and girlfriend were pregnant at the same time. my wife lives in boston and my girl is down in florida," james seemingly boasted to me.

i realized that i might be hard pressed at times for conversation with james. i kept my eyes on the road as we headed back to the boat. i drove the old ford along the two lane road that connected king salmon and naknek. in between the the two towns, there are open fields of green tundra and bush that run alongside the naknek river. the forget me nots dotted the white lines of the highway. the fish would be arriving in bistol bay soon.

i pieced together the story of james' life throughout our time on the water. it was tragic in many ways, but i found some of his story fascinating. i soon learned that conversation was more exciting than i could ever imagine. i think authors search their lifetimes to find these characters. for example, james is a nun chuck instructor in florida and is training to be a ufc fighter like chuck liddell.

"how are you with a bow staff?" i asked with a chuckle.

"i'm ok. my brother is pretty deadly with a bow staff." james lit another cigarette as we drifted another net in the naknek river.

unfortunately, the napoleon dynamite joke was completely lost on james. i was disappointed to say the least. i thought i was pretty witty with that question. sadly, i do not think that james understood any of my attempts at humor. to him, i was anomaly. he is probably telling his friends stories about the strange kid from california right now. a california hippy. someone who did not believe in violence? played beach volleyball? enjoyed reading books over bar fights? james called me a hippy all summer, mainly because i do not derive my fun and entertainment from gang fighting, watching fighting or craving ultra violence.

james sells swords and knives at flea markets in boston. i was delighed to hear that all his weapon paraphernalia had been left in boston. to my surprise (actually i do not think i was that surprised), i found out james had spent a substantial amount of time in jail. over the next few weeks, i would get advice on how to survive prison. james never seemed to understand that i had no intention of spending any time in prison. regardless, i was interested in any story that james willingly shared.

the stories that were shared on the back dack of this fishing boat brightened any darkness that hovered on fishing days in alaska. we talked about who would win in a fight. a hippo versus a polar? luke skywalker versus bruce lee? superman versus batman? we often debated movies. james loves any movie with gratuitous sex, violence and jean claude van damme. we never agreed on movies. good will hunting was probably the only movie that i remember james agreeing was a good movie. in some ways, i think james sees himself as a will hunting. a smart kid in a poor environment. unfortunately, he does not hope for a good will hunting ending. rather, he would truly love to live as tony montana and experience the real life scarface. james does not believe in any sort of justice except the kind that he can inflict.

our time in alaska was nearing an end, when james began to go silent. i was slightly worried when james went silent, mostly because the wheels that turned in his head worked somewhat differently than mine. silence for me meant that i was thinking about california sunsets or argentina adventures. my thoughts wandered to my family and friends. maybe what would happen on the next season of lost. sometimes i would daydream about watching a baseball game or if i would buy the second harry potter book when i arrived home. nothing too substantial, but daydreaming would often assist me in making it through the day. but james was slightly scarier when he stopped talking. james told me that he often thought of ways he could "take care of" our captain dean (this is not in any sort maternal "taking care of"). these scenarios involved such things as tying dean's hoodie to the anchor and tossing him overboard. i was never too sure how serious james was about these ideas.

one afternoon james approached me on the back deck. i had less than a week before i would be returning to california. there was not too much that could bother me at the moment. james had agreed to stay on the boat into august with dean, but now the idea of being alone with dean did not seem to appealing to james. james told me that he was quitting when we arrived at the tender. he, then, proceeded to tell me that he would be going into the cabin to discuss money with dean and if he felt dean was cheating him, then i should probably stay on the back deck.

on the back deck? is he insane? so, my journey in alaska has taken a seemingly drastic turn. i may be the sole witness to a murder in a matter of minutes. all i could think of were stories james told me throughout the season about how no one who rats or snitches (translation: testifies against a criminal) can live for very long. i could see it all very clearly. i would be the key witness in james' murder trial. as i would sit on the stand and recount the details of what happened, james would darkly watch me from the defendent's chair. his gang would be in the audience writing down my name, address, etc. james would turn to them and give them some sort of signal like the ones you see in movies. i would then proceed to be put in the witness protection program and shipped to a shack in north dakota where i could live until james' gang found me and then it would be off to the desert of new mexico. i would be hunted the rest of my life just like a bad dream. all for an adventure in alaska one summer.

thankfully, james resisted any drastic measures and we arrived at the tender before any of this could happen. When he quit, the tender refused to give him a ride back to naknek and we were forced to take him back. james decided to finish the season and i was glad to no longer be the key witness for a murder trial.