on the cover / By Heidi Walters

People of the Crab

He’s got a good crew this year, he says. There’s this young guy, just out of the Marine Corps, who moved here from the high desert in the fall to study marine biology at Humboldt State University on a Veteran’s Upward Bound scholarship. That program sank, so he thought he’d get an ocean job. And this other young guy — dark-haired, nice smile, silver chain around his neck and wiry know-how looks — two years ago the Sundown almost lost him. It was his first year crabbing.

“It was about 4 a.m. and we were coming around the Head and the boat was listin’ and pitchin’,” recalls Mike Van Duzer; he’s a local boy, family’s been here since the Gold Rush. “And I had a heavy tote of bait in my hands and I just got off balance. The railing hit the back of my thighs, and picked me up, and threw me over. The other deckhand, Steve, was standing right next to me.”

They swung the boat around, fished him out of the dark with a buoy stick and warmed him back up. “Next day I went back out. It’s what we do.”

Ruby Rollins, who grew up on the rancheria, comes out of the little office where she works alongside the weighmaster. She’s been on the dock for seven years. One of her sons is a crabber — he’s out there now. Another son works on the dock. Her daughter works at the casino, up at Cher-Ae Heights. Rollins worked there once, too, but this is much better. She’s done everything: flipping bins, weighing them, driving forklifts, and now jotting down catch data and such inside the little pier-end office with the big windows.

“We’ve had orcas come in here. Last year we had 150 Risso dolphins. They’re rare. And last year, on Mother’s Day, we had a cow and calf — gray whales.”

The worry can get to her, though. “Sometimes it’s a blessing and a curse to work with your kids,” she says. “Especially when the boats come in late, and last, and it’s dark, and you’re worried about your kid out on the water. And the other kid’s on the dock, and someone drops something, and you wonder, ‘Did you just crush my son’s hand?’ The other scary thing is when you see the Coast Guard helicopter go by.”

Moon

Night, again, at the Woodley Island Marina. The pulp mill glitters down on the spit; its spotlit plumes billow near-level with the water, wads of puffwhite breaking off and racing north. Sky’s clear, still, though. Wires clang and ring against masts, wind whistling low among them. Wives and girlfriends and children have walked down the skinny piers to find their fisherfolk, and then walked back up to the land and gone home. The few couples out here still, like Marge and Steve Salo of the Jeanette P, have finished sundry repairs and are now staring at the pretty moon and shivering in the sudden sharp cold. Killdeer sweep low and land running in the grass behind the workyards, calling out. Gulls, one after the other, slice overhead, each one letting out a rough short bark into the wind. The fat quarter moon hangs above the masts and wires. Later on it’ll be vanquished by the fogbank and then, perhaps, will hook its horn into the heaving sea and sink down, down to the ocean floor.

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