Capt. Sten has the difficult responsibility of catching exactly the right amount of crab.  If he brings more to shore than he is allowed to catch, he will receive a stiff fine. It will also work against him if he has not caught enough.   Either way, if he comes in over his quota or under it, there will be a loss of revenue.  For Sten, this issue is quite serious.

Ever since October, when the king crab fishing season began, Sten has thought a lot about his father, the North American's owner, Erling Skaar. He knows that his dad will be evaluating the profit margin this year, trying to determine if he has made the right choice in allowing his sons to fish the North American again.  Now that opilio fishing has ended, it is time to count the chips and see where they fall.  Unsure if they have succeeded in their father’s eyes, Sten and John are unsettled, anxious to prove the viability of the vessel's operations.  Their livelihood and lifestyle depend on it.

On the deck below, the deckhands begin their post-fishing duties.  For the next couple of hours, they will clean the deck and wash the bait jars.  Inside the house, they will carefully clean the galley and staterooms.  It is their intention to be completely done with their duties by the time they hit shore.  That way they can immediately head to town and the bars to celebrate the end of the season in earnest.

Sten watches the crew for a few minutes, then turns and heads back into the wheelhouse.  As I continue to film him, he sits down in his chair, turns the boat toward Dutch Harbor and then stares out the window over the bow.  Throughout all of this he maintains a calm silence.  It is apparent that he is still in deep thought.  Guessing what he is thinking, I frame up the camera in a medium shot and ask him, "Do you think that might have been your last pot, too?"

Now, when I say the worst day fishing, it does not mean that we have experienced bad fishing; it’s just that our opilio crab counts have dropped down to lower numbers. We are now catching an average of only 200 crabs per pot. At other times this might be acceptable, but on the North American, we have really gotten used to pulling pots that have had counts in excess of 400 keepers.   At the end of a long season, when the crew is trying to fill the boat for the last time, these lower numbers are a bit disheartening.

The crew has gone back into silent mode.  Even Travis is visibly affected by the prospect of spending an extra week out here.  The crew is beginning to question the captain’s decision to set back the pots again, but Sten is taking a chance that the numbers will improve.  At this point it would be more risky to make a move -- to pick up his pots and try to find another honey hole.  He knows there are crab here, and he has decided to grind it out. Besides, if he can set back his pots one more time in this spot, it will be a record for the North American.  They will have fished an entire season without moving their pots at all.

As the fishing routine continues, I watch D-Bo from my perch on the upper deck. Head down and stumbling, he solemnly marches forward toward the end of his misery, wishing that each pot could be the last.  I have come to appreciate D-Bo and have made a special effort to call him by his real name, Darrell.  Though he is now unlikely to succeed as a greenhorn, and will probably never return to the Bering Sea, he does have hope of finishing with his honor intact.  I smile thinking about him returning to shore.  He has told everyone what he will do with his incredibly hard-earned money.  He will finally get the chance to take his daughter to Disneyland. He has been suffering in order to do something for her that he was never able to do as a child.   

Ten pots later, the numbers are increasing again.  Finally a big pot comes over the rail.  Everyone rejoices, hooting and hollering.  Travis leaps up on the table with his usual spring.  Sten comes out on the upper deck to celebrate.  John, Davin and Terje laugh and tell the captain that they were beginning to doubt that they would see big numbers again.

Over in the bait corner, Darrell lifts his chin and smiles too.  Watching him, I am sure that he is seeing the end of his drudgery for the first time.  All the men on the crew have come to accept him by now.  They too know that he will probably never again fish the deck of the North American.  We have all learned that he is really a good man.  He is not one of the superhuman diehards that populate the crabbing industry, but he is a worthy guy. 

I smile again thinking of Darrell. I have a brief vision of him heading south in his pickup truck with his daughter, a new confidence in his face.  I see him passing by with a sticker on his bumper that reads, “ The worst day fishing is a hell that you can’t imagine!”

Photo: Marc Carter/DCL

As I scribbled my notes I reflected upon each member of our crew.  I was really enjoying the rare silent moment, which abruptly ended when deckhand Travis Arquette bounced into the room in his usual fashion. He reached above the refrigerator and grabbed a box of sugarcoated cereal and poured himself a heaping bowl.  As he sat down at the table he gave me a cursory nod and dug in to the overflowing bowl with his large spoon.  While crunching down on his first mouthful he looked at me and inquired, “Did I tell you that I am going to do a race across the Himalaya?”  I thought for a moment and then shook my head.

I listened intently as he described a 3,000-mile race that he was planning to do across the Himalayan Mountains and eventually into India.  He explained that he would be racing a host of teams from other countries.  Knowing Travis, I patiently waited for the twist.  He hastily took another mouthful of cereal, chewed, swallowed and then added “It’s a rickshaw race!”  I smiled and shook my head again while he filled me in on the details of his crazy adventure to come.  A couple of minutes later the bowl was empty and he headed back to the rack.

John Skaar got up next and as usual headed straight for the engine room.  Satisfied that everything was still OK, he retuned to the galley and had a cup of coffee with me.  He spoke of his family at home, and how the season was starting to wear on him.  He also shared the story of how he and his father had been developing the GenTech generator system that was used by the North American.  He shared his hope that others will soon adopt it.  “Not only does it save fuel, but it also reduces emissions,” he said. “We reduced our emissions by nearly 12,000 pounds of carbon dioxide just on the trip up here from Seattle.” 

“Wow, that is a lot!” I replied as he headed up to take his watch.

As soon as John took the wheel, Terje came down and began to cook a meal for the crew.  As he cooked he told me stories of his own fishing family and what it was like growing up in a family that maintains many of the traditions of Norway.  His stories are always full of humor. He had me in stitches quite few times.  Again I was reminded of how different our lives really were.  I knew that time was short, so I tried to concentrate on finishing my notes while Terje continued.

The greenhorn, Darrell LaBay aka “D-Bo”, never stirred from his bunk.  As usual he was taking full advantage of every single second available for rest.  I had been thinking a lot about him too. The majority of the notes that I was taking had to do with his continuing story.  I was waiting for him to rally and succeed at his new position aboard the boat.  As Captain Sten stepped into the galley I knew that D-Bo’s rest had come to an end.  I put down my notes pad and grabbed my camera.  As I began to roll, Sten opened the doors to each stateroom and woke the crew.  I panned my camera back to the galley just in time to catch Tarje placing another of his excellent meals on the table.  The time had arrived for the crew of the North American to begin fishing again.

Image: Terje Kavinge and Sten Skaar

Photo: Marc Carter/DCL

Today was a big day for the North American, and for Marc.  A wave swept across the rail and hit Mark directly in the chest.  It knocked him down and it drug him at least 15 feet across the deck before he managed to roll up, shaking the salt water off of his lens.  Once the danger had passed, he looked up and spied me filming him from above.  I simply nodded to him and smiled.  I had caught the whole thing on tape.  It was a lucky shot.

As the East winds howled and the resulting high seas continued to toss the boat, the crew of the North American headed inside for a meal.  With a hold-full of crab, the fishing was now over, for a while at least. We would have to unload in order to continue fishing.  As our bow turned and began to steam south, the boat began rolling back and forth sharply.  We were now “in the ditch”, running in the trough between the waves.  As a result, the strong seas would be hitting us from the side during our entire journey back to Dutch.  It was going to be a long trip!

Fighting to keep his food from sliding off his plate, cameraman Marc, was taking heat from the crew.  They joked about his wide-open eyes as he fell down when he got washed across the deck.  They also were kidding him about “his second career”, as an actor – everyone knew that Marc had brought a DVD of his independent film, “Last Stop for Paul,” on board.  Now that the run to Dutch had begun, the crew of the North American had finally found the perfect time to watch it.  Marc put his DVD into the player while the crew continued eating.

Since we had begun fishing for opilio, this was the first time that everyone had taken a real pause.  As time passed, the rocking of the boat became more soothing. Captain Sten was stretched across one side of the galley’s bench.  The other deckhands were sprawled about, even lying on the floor. We were all laughing and jibing Marc about his acting, but we were also really enjoying his film.  It was as light-hearted a time as any that has ever passed on a crab boat.  For a brief moment we had all forgotten the Bering Sea.

Up in the wheelhouse Davin Ness was on watch.  He was our sentinel.  With the waves still pounding the side of the boat he kept a vigilant watch. He knew that the Bering Sea had not forgotten about us.  Davin looked out the back door of the wheelhouse.  The constant wash of waves across the deck was beginning to take a toll on the deck-boards.  Several boards had broken loose and other larger pieces, whole segments were loosening up fast.  The pounding of the sea continued to keep the beat.  With 100 miles left to go, the integrity of the wooden deck was failing.  This was the beginning of the dance of destruction.

Photo: Marc Carter/DCL

Sten stood on the upper deck looking aft, operating the hydraulic crane controls.  He was still laughing as the boat rocked and motored forward into the waves -- guided only by the ship's autopilot.  He was wearing his thick blue “freezer suit.”   His wild hair stood up through the top of his black headband, shaking stiffly like a field of tall reeds in the wind.  The North American’s skipper was effectively working the deck while he was driving the boat to the next pot.  He is the only captain that I have ever seen do this during fishing operations.

As I filmed him working, Sten skillfully pivoted the crane in order to drag a pot past the North American’s sorting table, which was now overflowing with opilio crab.  He glanced over to me and motioned at the table. “Your new crab-fishing consultation idea has a major flaw,” he said.  “Who would listen to you? Every captain will only fish his own way.”  I zoomed in, struggling to hold a tight shot of his face. The captain continued, “My style is to let them soak, give the bait ample time to do its work.”  While I continued to film the scene, I contemplated what he had said.

So far Sten’s strategy seemed to be working.  From my position on the upper deck, I could see how his successful strategies had affected the whole crew.  They were working very hard. Travis had lost the usual bounce in his step.  D-Bo, the vessel’s greenhorn, was exhausted.  He appeared to be unable to keep up with his dual tasks, sorting and continuing to make bait. The rest of the crew was in “grind mode,” operating with precision, maintaining a heads-down silence, except to berate the greenhorn from time to time.

As Sten swung another pot, he looked over to me and said.  “If the numbers keep coming up like this, we may end up setting our pots back in this one place all season … until we are done!”  I reflected on this, thinking about all of my past experiences on other boats, always re-setting our pots.  Sten released the hydraulic controls and added, “Fishing the whole season in just one spot ? I don’t think that I have ever heard of anyone doing that before!”  As Sten turned and I followed him back into the wheelhouse, I said to him over his shoulder, “I guess I will need to record these coordinates.”  He shook his head and laughed again.

Photo: Marc Carter/DCL

At the wheel, Capt. Sten was anxious and trying to concentrate.  My questions were unwanted distractions.  He dealt with this by ignoring me, or calmly answering my queries with “Not right now!”  I decided to let him be.  He obviously needed all his concentration to scan the horizon and look for rogue waves.  He was focused on trying to protect the guys on deck as they pulled yet another string of full pots.

As we dropped off the back of another large wave, I turned my lens forward and tried to film the waves as they approached.  It has always been frustrating for me that the waves never look as big on camera as they actually are.  It is difficult to capture the true scale of the situation.  In addition, it is not easy to shoot and hang on at the same time.  As a result, I often find myself floating across the wheelhouse. Gravity itself seems to be variable in these conditions.

Climbing yet another peak, I spotted an approaching wave that was much bigger than all of the rest.  It was still six or more waves away from us, but it was visible above the other crests.  As we dropped again I asked the captain, “Did you see that wave?” Sten continued to stare ahead, but this time he chose to answer the question, “Yeah, it’s a big one!”  There was no way to avoid it.  We were going to hit it.  With each rise and fall, the giant wave drew closer.

When it finally arrived, I looked for something to hold on to.  Sten grabbed the throttle and pulled it back, slowing our speed.  He then reached for the hailer and warned the deckhands to hang on.  My eyes were glued to the rapidly approaching wave.  It was at least 40 feet high, and its face was almost vertical

As the North American climbed, the wave began to break, its crest falling down toward us.  Our bow cut through the white water, tilting to the starboard as we rose. We eventually crested and stalled, then abruptly fell down the wave’s back, still leaning to one side.  When we hit bottom, there was a big impact and a resounding thud.  I barely managed to stay on my feet.

Once the wave had passed, the boys on deck began to jubilate with hoots and cheers.  Capt. Sten wasn’t celebrating though.  He was thinking that it was time to call it off.  The seas had finally gotten too wild for fishing.  He reached for the hailer again, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke into the microphone, “All right guys, secure the deck and come inside.  We’ll pick it up again tomorrow.”

Photo: DCL

Terje gets my attention and says, “Watch this!”  We both observe D-Bo, crowned with a Viking helmet with green horns, as he stops several times on his way to bait pots.  Each time he stops, he sets the bait down and rests a bit before stumbling on his way.  All of the deckhands have been closely watching him.  Terje looks back to me and rolls his eyes.  John and Davin shake their heads.  Travis looks from one to the other and simply shrugs.

When D-Bo finally arrives at the pot he climbs in, but one of his helmet’s horns gets caught in the pot’s webbing and his head is jerked to the side.  As he comes to an abrupt stop, the bait he is carrying slaps him across his face.  Terje yells, “Come on, hurry up!” and D-Bo reaches deep one more time, calling upon his fading strength.  He climbs out of the pot, closes the pot door and then weaves his way back to his “office,” the area that holds the bait bin and chopper. 

As he begins to fill up a couple of bait jars, the full-share boys see the moment that they have waited for.  With nods to each other they quickly scramble to the sorting table where they have secretly collected six live cod for their next hazing ritual.  As D-Bo lifts his head from the bait bin the attack is on.  The other deckhands swing and throw all six fish at him at once.  Of course, there is no defense for such tactics. Pinned in the corner, D-Bo gets hit with at least four of the fish.  The deckhands roar with laughter and then leap back to work as the next pot comes over the rail.

Later, at dinner, the whole group is in good spirits.  Though he has been nipped at all day D-Bo is still considered to be one of the boys.  As they laugh and banter, D-Bo climbs to his feet and begins to clown it up, break-dancing for all of the guys, who respond with clapping and laughter. 

I am pleased to see that there really is no ill will toward the greenhorn.  These guys are just living their culture.  D-Bo, also known as Darrell Labay, is just paying his dues the same way that a thousand greenhorns have before. As D-Bo’s silly antics and dancing continue, I laugh and look from face to face and wonder if each of these men once raised their own head from a bait bin, only to be assaulted by flying fish.

Image: Darrell Labay, a.k.a. D-Bo, in his "office."
Photo: Marc Carter/DCL

This was grim news for all of us on the North American and for all the fishermen in the fleet.  It was especially painful for the Nes family, one of the legendary fishing families of the Bering Sea.  They had lost one of their own. 

Terje continued explaining what had happened. Jeffrey was working aboard the Sea Warrior, when he fell from a stack of pots, four high. Terje told me that Davin and his other brother Johnny, who was fishing on another vessel, had just flown home to attend services for their brother.

This was not the first time that I have been directly exposed to situations involving loss of life in the Bering Sea.  On my first journey I had been present during the rescue and subsequent loss of Terry Rosendahl, who had fallen overboard on the Shaman.  The next year I happened to be on the Maverick when we became involved in the search for survivors when the Big Valley went down.  That was a particularly dark day in the history of Bering Sea crabbing. Only hours after our search party had located the sole survivor of the Big Valley incident, one of my new crab-fishing friends, a bright and friendly Samoan named Manu Legard, fell off the stack while fishing on the Sultan and perished abruptly in the icy waters.  Each of these incidents affected me greatly, and also provided me with a sense that the danger is very real for every individual in the fleet. 

Looking ahead, I knew that I was now involved in another sensitive situation. On the one hand, I knew that this unfortunate incident would certainly affect Davin during the upcoming season.  As a producer, I knew that I had the responsibility to tell this story.  On the other hand, I also knew that I would have to do so very gently. In my telling of stories, I seek to honor the fishermen and respect all the sacrifices that their families make and suffer.  I do not want to be a bull in a china shop.  I knew that Davin would soon be returning to Dutch Harbor. I knew that when he did, I would have to ask him some difficult and uncomfortable questions.  Faced with this unusual situation, I decided that I would first ask Davin’s permission, and then seek his help in making a fitting tribute to his brother Jeffrey Nes, a seasoned professional deckhand who sought adventure and gain in the Bering Sea.

Image: Davin Nes, North American deckhand

Photo: Marc Carter/DCL

This year we are using the Sea Star as our “chase boat.”  It has been at sea all season, shooting the boat-to-boat shots that have become a regular part of Deadliest Catch and provided some of our most iconic images.  Producing on the Sea Star and shooting these images this year is our veteran co-director of photography Zac McFarlane.  He will be using a gyroscopically stabilized camera to film the North American crashing through waves and its men working on deck.  It is an exciting moment for all aboard.

Eric, Davin, John and Travis come up into the wheelhouse just as Zac asks if we can try something different — turn off the forward lights and chase his boat.  Sten says, “That’s crazy!”  However, he does it anyway.  With the lights off on our boat and all of the available light now coming from the Sea Star, backlighting every wave, we begin to see the ocean in a new way.  As we dive blindly into black troughs between the waves and rise to emerald and blazing white foam crests we all gasp at our new visual perspective.  Zac asks for us to move closer and Sten curses but responds anyway, pushing the throttles forward nervously.  Everyone in the wheelhouse starts hooting with each rise and fall of the craft, each experiencing the feeling that one gets during the big drops on a roller coaster in a spooky new way.

In the darkness I struggle to find my camera and turn it on.  It’s nearly impossible to hold a still image, but I manage to at least see Zac strapped onto a platform on the stern of his boat.  It is astounding to see how his boat is hitting waves, ripping off the tops and getting completely enveloped by spray as he attempts to film our vessel, only a hundred feet behind him.   In all of my career I have never seen a cameraman in a more extreme environment.  On the stern of the Sea Star, Zac is rolling camera, trying to hold still and staring into his eyepiece while both vessels rise and fall, completely disappearing between the waves.  With his eyes straining forward Captain Sten says, “He’s nuts!”  At first all I could do was respond, “Yes, he is!” Then I realized it was my turn. “Welcome to Deadliest Catch!” I added.

Photo: Marc Carter/DCL

Here aboard the North American, Captain Sten Skaar has similar challenges.  As the older brother, he has always had the advantage of being first, but his brother John has always been close behind.  As the North American’s captain, Sten is in a position to give orders to the whole crew, including John.  Naturally this causes a bit of friction between the two. I find it interesting to be exploring this subject while experiencing it myself at the same time.

Sibling rivalry is natural, but it is not a lot of fun.  It is a story that most of our viewers will understand and relate to--one of the great classic tales.  This brother against brother competition is playing out across the fleet on the majority of the Deadliest Catch vessels.  Everyone out here, the producers, cameramen and the fishermen themselves are all affected by it in some way.  It causes uncomfortable situations, yet it also pushes each of us to excel in our chosen roles and professions.  I find myself wishing that I could somehow rise above it, but no matter how hard I try I cannot.  I can’t help but wonder about the great stories my brother has captured aboard his boat, what great shots he has taken. 

Image: Doug Stanley
Photo: Marc Carter/DCL