Ingredients:
• 4 large baking potatoes, baked into a 400 degree oven until fork tender, about 1 hour
• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
• 1/2 cup heavy cream
• 2 cups crabmeat, picked over for shells and cartilage
• 1 cup shredded medium sharp cheddar cheese (4-ounces)
• 1 tablespoon grated yellow onion
• 1 ½ teaspoons kosher salt
• Paprika for sprinkling

Preparation:
1. Increase the oven temperature to 425 degrees.
2. When potatoes are cool enough to handle, cut a 1-inch wide strip from the top of each. Carefully scoop out the pulp, leaving the shell intact. In a large mixing bowl, mash the pulp with the butter and cream until smooth. Stir in the crabmeat, cheese, onion and salt. Spoon evenly pack into the shells and place on a baking sheet. Sprinkle with paprika and bake until heated through, about 15 minutes.
3. Remove from oven and serve once cool enough to eat.

One of our salesmen, who will remain un-named, had taken one of our brand new Weldcraft aluminum boats home on his lunch hour. He had sold the Weldcraft to a customer that was actually on his way to Y Marina to pick up his boat that very day. The salesman figured he would put fuel in the boat on his way to lunch, that way it would be ready to deliver when the customer arrived. What he didn’t think to do before he left was put tie downs on the back for the boat to secure it to the trailer.

He filled up the boat with gas and proceeded home for lunch. After a quick bite to eat, he hopped back in the truck and headed back towards Y Marina. To gain a perspective of where this all took place, the salesman was traveling on Ocean Boulevard in Coos Bay, right between Domino’s Pizza and Modern Floors. The salesman traveled down a small side road, to avoid the lot of traffic that Ocean Boulevard can sometimes have. At the end of this road there was a very sharp and somewhat awkward turn that must be made to enter Ocean Boulevard. A turn he had taken a thousand times before this faithful day. He stepped on the gas and proceeded onto Ocean Boulevard when the unthinkable happened.

The right rear tire of the trailer had clipped the curb, which sent a huge jolt through the boat and tossed it right off of the trailer. The boat landed on its side, and slid across the road into traffic. Within minutes there were several people on the scene; local law enforcement, several onlookers and even the local news! A group of onlookers, as well as the law enforcement that had arrived teamed up and actually rolled and lifted the 22’ aluminum boat back onto the trailer. This boat weighed approximately 3000 pounds, so this was quite a feat.

Remarkably the boat was relatively unharmed. There were a few paint scuffs and a minor dent, but considering what the boat had just gone through it was minor damage. The customer that had purchased the Weldcraft did not end up taking that boat home that day. A brand new boat was ordered for him. Ironically enough, the very Weldcraft that had taken the tumble was sold a few days later, as-is! The customer was impressed on how tough the Weldcraft hull truly was!

We had all learned something that day. Always, not matter how far you are going, make sure that you have tie downs on your boat. You never know when a curb is going to sneak up and ruin your day. Oh, and Weldcraft builds one tough boat!

40 Miles Out

The alarm alone is not enough to make you want to wake up at 3:30 am (4:00 if you sleep in), but you rouse yourself out of bed anyway, for other reasons. Instinctively you head to the coffee pot, turning it on before you realize you are even awake. While it drips, you slip into an old pair of blue jeans and a flannel shirt which should become very messy by the end of the day if all goes well.

Thankfully, you already loaded the equipment into the boat and hitched the trailer to the truck the night before. All that remains is for your buddies to show up; they always seem to be running 10-20 minutes late on days like this. That short delay can quickly turn into an extra hour in line at the boat launch. Breakfast fills your stomach while you wait for them, a hearty array of doughnuts and strudel – along with more coffee.

Thankfully, the guys actually show up on time this morning, much to your surprise. Apparently, they are just as eager to get out as you are. Everyone piles into your rig and you head off down the road. The drive is filled with conversation, like warriors hyping themselves up for battle. You and your friends relate past tales of a battle and glory, all surrounding a single fish. - Thunnus alalunga, the albacore tuna - the smallest of its species, but pound-for-pound the most powerful.

The drive to Depoe Bay should take around 2 1/2 hours, but with all the excitement and caffeine coursing through your veins, you make it in two. Arriving at the dock around 6am, there is already an impressive array of boats lined up getting ready to launch. Fisherman are running around making final preparations, discussing the strategy for the day, checking equipment, loading up each boat with ice. Like Romans preparing for an invasion, the war is about to begin. The armour of each tuna warrior is a waterproof overall bib, normally seen on commercial fisherman to repel the rough Alaskan seas. In this case however, the water is of no consequence; these bibs are to repel the blood that will be spilled in combat.

As the curtain of darkness is lifted and once some sense of your surroundings is visible, the exodus begins. Boats launch one-by-one, each navigating a harrowing passage to the freedom of the ocean. Even at high tide the mouth of the bay (if it can even be called one, being more of a large hole in a sheer rock wall) is dangerous – only a 10-foot grace on either side is allowed. Waves crash alongside your boat, nearly throwing you into the sea-wall and only your navigation skills as a skipper save your boat from disaster. This danger is nothing new, there is always some risk involved with tuna fishing.

Once clear of the hole, you punch the throttle and depart. Boats head out one-by-one, single file, a line of refugees on their way out of bondage. The sun is just beginning to peek over the coastline, greeting the back of each fisherman with a warm blast of orange as they rocket out of the shelter of Depoe Bay. A stiff wind kicks up chop on the water, although that should subside the farther out your journey takes you. The ocean has been forecast to remain relatively calm today, but conditions can change on a whim when you’re forty miles out.

The two-hour ride out to the tuna grounds is, for the most part, uneventful. Your mind starts to daydream with thoughts of what may be and what has happened before. Conversation is sporadic, for the most part once again relating past adventures, all of which simply excite you more for what is about to take place. As you head farther from shore, a look over your shoulder shows the coastline, seemingly no smaller than when you left it, while simultaneously becoming more immense, the expanse of the continental landmass stretching across the horizon with each mile you gain.

A pod of Dall porpoises patrol the waters offshore, hunting boats with which to play. Your vessel is the next prey, with the pod coming up to the front of the boat while it is underway. These small whales like to ride the bow wave as if it was an amusement park ride, jumping in and around the forward wake of the boat. The wave pushes them along, giving the porpoises a free ride. They have no direction in mind, simply desiring to have fun with these aliens in their world. Heading farther out, the pod soon grows bored with your boat and moves on to another vessel farther back in line.

The radio is a constant chatter as fisherman trade “numbers” across. These are latitude and longitude coordinates, supposedly of locations where fish were caught on day’s previous trip. They are traded across the VHF channels as baseball cards, some fisherman going to private channels to keep their secret safe from prying ears. Although more of a way to decide the general fishing area, the coordinates hold the value of winning lottery numbers and can have an equal payoff or loss. Numbers change like stocks, following the schools of tuna, becoming more valuable as the day goes on and fish are located.

As the distance closes and the water temperature rises from the mid 50s to the 62 degree mark, the surface appears to be a gigantic bathtub, completely flat, unaffected by the tidal fury closer to shore. The sea itself is what can only be summed up as more “true” out here, trading the murky dark green of the coastline to the deep blue of the open ocean. This blue is beyond comparison to any other shade in the world, a hue of such richness that it almost seems artificial. A color of innocent purity belies the abyss over which you now float, thousands of feet. Sunlight becomes lost on its journey earthward out here, completely absorbed yet sent away, giving the ocean an inner glow, a life of its own.

Staring into nothingness, you can now fully understand why, as a child, when coloring in water with crayons or paints, the color blue was chosen; as if we as children instinctually know that this is the true color of water. This is what the majority of our planet looks like, yet so few humans ever get to fully experience this up close. A picture from space gives some idea, but only a fragment. Something can certainly be said to being face-to-face with the ocean, no television to filter its essence.

Pulling your gaze from Blue, your mind quickly comes into focus as the comm crackles with the announcement that people are starting to put rods in the water. You make the call to start fishing and everyone begins to rig up the rods. Leaders are tied up to the lures, fishing line the size of spaghetti noodles albeit infinitely stronger, able to withstand over 100 lbs. of dead weight. The lures themselves look like some kind of rubber squid-like creature, in a variety of ornate designs and flashy colors, sporting gigantic eyes that seem to stare back at you no matter at what angle you look at them. Some resemble painted cigars, others, the head of a tapeworm. Tropical Christmas ornaments, they hang from an array of rods stacked in the corner of the stern of the boat. Enormous hooks jut from the bottoms, almost magnetically attaching themselves to anything and everything that could possibly hold them. Hand lines are let out as well, nothing more than parachute cord with a bungee snubber attached near the tie point. For the fish that become attached to these, it becomes a simple test of muscle.

Once the lines are all let out, the boat is brought up to 9 miles per hour for trolling, a speed faster then any other fish. Rods are set so that when a fish hits the line, the reel makes a very loud clicking sound, alerting you to a strike. All eyes except your own are fixated upon the back of the boat, eagerly waiting for the sound, your eyes scan the water in front of you for any fish that may be on the surface feeding.

Minutes begin to pass, their exact number lost in the moment. Suddenly your ears hear the sweetest sound on the ocean, a slow clicking at first, which although only lasts a second or two, echoes in your head for much longer. The clicking instantaneously erupts into a harsh buzz, gaining in intensity as the fish is hooked. This causes everyone in boat to jump out of their seats in a race to be the first one to grab the rod out of the holder. You grab the radio and holler a single word that causes every boat in sight to immediately converge on your position: “FISH!”

At this point, everything hits the fan. The one hand line is taut with the weight of a soon-to-be catch and suddenly another rod starts up its exhilarating chatter. Your three crewmen have their hands full so you have to lend a hand. The boat comes to a stop just as the first fish is brought to the side. Gaff in hand, you lean over and position it under the fish, knowing that if it realizes what is about to happen it will take off, stripping line with a renewed frenzy, almost ensuring a lost fish. At the ready, you pull upward and catch the tuna just below the gills, hauling it aboard. Once on the deck it uses every muscle in its body to start complaining, thrashing about as if hit with a stun-gun. Leaving the catch to the one who caught it, you repeat the process two more times and soon the deck is filled with vibrating tuna, each one being quickly dispatched with a bat and bled to keep the meat fresh. Your yellow overalls are no longer clean.

In the blink of an eye the insides of the catches are replaced with ice then placed into a cooler to keep them fresh. The deck is slick with blood and as your crew sprays it down, a crimson cloud begins to appear in the water behind you. With fresh blood in the ocean the sharks should be on their way.

The whole ordeal lasts barely ten minutes with the crew putting lines back into the water before returning to their seats, restoring the scene to its former tranquility that was shattered only moments ago. The only evidence of any conflict is the red stains that seem to have found their way onto your front windshield and your heartbeat almost drowning out the engine roaring in your ears. The radio is a constant flutter with everyone wanting to know where you are. Knowing that this is a group effort, you broadcast the numbers, like a soldier calling in coordinates for an air strike, knowing that a barrage of crazed tuna fisherman will soon descend on your location. The lures that caught fish are requested as well, with names such as Mexican Flag, Zucchini, Purple Haze and Cedar Plug telling the fisherman to re-arm their weapons. Soon boats are swarming from all directions and as they go over the schools you can hear war-cries carrying across the open water.

The previous scene of carnage repeats itself one, two, three more times; all before eleven o’clock. Each battle fills the boat more and more, and soon you are closing the lid of the third ice chest. None of the fish are very large, ranging from football-sized eight to ten pound “chickens” to the larger 20-plus pound “pigs”. Almost as quickly as the fishing began it comes to a stop, the radio becoming deathly quiet. It seems that the school has moved on to deeper waters.

Noontime rolls around, and with a friend at the helm, the warm sun finds you starting to nod off in a back seat, the excitement of the day and gentle rocking of the ocean drifting you off to a well-deserved nap. The tuna however, have other things in mind.

Like a siren, the reel begins singing its alluring song, driving you from your near-slumber onto the offending rod with a ravenous hunger to set the hook. The pole pulls back with more force than normal, taking line faster than you can reel it in. A fluid pumping motion on the tackle tries to draw the fish closer, but to no avail. You tighten the drag, moving the battle from the rod to your muscles. Slowly the distance shrinks, but with each passing second, the burning in your forearms accelerates. This is an enormous fish. Once sighting the boat, the monster decides he wants nothing to do with you or your friends, letting you know that he still has more swimming to do. Before you regain any control, he has given you an entire football field of line to busy yourself with. As your face scrunches with the strain and your arms seem to swell from the exertion, you now understand just why Popeye looks like he does.

After 20 minutes of this exchange you convince your underwater counterpart to come back to the boat for a closer look. As he nears, your gaff-man leans over the water to take a look and make himself ready. He comes back up wide-eyed and pale-faced, stating: “We’re gonna need another gaff.”

The other hook is found and both men hang over the side, the beast quickly receiving a chin and tail full of hook. The line is still taut when they lift the fish aboard, the sudden slack sending you falling backwards onto the deck, face to face with “TunaZilla”.

A Japanese monster-movie in the making, the shaking behemoth begins destroying everything in sight, knocking tackle boxes over as if they were small buildings, spilling the inhabitants on the deck. You leap onto the invader to hold it down while bringing your club into play over and over and over again until it stills. Collapsing onto the deck to regain your breath, you know you are done fishing for the day.

Rising from the struggle bloody and beaten, you realize the size of the fish you have just caught. Forty pounds is enormous for an Oregon-caught albacore, as large as a small trashcan. The fish completely fills the unclosed fourth and final cooler, taking with it your last reserves of ice and ability to catch more fish. The numbers are relayed to those on the radio still trying to fill the last of their coolers and you begin to head back to shore. Someone else can play captain this time.

Once you reach shore the real work begins: cleaning the fish, washing the boat, driving home, canning tuna. With that knowledge in mind you lean back in the chair to take a quick nap, letting the rhythmic movement of the boat rock you to sleep.

It has certainly been a good day.