Finding Badass

My neighbor Pam always felt like a kindred spirit. When mooring my boat on her buoy at end of day, she always seemed to be at work. Her cabin is made of logs and was reportedly floated over from Lopez for a new life when people did such things. More recently, Pam built a bunkhouse behind it so her boys and their families would have a place to stay. Her approach made creative use of the surroundings and was profiled for this in ArchDaily. Each year, Pam’s friend Kate hosts a crabbing weekend on the property for ~40 to ~50 grandmothers, mothers, daughters, grandfathers, fathers, sons, aunts, uncles and their dogs who have come to think of less than an 1/2 acre of beachfront as ‘home’ for that weekend. What might sound overwhelming is experienced as beautiful with the family sounds that flow through camp.

On days I return with foraged items to share, Pam never refused the gift. On a day when the harvest was lingcod, she said “oh, I used to spear them when I was in my twenties.” I thought that was cool. In my minds eye, I could picture a young Pam Austin in a wet suit holding with spear gun and what I had come to think of as a good sized lingcod before size restrictions were put in place. Feeling curious, I asked, “hey Pam, if it’s not too difficult, I would enjoy seeing a picture if you have one.” She said something like “probably somewhere” and went back to her work day after returning the freshly-washed Fiestaware plate that held her portion of lingcod (pin bones removed). That was 2017.

It’s now July 6th 2024. I wake up feeling exhausted from three inspired days that included Chef Sheena uncovering our first green urchin at a minus tide, learning from Alexie’s son Liam the technique to go seven-for-seven dip netting inch-long herring, and my son Charlie coming to the rescue with new gas lines when Forager lost her will to prime after running out of fuel. After taking full enjoyment of a 4th of July evening with Sheena and Jan at The Resort, I wake up at 3:45AM on the 5th to meet new friends from the border of Wisconsin and Illinois. We experience another incredible day that included the crabbing opener 16 nautical miles to the south followed by my first trip to Smith Island in flowing tides. On the return, I turned starboard into Burroughs Bay looking for flounder. What we saw was a mothers first moments with her baby seal. It was clearly a bonding interaction complete with placenta and amniotic sac. One of the boys from the boarder melted a little at the sight of this before finishing the day with an incidental lingcod that wouldn’t be held outside the gunnel for a photo.

My son Charlie wakes up before I do, starts coffee and asks—”hey, what does today look like?” My response without thinking about it is “not on the water, the boat is yours if you want it.” As I am taking my first few sips of coffee and feeling a bit guilty for the short response I see Pam stepping over the sea wall holding two jars of something that looks like preserves. Instinctively, I step outside to greet her and make introductions to Charlie and his girlfriend Liza. “You might not know this,” I say, “Pam is a diver used to spear fish for lingcod.” I was a little peopled-out and looking forward to someone else carrying the conversation as I sank into my coffee.

The jams were strawberry and strawberry rhubarb made with perfectly timed berries from where Pam grew up—Bow, Washington. About diving for lingcod, she told this story like this. “…well, my parents were farmers and couldn’t afford a four-year college so I went to school in Everett. One of the activities they offered was scuba diving. I watched the TV series Sea Hunt as a kid and thought that sounded like fun. Diving near Neah Bay was really cool” she said, “there are house-sized boulders down there and the lingcod would just lie there like logs.”

I remembered Sea Hunt re-runs as a kid and pretending to swim with the octopus when pulling bed covers over my head as water before falling asleep. “Did they fight when you speared them” I asked? “A little,” Pam said, “but you just threaded a line though their eyes and towed them back to the surface. At 195,’ you only had about 5 minutes of air so you had to work fast.” Still before 9:30AM, now feeling slightly intrigued and ready to get back out on the water after my fourth sip of coffee and two jars of jam in the larder, I took a chance and asked “hey Pam, I would love to see a picture of a twenty-year old Pam Austin with a lingcod.”

At 5:38PM on July 6th, I received a picture of Pam with her lingcod. “Holy shit" I thought saying nothing. Just for fun, I shared the image with my son Charlie who has a reasonable understanding of all Salish fish. “Holy shit he said—I think she ‘undertold’ the story, laughing out loud.” The perfect words I thought. That is what is means to be badass. Doing you own thing with no audience because it’s something your feel inspired to do—in this case, pinning together what you have from your hometown, your tv, and your situation.

What followed has been so enjoyable. When I feel a spark of inspiration, I share the story with seasoned fishing, diving, and sailing friends. At the start, they seem casually interested and listen politely until I show them the picture. In every case their first response is always the same—“holy….can you send me that?”

After five out of five responses like this I got curious and searched <State Record> “61lbs, caught by Tom Nelson in the San Juan Islands on July 30, 1986”

“Hmm,” <World Record> - ”82 lbs, 6 oz caught by Robbie Hammond, 55” long”

I text Pam. “…hey Pam, for that fish not to be at least the state record, you would have to be under five feet tall.”

Pam “…well, they have big empty heads and you can’t really tell from the angle of the photo.”

me again: “…I like the speargun, the jacket, and the smile.

Pam “…yeah, I asked my parents for a speargun for my twentieth birthday.”

So jam is being enjoyed within our family, Pam’s buoy keeps me foraging throughout spring and summer, and in a few weeks Pam’s friend Kate along with ~40 to ~50 grandmothers, mothers, daughters, grandfathers, fathers, sons, aunts, uncles and their dogs will arrive for the annual crabbing event in mid-July to a place that must feel like home. What they might be experiencing is the greatness in people that surround us without knowing the all the reasons they feel that way.

It’s late August that same summer. I see Pam with her son Alex sitting quietly on the deck and decide to walk over to wish Pam Happy Birthday. Her son Eric, his wife Regina and their new baby just departed so everyone could take a pause from what was to be a crabbing trip. I feel the spark of inspiration to share the story with Alex. Alex says nothing until I see what I have come to know as the “holy shit look” crossing his face when seeing the picture of his Mom. Pam’s not that interested because she only looks forwards—now that’s badass.