Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Edgar (l) and Sig Hansen in front of their now famous fishing vessel, the NorthwesternBallard Bullshit
©May of 2010
Lead Writer, Editor and Publisher: Richard Andrews
web: ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
"Where informed attitude counts"
Sig Hansen
Ballard's Catch, Deadliest?
"You cannot make a crab walk straight"
--Aristophanes
There were about 300 people in attendance. And as you loyal readers know, I am no respecter of persons. So here's this pithy-mouthed star of "Deadliest Catch", used to getting his ass kissed, now on his home turf. He doesn't ask for a drink, but gets one, from Karen, two people to my left. She's 50, and can prove her groupie status with pics of Captain Phil Harris, who died from a stroke. But she's hot, desirable. And Captain Sig lusts, it doesn't matter if he's in front of a throng. She buys him another drink, right in the middle of his monologue, and she throws another sip in front of his brother, Edgar. The Hansens' mother is to my back, a little to my right. She sees the chemistry--hormones are raging. Quite another catch. Sig asks the crowd if he can have a cigarette, and they quite unanimously cry 'No!' He walks to the only window near the stage, cursing his unsated addiction.©May of 2010
Lead Writer, Editor and Publisher: Richard Andrews
web: ballardbullshit.blogspot.com
e: ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
"Where informed attitude counts"
Sig Hansen
Ballard's Catch, Deadliest?
"You cannot make a crab walk straight"
--Aristophanes
This May 3rd collision happened at the Leif Erikson Lodge, 2245 NW 57th Street, here in Ballard. On and on his diatribe rolls, so interesting that even the Scandinavian elders, in their Nordic sweaters, have his full attention. Oh yes he acknowledges them, as well as his genetic forebears. Sig is a student of fishing history, but only into the 1940's. Before that, he admits ignorance. But what a detailed, and familial history that is.
Here's the enigma. Captain Sig admits that initially he allowed the network cameras run for just three segments. He never looked past that. And then the volcano of 128 countries loving his story erupted. As if in his wheelhouse, he didn't have to couch his words in front of this sassy crowd, nor did he. . .he was home.
And the hour and a half oozed with anecdotes worthy of a Mark Twain tome. His Mother beamed. These were her boys. The accolades were a plus to her loving commitment. After the 'show', I told her that my mother, at age 82, was still proud of me, with no fame. "Whatever her money, or your money, she loves her boy," she told me. Choked me up for a second.
Sig's drink of choice for the evening was vodka/coke. Dressed so casually in a grey shirt, designer jeans, and black engineer boots, you could easily have missed him if he had walked in front of Tullys, while you were bitching about the condos for sale. Brother Edgar was dressed-down as well.
Q and A time. I was weary of the standard fishing questions from the audience. Up my hand went. "Sig," I strongly asked. "I am an Alaskan from the Fairbanks area, and since there are no rules on language tonight, I write a newsletter called 'Ballard Bullshit.' A non-fishing question: What do you think of that young man up on Camano Island, his name is Colton--he grabs planes, he's 19, he's kind of our Robin Hood?"
Sig did not know, at all, what I was talking about. Brother Edgar did. "You mean that one up North flying airplanes and living in the woods?" "Oh yea," I replied. "The Barefoot Bandit" someone offered from the crowd. Sig, in his own way, resigned the question. He really didn't know, but brother did. "Maybe he's doing a bit of good," Edgar said away from his mic, almost inaudibly. All the rest of the questions for the entire evening were fishing related.
The brotherly love between Sig and Edgar was palpable. "I tossed him to the wolves and he's been chewed on ever since," Captain Sig offered. "But that's because Edgar runs other fisheries off the boat. He runs the deck on our ship. It's a good recipe." Sig knows his internal support system. He knows all these other minor fisheries, but Crab is his Muse. "Before all these rules and regs, when my Dad was out there, you just fished with very little oversight. The circle of laws were minimal. But, now we have more range, more technology, and that comes with a price."
I was warming to this supercilious specimen of the ocean. A perfect combination of arrogance and commonality.
Did you know there is yet a third brother, named Norman? "I think I screwed him as a child. Some light-switch turned him off to speaking Norwegian. Norman's trying now, if he's drinking, he'll talk," Sig reflected. And yet one more offering about the third wheel: 'Every camera man's dream is to say, 'I got Norman to talk.'" Revealing stuff there. Karen bought him another drink after this.
Someone proffered a question about the current Gulf oil catastrophe. A quite unexpected response was offered by Sig. "We can't control that,' he nervously offered. "There's always food to go around." Wow what a shit response I thought. And that was that, on to the next question.
"What's on board for you this year?"
"We'll be fishing out of Cordova this summer." Now to the rest of you readers, this is kind of an innocuous statement. But I have lived and fished in Cordova, and it is ground central for the entire North and East Prince William Sound fishery. Everything Cap Sig does, now, is monumental.
"How were the old days?"
"Well, all we really did was eat, sleep, shit, and fish." Sig is starting to get a little buzz on now. He waxes a little too gushy about his association with "Make a Wish" foundation. But the crowd eats it up. "I didn't want the limelight, but what you gonna do with it?. . . use it I guess." He wants a cigarette, badly.
The didactic discussion concluded, and I am a sucker for figuring out where the stars have to go, just after a presentation. Some have to take a piss, and believe me that is access to barriers. But remember that smoking urge. . . as in right now? Outside I go--a hundred people are lined up to get a personal signing for his book, inside. But he has to smoke. Well there he is, with just a couple of folks around. I pounce.
"Sig," I touch his shoulder. "I am a bigger asshole than you." He reaches his right hand out to shake mine, basically, a perfunctory hello.
"Um," he stuttered. "Really?" His grip tightened, then a wry smile.
"Really," I said. For once, he was speechless.
Then we chatted, privately. After that, as I walked the four blocks to my flat, I concluded there really was just one word to describe this incredible man: Authentic.
