I knew the halibut on my hand-line was very large and must have weighed over 180 pounds. It is undoubtedly a female, I thought to myself as I carefully maintained a steady pressure on the cotton line, using every part of my body to hoist her to the surface. I could feel that she was hooked by the lip and likely to come off the line if I did not remain present in the moment, with its energy and every movement however subtle. Unangan people do not use gender to distinguish male from female halibut, but we would know.
Halibut are one of the strongest fish in the Bering Sea, known to fight so fiercely that inexperienced people could get hurt once the fish is on board the small fourteen-to-twenty-two-foot craft we Unangan typically use around Saint Paul Island. Inexperienced fishers usually let the halibut fight before subduing it onboard. “Respect the sea and the halibut,” we would always hear as children. “Otherwise, you can hurt yourself.” Self-responsibility, -awareness, and -respect were only a few of the many life lessons taught to us by the halibut and the Bering Sea. If you got hurt, it was not the fault of the halibut, the sea, or the weather—it was your own doing.
I took my time as I hoisted the large halibut up from 150 feet off the rocky sea bottom, one-quarter-mile offshore and eleven miles from the village. If she wants to fight, go with her energy, don’t fight back. Honor its life force and the halibut will know to give itself to you. The wisdom and lessons given to me by my Elders were guiding me now. I knew that if the large halibut turned its head downward, it would have more physical power through momentum than either I or the cotton line could manage, so I had to maintain a steady pressure on the line. Any hesitation in my efforts and the halibut would know it instantly, causing it to swiftly turn downward, perhaps ripping the hook out of its mouth or breaking the fishing line. I could feel its energy. This was a powerful, wise, and old halibut. It knew to conserve its energy until an opportunity to escape presented itself, or until the last death struggle. It did not fight on its way up, its way of acknowledging my skill. As the halibut came into view, my partner, on her very first halibut fishing trip, gasped in astonishment at the size of the fish. I knew I would need another person besides myself to gaff the halibut, so I instructed her while I continued to slowly bring the halibut to the surface. When we gaff the halibut, we use a three-foot-long piece of shaped wood where the lower part fits the hand, with a bent sharpened metal piece fixed to the top end of the shaped wood to grab the halibut when it surfaces next to the skiff. The gaff is also used to stun the halibut when it surfaces so it won’t flop around when in the skiff.
Do not let the nose of the halibut hit the air before you are ready to gaff; otherwise, it will start fighting, my inner voice of generations stated. I had caught this fish adjacent to a riptide area filled with large rocks, so I had to watch the speed and direction of our drift while bringing up the halibut. The riptide zones can cause a boat to drift a half-mile in ten minutes, and the direction of drift can reverse in the same amount of time. I had to be aware in the moment regardless of what else was going on.
Finally, the halibut rose to the surface. I could see that it was about a five-and-a-half-foot female, as I had felt when it first struck the line, and it was hooked only by the lip. One misdirected gaff movement and it would rip the hook out of its mouth and be gone. Before I could gaff the large halibut, the boat rocked to the swells caused by the riptides, causing the halibut’s nose to lift into the air. It immediately arched its muscular back and powerfully thrashed its tail in the air, heading back down to the bottom. I let the line go but kept a slight pressure on it. I had to be completely one with the halibut if I was not to lose it. I had to know its intentions before it acted on them. Too much pressure on the line and the halibut would be gone. Too little pressure on the line and it would be gone. It had to be precise, and I had to know exactly when the halibut was about to reach the bottom in order to turn it back upward with its own momentum. To bring the halibut back under my own muscle would ensure that the halibut would be lost. Today people might call this Zen fishing, but for me, it has always been the way of the Unangan.
I felt the halibut beginning to turn, and I gently increased the pressure on my line, bringing its head back up and continuing to haul again. There was no struggle, only weight. The fish was conserving her energy for when we would face each other again.
I was going through a ritual my Unangan ancestors had undoubtedly experienced over the ten thousand years of our intimate relationship with the Bering Sea. Taking a halibut in the proper way and mastering it is a rite of passage into adolescence and, ultimately, into manhood. It was part of an experience that connected me directly with my ancestors: they had felt the energy of the halibut just as I did; they had loved the Bering Sea just as I did; their emotions had no doubt been the same as what I was experiencing with a halibut on the hand-line. (Prior to the invention of the cotton line, my ancestors used strong lengths of kelp.) The smell, taste, and feel of this wondrous place in the middle of the Bering Sea were the same as what my ancestors experienced. This sea is my experiential history book and a personal link to my ancestors.
Historically, our seafaring technology had been the most sophisticated of any North American culture when the Russian fur traders found and enslaved us. Our people had traveled in high-seas kayaks to places as distant as southern California, the Pacific Islands, and the coast of Japan. Our craft were known to be the best open-water kayaks in the world. Having built a traditional Unangan kayak, I learned that its sophistication is based on the superior ability of the kayak to move with every nuance of the sea, from the most overt to the most subtle. To construct such craft required a profound understanding of the Bering Sea, an understanding that has remained relatively intact to this day, despite the genocide and severe cultural disruption Unangan experienced for more than two hundred years. It was this very same kind of understanding I was using to connect with the halibut on my line. Like the kayak to the sea, I had to intimately connect with the halibut in order to feel its every nuance and intention, in order to succeed in bringing it on board. This connection is the foundation for what is often termed by Native peoples as our traditional knowledge and wisdom.
At five years of age, I was introduced to the seafaring ways of my ancestors. This rite of passage began with a group of children clustered around a man, known in the village as “Old Man,” cutting halibut on the emerald green grass next to his home. He had just come back from a fishing excursion with a load of halibut caught from a fourteen-foot New England–style double-ended dory powered by a ten-horse outboard motor. The halibut would be used to feed the Elders, widows, and disabled first, then his extended family, and finally his own immediate family.
I was part of the group of children who watched with fascination and wonder as Old Man skillfully and carefully cut the halibut into special parts for specific kinds of meals—soup bone cuts, steak cuts, fish pie cuts. Even more fascinating for me was to see what was in the halibut’s stomach—sand lance, octopus, and small king, tanner, and horsehair crab.
Suddenly, Old Man, bronzed from windburn that resulted from the day’s outing, cut the halibut’s heart out and held it out to us, moving around inside the circle of children. “Whoever will eat this halibut heart raw will always catch as much halibut as you will ever need whenever you go fishing,” he proclaimed.
We all stepped back, startled by this gesture. Then, without thinking, I said, “I’ll eat it!”
Unbeknownst to me at the time, this old Unangan tradition determined who was ready to go to sea to fish for halibut. Unangan wisdom taught that whoever would have enough courage to eat a raw halibut heart would make a good student. This ritual also determined which child was a risk taker and willing to experience the unknown to learn new things. The entire community reinforced these ways by actively offering learning opportunities to children who demonstrated this kind of curiosity. From the time I ate the halibut heart, my extended family and men in the village would take me out fishing whenever there was an opportunity.
A month after I ate the halibut heart, my first halibut gave itself to me on a hand-line at age five on an outing with my dad. As is the Unangan custom with the first halibut, I was required to eat its heart to become “one with the halibut.” The spirit of the halibut entered me the moment I swallowed its heart. For hours, as we continued fishing, I gazed at the halibut that chose me. For the first time I experienced a deep and special connection with that which gave my people sustenance for millennia. In my open child mind and heart, I felt that the halibut and I were part of the same fabric that makes up all things, and my respect and reverence for the halibut took on a new meaning.
My first halibut went to the Elders and my extended family, and one piece was kept for me to eat. Catching the halibut was exhilarating, but there was nothing like seeing the delight and gratefulness in the faces of the people to whom I gave the halibut. “Give away your first halibut, and halibut will always come to you,” the adults would say.
In the traditional way, I did not ask a lot of questions; instead, I was encouraged to simply observe what the men were doing and to mimic them. It was an experiential school that taught more by actions than I could ever have learned from words alone. The total number of words the men used in all the years of learning how to fish was less than the number of words I am using in this chapter. But, whenever there were words, they were filled with lessons. I would listen to my dad and the other men speak in Unangan with reverence about the halibut and the sea. They would comment on when the tide was turning or whether or not the “bottom was coming up” while fishing in areas where the sea bottom consisted of basalt rocks typical of volcanically created islands. As we drifted, the elevation of the sea bottom would change. Learning to be aware of the subtlest of sea bottom changes increases the chances of catching halibut. Most halibut feed within three feet off the sea bottom, although many times we caught halibut sixty feet off the bottom when it followed the bait on our hooks as we hauled the lines up. I also learned that, depending on age, halibut forage in distinctly different sea bottom terrain.
The Bering Sea is the Unangan version of the modern-day supermarket. Three-foot halibut were found in one area, four-foot in another, and five-foot in another. Through experience, and without the use of compass or map, I learned the sea bottom topography of the entire six-mile radius around Saint Paul, as well as the three adjacent islands that make up the Pribilofs. I witnessed how the men would take in information through the use of all their senses: from the clouds and their formations, the color of the water, the direction of drift, the speed of drift, the timing between tides, the movement of wind, the type of sea bottom, and the shape and movement of the sea in the areas we were in. I began to understand the value of self-awareness and the necessity of remaining connected to the sea, the air, and the land for success in catching halibut and for safety. I was learning an ancient language of communication with the Bering Sea, Mother Earth, and Father Sky, one that allowed our people to survive and thrive in one of the most challenging of environments for hundreds of generations.
I went through my next rite of passage at age eleven when my father gave me permission to use his boat and motor to go halibut fishing. I did not have to pass any competency test to earn this privilege because my father knew I was ready. My skills would match those of much older men who did not have the benefit of the Unangan way of knowing. I could navigate safely without a compass in the fog that predominated the summer months when the halibut were back from their southern migrations. I could feel, smell, and read the texture of the sea and air to know when it would be time to return to land to avoid impending storms. I knew how to “ride the skiff or dory” when caught in large swells or breaking sea. I knew what part of the day the halibut preferred to feed, and where and when they go to give birth. I knew the sea bottom like the back of my hand.
Although I was confident of my abilities and skills at this young age, I also knew to have humility and respect for the halibut and the Bering Sea. The price of arrogance in the face of the Great Mystery—all there is to know about the universe and all that exists—could be death. There was always more to learn from the halibut and the sea, even for the most accomplished seafaring person.
My thoughts came back to the halibut on my hand-line. The way of the hand-line allows me to feel the halibut directly and is our mode of direct communication. Through the hand-line, I can feel when the halibut is near the hook before it strikes, and this knowledge allows me to prepare for the lightning-fast bite on the hook. Otherwise, the halibut will take the bait before I can set the hook. I can tell if the bait is being sucked in, but not taken by the halibut, and I can tell if the halibut is simply moving its body across the bait to determine if it is going to take it. I can tell how the halibut is hooked once it is on the line—by the lip, jaw, gullet, or snagged on the body. This knowledge tells me how to bring the halibut up—quickly or slowly, gently or vigorously. I can tell the size of the halibut once it is hooked, and I can tell how much it will fight before hoisting my line. The ability to secure such information determines the degree of success of the fisher. Commercial long-line fishing techniques are devoid of this dimension of connection with the halibut. Younger Unangan men who chose the way of commercial fishing, without learning the traditional Unangan way, lose much in their understanding of the halibut and the ancient ways to communicate with all of nature.
Finally, with the help of my partner, I brought the great halibut into the boat. The wondrous and mysterious fish surrendered without further resistance. My partner’s eyes welled up in tears as we both realized the significance of this moment for the halibut and for each of us. The halibut’s death is filled with meaning as he gives its life to us with dignity, power, and grace so that we may sustain ourselves physically, emotionally, culturally, and spiritually.
Honoring the halibut in the way taught for generations, we spent the day carefully and respectfully cutting up the halibut, making sure not to waste any part of it. We returned its skeleton back to the sea so that the halibut could choose to return to feed someone else. We drummed and gave a prayer of thanksgiving. We gave away some of the halibut to many in the village, and there was still plenty to meet our own needs for the rest of the year.
I am thankful for the many blessings and bounty given to me by the halibut and the Bering Sea. After decades of traditional fishing, the spirits of the halibut and the Bering Sea continue to teach me, their Unangan apprentice, my place in the great Circle of Life. After all is said and done, this is the essential gift of wisdom from the halibut heart, given to all who have the courage to learn from, and master, the Unangan way of fishing for thousands of years.