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In the main, the profession of marine piloting shares the same objective wherever the craft is practiced throughout the world. That is: to protect life, property and the marine environment.
What is different however within the scope of this profession is the “where” and “how” the above mandate is accomplished. Western Alaska provides an interesting departure from the norm when it comes to ship handling.
Winter ship work in the Aleutians is a tricky and dangerous business. Ship maneuvers during these months are completed through efforts of intense concentration and skill. One of the more difficult aspects of piloting ships in this area of the world is dealing with the semi-permanent winter Aleutian low-pressure systems that form themselves over eastern Siberia. Beginning in October and lasting through April these massive weather systems come pouncing down on the Aleutian Chain and Bering Sea causing all manner of havoc. The challenge during these months for a ship’s pilot — or anyone else who works on the waters of Western Alaska — is not just how to make a living but how to stay alive as well.
The sand-dollar size Na Pali coast cliff crabs that live thousands of miles south of the Aleutians share something in common with the pilots who work in this region. These small creatures have learned how to survive and forage along the rough edges of a similarly restless sea.
Along the north shore of Hawaii’s Kauai Island is a stretch of coastline called the Na Pali Coast. This section of the island is only accessible by foot or boat, and is isolated by many steep cliffs and valleys. A trail runs along the edges of these cliffs, through the reclusive valleys and up around the spiraling rock pinnacles. At points along the trail where people must cross the nearly vertical cliff faces, the path is cut from soft volcanic rock. Many of these points dip down to where they run low and close to the ocean’s breaking waves. It is in these spots where, if you idle down, sit and let your feet dangle out over the edge, you can watch the emerald-green cliff crabs.
Below are the dripping wet cliffs of uneven broken black lava rocks carving themselves up from the turbulent sea. Attached by their aquatic tendrils to the cracks and crevices located along the tidal zone is a forest of limp, and swaying rubbery red kelp. Out to sea is the moving blue Pacific Ocean. Closer to land, the swells, generated by distant storms, roll toward the shore. Among these swells is the middle wave or, as they are sometimes referred to, the seventh wave. These are the behemoths of the bunch. As they draw close, these waves build quickly in size and strength as the ocean is sucked away from the base of the jagged cliffs, revealing pink, urchin-encrusted rocks. Here, the sea turns into a 30-foot wall of water and hurls itself with fury against the stony coastline with a deafening thunderous boom.
It is a thrilling moment as the ocean foams and rushes away, leaving the cliffs beneath your feet glistening and tranquil. A lingering mist freshens the air with its brine. Kelp flies start trying to land on you.
After the sea has returned to itself, the Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick cliff crabs scurry out from their protected places hidden in the splash zone and go about the business of being crabs. Propping themselves up on tiny spear-tipped legs, they skitter over the rocks like miniature crustacean sheep. Each crab’s carapace is shaped like the war helmet of a samurai, only more flattened. The claws of some pinch, pluck and pull like tiny tweezers at the slivers of something too small for the human eye to see. Others seem to just rest, looking at you with their protruding bug-like eyes before the next set of swells roll in.
Meanwhile, the sea is returning, gathering again for another one of her endless assaults. The crabs graze unperturbed, until the sea is ready to once again throw herself against the unyielding stone. In the distance among the steady line of rollers is the seventh wave. Sensing more than seeing, the tough and ready little cliff dwellers’ antennae start to twitch.
As No. 7 approaches the shore it rises, curls and begins to break. In the blink of an eye before it explodes into a blinding spray, every crab disappears.
That’s how piloting is done in this part of the world. Like the cliff crabs, in the calm between tall seas or passing storms, pilots venture out from their protected places and go about the business of being pilots.
Then, right before the maelstrom comes crashing back down, each retreats, and finds safety again somewhere inside what I affectionally call the Big Empty.
Pete Garay is a retied marine pilot who lives in Homer with his wife and three children. His hobbies include fishing, gardening, writing and oil painting.
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