A story sent to me by my good friend Jack Holder, a fellow author that I met while in the Outdoor Writers Association of California.
Jack grew up in Monterey, later lived in Fresno, and now lives once again in Monterey.
Squidmen of Monterey Wharf #2
Monterey 1959 Jack grew up in Monterey, later lived in Fresno, and now lives once again in Monterey.
Squidmen of Monterey Wharf #2
Monterey Municipal Wharf #2 is a working wharf; just an extension of Figueroa Street out into Monterey Bay about 200 yards. There are no gift shops here, no restaurants, no candy stores, not even a fish market. A flat pier, wood rails in some places, a ship’s tie down here and there, a few wooden ramps to access boats on the Marina side, some street lights spaced randomly and all along each side a wooden curb of sorts – to warn drivers that if they don’t stop, they will soon be sinking in the Bay. Yes, Wharf #2 is kind of plain. There is, however, a large tin processing building that sits on the very end of the wharf, it collects fish and squid from the boats and packs them in ice. In fact the majority of the space inside the old building is taken up by the stacks of boxes, dripping melted ice, smelling like fish. A large MONTEREY PACKING is lettered across the side of the west wall.
I should correct myself; there is a small coffee counter near the entrance that has fish and chips, really good fish and chips. Its tin Coca Cola sign is just about rusted through and the legs of its chrome stools are looking more like pier pilings all covered with tiny pits. The old leather upholstered tops to the stools are cracked, some horse’s hair sticking out in places.
Watching the fishing boats pull up to the side of the wharf; the crew and the workers at Monterey Packing hollering to each other in Italian about how many pounds they have and getting the boat in the correct position, so that the huge round net can be lowered into the boat’s hull and filled with fish, is wild. Often the crews are excited, the plant workers are screaming directions and the swells are large enough to make it tough to bring the boat alongside smoothly. And then when the net emerges from the hull, full of fish, the electric motor that controls the hoist for the net straining and groaning, the fish on top jumping (some back into the Bay), and more hollering; chaos takes over. Yes, it is wild.
Late summer usually sees the squid, millions and millions of them, come close to the shore. They come so close that Wharf #2 jetties far into their vast schools and it is then the squidmen arrive. They are an outcast looking lot. Mostly Japanese or Pilipino, wearing their oldest, most beat up clothing. Holes in baggy trousers, dark, dark stains on their jackets, shirts and hats and their shoes, well… their old leather shoes are held together with black electricians tape and stained beyond recognition of their original black or brown colors. Each carries an old towel.
The men share in that every one of them has hands that are leathered with small nicks and cuts on just about every finger. Fingernails are chipped, cracked and in some cases, totally gone. Some are wearing old gloves with the fingers cut out. And to a man, each is carrying a tin bucket and a long (say 15 feet) bamboo pole with about 15 feet of heavy braided line. The line has three large treble hooks tied about three feet apart and taped parallel to the line with white medical tape. At the end of the line is a lead weight or in some cases, a spark plug. About every third man has a gas lantern, some have the newer Coleman camp lanterns.
During the day this assortment of men would be thought of as laborers, farm workers or gardeners, but the squid only show up around Wharf #2 late at night, usually after midnight, so there is really no one to see them, except the other squidmen of course.
As they arrive; each seemingly has his own spot, kind of like your place on the pew at church; they lower their lanterns by rope down to about four feet above the water. Their buckets are placed about three feet to their left with their towels hanging on the rim and nearby will be a railing, piling or wood curb – someplace to sit.
They have been practicing this ritual since they were kids; their fathers did the same. And make no doubts about it, this is a ritual. “Basu, basu,” the Japanese holler as the squid approach, “Isda, isda,” the Filipinos. “Magaan, get the magaan,” the Filipinos scream to their buddies. “Koosen, koosen,” say the Japanese. “Fish, fish, get the lights,” It took a few nights, but I finally figured out what it was what they were hollering. And then the long bamboo poles, with their long line of treble hooks, are lowered into the schools of squid, so many in number that the deep blue water appears to turn white, and suddenly as the poles are yanked upwards and the squid impelled on the hooks, the squidmen lift their catches to the top of the wharf. “Inki! Inki!,” yell the Japanese; ink shoots everywhere – on your jacket, your pants, your face, in your eyes (oh yeah, I forgot to mention that they are all wearing glasses, many just safety glasses I’m sure) and all over the wood planks of the wharf. The ink is dark purple, almost black, and it is oily – where it lands, it stays…forever.
The leathery hands grab the squirming squid, unhook them and toss them in the tin buckets. The poles go over the side again and in almost perfect unison I see scores of poles dropping down, yanking up and again squid being put in buckets. This goes on for several minutes and then just as quickly as it started, it stops. The waters around Wharf #2 turn deep blue again.
The squidmen are sweating. The ever-present summer soupy fog of the bay is thick upon the Wharf, the air is cool, but the men are sweating.
“Pusit, so marami,” say the Filipinos. The chatter begins. “Isda, isda!,” and suddenly the school of squid are seen approaching. The poles go out, down, a smooth fast yank upwards and three more rubbery squid are taken off the hooks and deposited in the bucket.
“Why only three hooks?” I ask, “Four does not work”, my friend Milto answers. He is Filipino and his father and grandfather have taken him squiding since he was five. As with much of this discipline, the techniques are firm and unquestioned.
Words are few while the poles are moving.
It is quiet, the poles are in unison, the buckets are nearly full, and the squidmen are practicing their tradition, their ritual. It is a fraternity, perhaps not organized or even named, but it has no less bond that any.
Again the squid retreat, and again the chatter and then the squid come back once more. As the buckets fill the men sit. They stop fishing. Even though the schools of squid are still coming, the men are sitting, speaking in Japanese and Pilipino, mixed with English, they sit and talk. And laugh. The air is still, the fog has coated every exposed surface with drops of salt-ladened moisture and the men have stopped talking. It seems that calmness has enveloped the wharf or perhaps it is just a phenomenon, like so often happens with a group of people, when no one speaks and a room becomes quiet – for just a few moments, but here on Wharf #2 it happens every night at the end of this time honored ritual.
And then the men load up their buckets, lanterns, poles and ink drenched towels and start walking back to their cars. Talk begins again, good byes are said, there is more laughter and then Monterey Municipal Wharf #2 is quiet once again. The bark of an old sea lion echoes across the water; I look around. The wood planks are covered with ink.
