A Father's Day Fishing Trip In Alaska

Living on planet Earth is peculiar. Despite billions of people, raising an upright walking human comes with challenges in every time zone. Perhaps it's our original sin, or maybe we just weren't meant to be at the top of the food chain. Whether raised by a single parent, an entire village, or by a pack of wolves, we rarely reach adulthood without some input errors. One reason is that humans embed the best and worst of themselves into their captive recording devices. However, the secret sauce for adult proficiency is more complicated, requiring a pinch of luck, a dash of ambition, and a heaping handful of self-reflection.

Due to parental programming, seasickness was never influenced. Growing up near the seashore in New York City provided ample exposure to the waterways. Boating has remained a year-round tradition since my grandfather's days as a prohibition rumrunner. Dad also fostered a lifelong aversion to weekend amateurs, especially on the water. With three children, the farthest he would venture on weekends was anchoring in the back bays. Pop preferred fishing midweek and off-season when ninety percent of boaters weren't around. For years, the family waited for Christmas dinner as the old man and his buddies put out poles, drank scotch, and kept warm around an unventilated propane stove in the cabin.

Gifting a father's day fishing trip to Alaska seemed a no-brainer. The old Long Island Fisherman magazine ran stories about monster halibut, which resemble our local fluke but were often larger than the flannel-wearing locals fishing for them. Dad mused for decades about a dream trip, and now at 78 he was showing his age. A short man with an intense stature, pop's confident handshake was weakening as he grew shorter, thinner, and was losing mobility. Frankly, archetypes like Geno were never expected to reach his current age, so organizing this bucket list adventure was becoming a now-or-never situation.

But planning the journey required travel agents, which were nearing extinction after Y2K. MapQuest paper charting of the analog mountain roads was also needed. With no hotels along the "spit" in Homer, Alaska, securing accommodations before Airbnb required direct email to the local chamber of commerce. Finding charter boats involved the classified sections of magazines or googling an entire marina and calling individual captains for availability. The struggle was real...

Other personal obstacles also existed. Since returning from Korea on a turbulent military flight with a broken toilet, a bucket, and a sheet for privacy, Dad generally avoided airplanes and public restrooms for his adult life. Stateside, he witnessed a growing nation of big cars and bigger interstates. Family vacations meant road tripping in a wood paneled station wagon to some beach town a short day's drive away. Pop generally spent the ride lost in road maps, abrupt with his wife, and yelling at his unbuckled and entangled sons. Geno also hated lugging and living out of suitcases, as he packed more than the entire family. One of the many lessons Dad taught was the value of owning a hanging garment bag, as only knuckle-draggers crumpled sports jackets during transport. He was also the kind of gentleman who donned a necklace, a pinky ring, and a sports jacket just to go to the gas station. During his ninety well-lived and unexpected years on the planet, neither his family nor the public ever saw Geno unshaven or in a pair of shorts unless he was on his boat- and he always changed while underway.

The baggage claim at Anchorage airport provided the first curious Alaskan experience. While waiting alongside a plane full of bearded outdoorsmen, a sea of shrink-wrapped coolers came bouncing down the baggage chute and around the carousel. The men would cut open the film, remove a backpack, and wheel their large empty coolers out of the terminal. Despite the oddity, we felt prepared as we waited for our set of maroon-colored rectangular rolling luggage with hand straps. The forecast promised sunny daytime temps topping seventy degrees and overnight lows about fifty—ideal weather for the summer solstice near the Gulf of Alaska.

Nestled in the shadows of Mount McKinley, Anchorage straddles the line between a cosmopolitan wannabe and an entertaining town on the edge of wilderness. Nearly ten times larger than the state capital, Anchorage welcomes legions of outdoor enthusiasts and all their adjacent activities. Hikers and hunters, loggers and birdwatching anti-hunters, tavern keepers and adult entertainers all populate the ecosystem. A dedicated clan of king salmon fisherman are also found along the tributaries of the city. With streams narrower than most Brooklyn side streets, dozens of finely choreographed fishermen queue up, casting rhythmically in line. Arched into the water, lures drift with the current before retrieval, allowing the waiting fishermen on the opposite bank to cast into the dance. Twenty-pound salmon, then valued at $20 a pound, are pulled on their migration upstream.

Standing center city, the air was refreshing, but the bright sun encouraged a quest for shorts that were not packed and not easy to find. Despite the accurate forecast, what was overlooked about the overnight low temperature was that darkness in June lasts about two hours. The sun set after midnight and rose shortly afterwards. Daybreak was barely noticed from inside the pubs, but by closing time, sunrise was underway. After packing a week's worth of bulky garments, lighter, outdoor layers were chosen for daytime activities, but Dad still sported a different-colored suit every evening.

Seward, Alaska, though a productive cruise port and fishing village, has not outlived the memory of a devastating 9.3 earthquake in 1964. The quake leveled most of the wood-frame homes in town, then incinerated the remainder from a gasoline fire that raged across the waterfront. Today, the hamlet triples in population with the arrival of cruise ships, funneling selfie-taking tourists into the paths of pick-up driving locals.

Tourists stroll the shops or bar hop around town with the help of businesses like Aunt May's taxi and tours. Interestingly, with a few thousand cruisers and a late sunset, tour operators run excursions well into the evening. Seward's most popular attraction is the Native American-owned Kenai Fjord wildlife and glacier tour. In the summer, the 6+ hour dinner excursion offers tableside dining nearly eye-to-eye with sea lions, backstroking otters, and migrating whales. The concussive blast of the eroding glacier into the harbor is an experience one never forgets.

The excursion was even better due to Geno's trademarked hospitality. For those unacquainted with bar culture, another rare and distinctive sound is the ringing of the brass bell. Primarily used to signal the last call, the bell is also employed for more significant purposes. If one should ever hear a ring before closing time, be thankful as some generous patron has likely bought the entire bar a round! Today, more people have witnessed a breaching whale than have benefited from the ringing bell. For Geno, the gesture was common.

Dad was charming the crowd, as the only gentleman in town (and probably in the Northwest Territory) sporting his colorful jacket and pinky ring. On the left were three cleanly shaven and industry-branded law enforcement types loudly talking shop, as they tend to do in groups. Flanked on his right were two siblings and new Seward residents hoping to earn a living as young handymen and side-hustling salmon fishermen. Both groups were enchanted by the old man's tales from the sea, as a part-time New York character actor and as an all-around Brooklyn stereotype. Meanwhile, his son was being hustled by two local ladies in a game of pool on an L-shaped table. According to folklore, only eighty L-shaped tables were manufactured worldwide.

To bolster his stories, Geno carried a show-and-tell copy of New York magazine from July 26th, 1999. For this issue, Dad graced the cover and was featured in the headline story. A proud achievement for a non-celebrity, the eight-page story was the result of a shadow reporter living the dream alongside Geno for an entire summer. The journalist carried a notepad in one hand and either a cocktail, a fishing pole, or a feather duster in the other for when the antique Cadillac was backed out of the garage. Eric was granted access to all aspects of Dad's personal and public life, and reported fairly. His wife maintained there were too many details, but Geno was proud to show the publication off, saying, "Frank Sinatra only got six pages in New York Magazine. I got eight."

Over the course of a few ringing brass bells, other rare discoveries were unearthed. Apparently, three years earlier, some 3 hours north of Seward, the brothers to the right were awakened from their tent with flashlights and shouts by the State Game Enforcement officers to the left. The uniforms had forensically tracked the boys from their discarded salmon remains to their tent. Apparently, poaching upstream of the spawning boundary is an act of environmental treason punishable by deportation.

Standing within the darkness of the crime scene, the young men pleaded their case by flashlight, citing everything from their inability to notice signs to seeking a cultural exemption based on their Native American heritage. The defense failed, and the brothers were issued fines for their malfeasance, but they remained in the country, as the only non-foreigners present at the hearing. Through dad's enlightened conversation, both parties were forgiving and even brought to laughing reflection during our improbable reunion.

Upon hearing about our evening dinner excursion the next day, the brothers phoned the marina office and used a perk granted to documented First Nation residents to comp us tickets. As urban skeptics, we waited until holding the validated tickets to feel the gratitude. Either way, the sunlit evening tour into the still glacier harbor is worth any price.

In Alaska, the tide cycle is an attraction in itself. Because of the ebb and flow every 6 hours, a pit stop was scheduled at Turnagain Bay to observe the second-highest tidal surge in North America. From a roadside vista, well-timed visitors can observe the king tide within the scenic mountain-capped bay. After the 30-foot column of water fills the bay, beluga whales and harbor seals can occasionally be seen. Remember to respect nature and stay off the empty bay. Locals generously share stories of tourists caught in unprepared situations, including being trapped in the mud and then submerged by nature before rescuers can reach them.

The generosity of locals also improved the fishing experience. While 'making a drop' at a local veterans club (A drop is a custom utilized by hospitality workers and wiseguys in Brooklyn who bounce around to promote the bar economy on slower nights.) two foreigners from New York City were conversing about frontier calamities, feeling thankfully alive for missing the spaghetti and meatballs dinner special. While inquiring about local fishing spots, A quiet bearded member at the bar pointed outside the bay window of the timber building.

"You see that home across the parking lot with the red pickup and fishing poles in the bed?"
"I think so," I said, walking across the creaking wood floor, eyes shielded from the glare.
"Just grab what you want and put it back in a couple of days before you leave."

Not surprised, the brass bell rang before rejoining my old man standing at the bar. The next day, Geno bashfully posed with his first halibut caught from a pebbled shoreline access not visible during high tide only a short time earlier.

The house rental in Homer was situated on a scenic bluff overlooking town. According to the vets at the lodge, two blocks away was Homer's trendy late-night bar. The local pub provided good nutrition, great music, and a female-friendly environment worthy enough for ladies to wear their hair down and squeeze into their favorite jeans. The joint provided amenities superior to the shanties on the spit, like bathroom stalls with doors and mirrors. After our memorable day trips, walking down the block for a daytime nightcap was a splendid idea.

Being nocturnal since high school has crafted a lifetime of untraditional activities, jobs, and relationships, occasionally fostering some strain within the family. Caring for aging parents in a fixer-upper home frequently presented scheduling challenges. Matters of shopping, medical care, meal prep, and perpetual home and/or boat maintenance generally started after the crack of noon with regular pushback from the old man.

"Why do you always have to work in the dark!" and "take off that stupid f@&king head lamp!" These were remarks frequently heard when working together around the house. Of course, Geno wasn't feeling the enlightenment of never needing to set an alarm clock for decades, or that his son's profession involved working nights and being cursed at every day. However, as one of the most handy and capable men I've encountered, access to Dad's engineering mind and exceptional tool collection was worth the colorful conversation. Interestingly, when we spent time together for pleasure, we interacted exceptionally well. Whether it was lounge hopping with a Cadillac full of Sopranos cast members, or netting triple header sea bass off the Rockaway Channel (For the record, I refuse to fish with more than two hooks.), as long as the interaction was not work-related, we enjoyed each other's company.

Geno never remained in bed until the crack of noon, but he always kept up late at night. Even on his 90th birthday, while struggling to walk unassisted, he still made a drop with the boys after closing Brooklyn's 'La Palina' restaurant. Back In our time in Alaska, he held his own, walking to the nearby pub in the late afternoons as his son napped. By the time he returned, we would tag team, keeping the family represented until after sunset. Each visit would spur the inquiry from the locals and staff about where the cologne-wearing kid with the jewelry was from.

After three days of shift visits, we finally entered the bar together on our last night in town. The small crowd nodded in my direction, but celebrated the entrance of the village's charismatic minor celebrity with a shot of whiskey. Interestingly, after days as the only two ornamented men in town using hair product and talking with our hands, the staff and the regulars never connected the obvious dots that there was a relation. Bless their hearts.

There are many places to fish for Halibut, but Homer, Alaska, is called "The halibut capital of the world" for good reason. As a holiday visitor, or even the type that prefers to check hundreds of pounds of fillet instead of rectangular luggage, there are dozens of charters to review in the digital age. Opting for the empty cooler and shrink wrap is a wise choice, even with the checked-bag hustle that all airlines perpetuate today.

Since halibut produce a 50% yield, returning with a hundred pounds of delicious flaky fillet can easily happen on a slow day. We took two shopping bags of fillet weighing less than forty pounds. On the way in, the captain pulled his vessel directly to the ice house for flash freezing and immediate shipping. Homer is also ideal for father-son bonding, as the fishing grounds lie within a scenic mountain bay, in approximately one hundred feet of water, less than one hour's cruise from the dock.

Our produce-sized dry ice box, shipped for $250 pre-Bitcoin, lasted for months in Mom's freezer. She would lightly bake or pan-sear the fillets with her famous sautéed broccoli with garlic and oil. Lemon and parsley seasoned steaks were also wrapped in foil and shared during work barbecues, between being cursed at by drunken day trippers on their way to Coney Island beach.

Dad carried memories of Father's Day in Alaska as reliably as he carried his New York Magazine in the trunk of the Cadillac. Being from Brooklyn, Geno spent his life as a no-nonsense guy. He wasted little time on matters of sentimentality, a trait he certainly embedded in his son. To witness Dad's blue eyes light up, reflecting tales of holding a bent fishing rod, or being awed by nature, or touched by the hospitality of complete strangers, was worth every penny. The dividends earned from the experience are exactly why humans travel. It's the secret sauce that affirms our place at the top of the food chain. For the next dozen years, whether nursing a white wine spritzer at the pub or on the boardwalk chatting with visitors, Geno often broke character to remark how our trip to Alaska was the best vacation of his life.

Eugene "Gino" Durante is a retired NYPD police officer from Brooklyn.