Australian Crayfish

Nineteen years ago. I was backpacking up the eastern coast of Australia. The flight from Auckland dropped me in Sydney. I grabbed a pamphlet from a well-placed shelf of lodging advertisements and took off. I soon found I was living next door to prostitutes, strippers, and drug addicts.

This is great.


Signs down the street advertised Live Girls!! Such an ad made me think of the alternative—something like a meat-packing plant with lovely carcasses hanging from chains while Rocky Balboa beat the crap out of 'em.

One day in Townsville, I shaved my head for the first time in my life—with a razor—down to the roots. The next day, I got a peace sign tattooed on my right arm. The next day, I rode my bike past one of those "Live Girls!!" signs, stopped and asked if they had any need for male strippers.

"Well, yeah, on Wednesdays. Do you have an act?" asked Slick, the manager.

"Yeah, I've done some stripping," I replied truthfully—I'd performed at one birthday party in Palmerston North, New Zealand.

"OK, but one more thing," Slick added, "Don't tell the other dancers that I'm paying you. They might get pissed off."

After two months, I found myself at a smiling hostel in Cairns—as far north as I would get. I liked the area and I thought I'd traipse around looking for a job. I put my name in to do clean up work at a new hotel, and at another place where they were setting up a magazine shop.

On December 22, a girl at the hostel walked into the pool area smiling. "Anybody want to go scrub crayfish? There's a guy out here wants to know if anybody wants to go out on his boat for 10 days."

I heard that, thought for 2 seconds, Yeah. I felt superior to the drunken partiers around the pool who thought the idea was shit.

As I walked out, Andrew Fergusen, looked up. "You going to check it out?"
"Yeah," I grunted distastefully.

The captain said all we'd need is a couple a jocks (I figured correctly that this was just his word for what I would call 'underwear.') and maybe a hat. We would be scrubbing crays and cutting apart sharks for fins and livers.

For a farm boy from Iowa, the thought of working the 'high seas' off the Australian coast was like holding a carrot in front of a hungry rabbit. "That sounds like it would be a great experience." My words thinly covered my excitement.

He'd be back in two hours to take me to the harbour. "If any of your mates want to come, they can."

"What'd he say?" asked Andrew.
"He'll be back in 2 hours."
"How long will you be out there?"
"I don't know."
"Where's the boat going?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think it will be tough?"
"I don't know."

To tell the truth, I was trying to dissuade him from coming with us. So far all I'd seen from him was an immature juvenile, terribly timid and afraid to assert himself. He seemed like a guy who does everything he thinks he should do.

Conversations with Andrew were laborious and pointless. Once I said, "I wrote home that I'd been approaching a lot of things on this trip with the attitude of "Just do it."
He immediately said, "Don't you have that attitude in the US?"

I was offended, and made no secret as I said, "Did I say that?"

In a grocery store, he came up to me with a fat smile, looking like a clown and said, "James, do you want to share a watermelon?"

"No."

"You don't like watermelon."
I'm annoyed when people jump to such conclusions. "No, actually, I love watermelon. Just not now."

I told him often that it was annoying how he would say things that are stupidly obvious. I first said that to him on the boat. I said something about how the crew members with negative attitudes do their job and resign themselves to it so they can endure the hardships. I then said, with a knock to me forehead, "Oh, man, that sounds like something you'd say. Something so fucking obvious that it's not worth saying at all."

I should have given him more credit just for coming to the boat. I didn't look on the trip as anything but fun and excitement. It was like my private party—I was selfish—I didn't want his insecurities to ruin it for me.

I went to the library to turn in a couple books and a cassette tape. Bought motion sickness pills.
I called home. "We're going to catch crayfish….Well that's what he said… I don't know…Maybe that's the Australian name for lobster."

"What's name of boat?"
"I don't know."
"What's the name of the captain?"
"I don't know. I don't know where we are going, either. Oh yeah, the captain's name is Terry."

In my journal, I wrote:
Dec 22 4pm Andrew's here now. If I hadn't come, he wouldn't have either. I hate his attitude toward life. He's all worried about how much work and time.
We went from Cairns to Mourilyan Harbour in Terry's truck. We formed an unlikely threesome—Terry was a huge, gruff, hairy, unkempt-looking fellow—250 pounds minimum, massive beard, rotten teeth, and scarred, rough hands—100% Australian fisherman; Andrew was an 18-year-old mama's boy from Sydney; and me, a 24-year-old intellectual wannabe from Iowa. I didn't mind sitting in the middle of the front seat, even though that is the spot reserved for the lowest man on the totem pole—I have no time for silliness.

Terry dropped Andrew and me at his shed. When we pulled up near the boat at the harbour, we were free for a short time while Terry did final preparations for launch. The rusty tools, bolts, bits of wire, and pieces of equipment were exactly like a farm shop. I was happy.

I'd found a place working on a boat in the ocean. Man, I could do this for months. I wonder if there is a trawling season? How often does a person get to do something they want to do as much as breathe and get paid for it? Romantic images of the young men going out to sea filled my little brain. I was Leonardo after he won the ticket to sail on the Titanic.

The song Down in the Silvermine, by Diesel, sets the tone well. "Hear how the band is playing bye to the boy whose leaving home. Hurry the whistle's blowing, anchors away, I'm on my own; far from the girl I left behind, no time for tears an sorrow…"

Walking around the dock, I wanted everyone to know that I had a job on a fishing boat that was going out to sea! No one to impress. I found a hamburger stand nearby. I'd been spending the bare minimum to survive for nearly a year. This time, I pigged out--two beef patties, tomatoes, cheese, lettuce, mayonnaise, pickles, onions, mushrooms, mustard, ketchup, avocados, relish . This beast was dripping stuff all over the dock. I was really happy.

Also on the boat would be Jon, the 17-year-old high school drop-out first mate. He would be the conduit through which Terry would give us minions 'advice.' John Eustace, a guy Terry had found in a bar, showed about 5:00. Very loud, obnoxious idiot from start. Fitting every stereotype of the ugly American, if I didn't know better, I might think he was the brother of my stuck-up college roommate from New Jersey. He leaned down to me while I was on the boat, looked me crisply in the eye, and grabbed my hand like it was a contest to see which of us was tougher—a contest I wanted no part in.

After another day at the harbor, we took off. I was on a boat charging through the water, dolphins racing alongside. Unfortunately, Andrew and I were sick on the way. That monster burger lasted little more than an hour. We anchored and Terry began mending nets.

Christmas Eve-- mended nets all day. At night went with into Dunk. J and J each bought bottle of whiskey and drank on beach.. They had one thing on mind…when they got the booze, all problems were solved.

Dec 25 8 pm Definitely an exercise in dawdling with the intellectually handicapped. Terry is a classic. No patience. Negative patience. "Fucking" every other word. Really. Knows everything mechanical, nothing mindful. I realized today that to be appreciated for my intelligence takes intelligence from others.
In Terry's log book, he wrote down who was on the ship. I was know as 'Yank'. I thought it was funny.

Nets went down and up twice on Christmas day and 24/7 from then on. When they were down, my impression is that the nets floated through the sea like a huge vacuum gathering anything in the vicinity for four hours. As the nets were coming up, Jon, John, and Terry would guide the line. Terry stood right at the hub (a big spool) and used a 1-meter pipe to direct the line into smooth rows so it didn't overlap. Andrew stood next to him and painted 'Black Jack' a grease of thin viscosity, onto the rope.

Dec 25 I can't figure myself out. I am an introverted loner at times, while at others, I am gregarious super-flirt. Andrew's sick, they are giving him hard time, like assholes.
Dec 26 Noon Tue They're really giving it to Andrew. I'm on his side, but I have them convinced that I'm not so bad.
During the first week, I was struck by the thought, "I'm just not supposed to do this forever." That's when Andrew said the wisest thing I heard him say,

"I'm playing the wrong game." Andrew and I talked how "those guys know how to do this … and that's it. Their only enjoyment is tipping the bottle."

This was precisely the case. It's like they want to forget about their fucked up lives so they drink themselves out of their minds.

Dec 26 8:30 Andrew and I have decided to keep a pleasant outlook.
One might appreciate my situation when they consider the insults I was throwing at Andrew before we left. On the boat, he was my buddy. Life is relative. He and I thought we'd try to maintain a pleasant attitude. I said, "I know I'm playing the game, so I'm going to act like I'm enjoying myself."

I sometimes felt like I was sloughing off while the nets were coming up. Everyone else had a specific job to do. All I did was wait for the boards and skids to rise out of water. When that happened, I took my 10-foot gaff, reached out and hooked the rope that is attached to the nets and pulled it onto the boat, dumped the booty on the tray.

Terry and John were the sorters who, in addition to crayfish, kept prawns, octopus, sharks, shells, and crabs. The rest would be thrown back into the sea for the sharks swimming along side. The sharks reminded me of seagulls following a disk through the corn field as it turns the soil and uncovers worms and bugs in the dirt.

We used brushes to scrub a layer of scum off the crayfish scales. We were holding onto the crayfish by their antlers—long appendages that came out from their heads. While we scrubbed, Andrew and I were relentlessly bombarded with abuse. John, who we began to call Asshole No. 2 always put on a fierce sounding voice and what must have been a mean expression—I never looked because I didn't want him to get the idea that I was paying any attention to his badgering—and said, "Come on." It was uncanny—he said the same thing every time. "Come on…thirty seconds…Come on." over and over. He wasn't even smart enough to vary his insults. It was like what Eddie Izzard said about British cops—they don't have guns so they say, "Stop. And if you don't stop, I'm going to say stop again." You'd think he'd get tired of it.

After the stuff was boxed and we cleaned up the deck, John, Jon, Andrew and I alternated taking the watch while Terry slept. Three of us would go to the bunks—immediately unconscious—exhausted, no matter what time of day it was. The fourth crew member served watch up in the wheelhouse, a room connected to the captain's bed. I was never really sure what I was doing up there.

The antlers of the crays were jagged and spiny—their last line of futile defense against us ripping them out of their homes. After two days my hands were shredded with clumps of skin hanging off. This didn't bother me—I've always hated hands that feel like uncooked bread dough and I love calluses. Soon, every muscle cried out for relief. It was like the first days of two-a-day high school football practice. I was constantly reminded of my position on the bottom.

Who is Asshole No. 1? Terry Kinnaird

Kinnaird sent word through Jon, that we were not to take any showers because we needed to conserve water. Seems like pretty poor planning to discover that you don't have enough fresh water on the second day of a 10 day trip… OK, I thought, that's no big deal. I was ready for sacrifice.

The first day out, December 26, while Kinnaird was winching up the nets, he called John to get him a piece of something. John didn't know what he wanted. John was panicking because he could see the big man was mightily pissed off. John ran to Jon—he didn't know either. Then to Andrew, then to me. None of us knew anything. The next thing I know, Kinnaird is swinging the pipe at John in the doorway of the galley. I'm watching a man beat another man. John is screaming, "I don't know."

"Well, maybe next time, you'll pay more attention!"

Then John trips backwards over the bulkhead and falls. Kinnaird continues to hit him. John lifts his arm to block the blows. When he becomes unsatisfied with the damage he was doing with the pipe by swinging it into Jon's arm, Kinnaird jams it into his face.

I was shocked into silence. A day later, I asked John what he thought he would do about the assault.

John said, "Oh, I know why he smacked me. I'd have done the same thing."

Who ARE these people?

Dec 27 3 pm Andrew asleep during the graveyard shift. Nets down to 140 fathoms. Terry punched ear and back of head. Andrew came down, then shot back up, was shoved to the floor by T- on his way out. Negative patience. How it is on boat—must get along. No choice. I enjoyed morning shift. Talk to T- for awhile about farming. Bit with A- at 4:00 am.
I was feeling slightly superior because I had not been hit.

Dec 27 9 pm I was writing during my watch. Terry saw, grabbed, and said, "What's this? Want it thrown over the side?"
Of all the dastardly things he might have done, I can think of none more vile. I remember a broadcast of Saddam Hussein during his invasion of Kuwait when he tousled the hair of some Kuwaiti kid like he was a friendly uncle. The kid was terrified. That's how I felt when he threatened to throw my journal over the side.

Once when Andrew threw the nets into the water. Kinnaird disapproved of his performance, so he punched him.

2 jan 4:30
Last night, we winched up the nets. I thought for good. When discovered was wrong, was devastated.
"Where's the rag that's supposed to be here!" Terry yelled. "Somebody get me a fucking rag!" I was the only one without a specific job, so I was happy to look for a rag. I looked around the galley, but found nothing.

"Where's my fucking rag!" I could feel his face getting red and his beard bristle. I still couldn't find anything.

I thought, "Here is a dish towel, I'll see if that's okay." I handed it to him.

"Who gave me a tea towel?!?" Smack, right in the mouth. I fell down over the bulkhead onto the floor below the sink.

This is the most horrible experience of my life. A nitemare. Continues 2 more weeks—maybe. Terry wanted a rag on wench—not there. I scurried around for another. Couldn't find anything. Took tea towel to him. Hit me twice in the mouth. Fat lip. Still bleeding.
Please God, help me through this. Many days ago, I said that my only goal is to escape with my life and no permanent injuries. Every prayer that anyone has ever said for me, please direct it toward getting off this boat. I am just bearing this—will make the rest of my life so undoubtedly wonderful. I will compare experiences to this. God, I'm begging. I ask you with my whole heart, mind, body. Thanks.
One time when the nets went down, the line was hooked under some kind of exhaust pipe on deck. I don't remember exactly what the pipe was for; the key is that the rope was pulled ever more taut by the pressure of the nets. The force of the nets must have been unimaginable. It broke without fanfare and apparently drifted with the nets.

When we pulled up the nets after four hours, Kinnaird casually said, "Someone's going to have to get that rope."

The rope was the one that I customarily would catch with the gaff. I wanted to do it. It was another example of my capricious lust for adventure that had brought me to the boat in the first place.

It was a pretty straightforward task—jump over the edge, swim over to the rope. Sure, I had taken a photo of the sharks that swam beside the boat, and no, the captain didn't slow the boat down. Maybe he had already slowed it down. One must understand that as with nearly everything else, I had precious little comprehension of what was going on.

So I jumped into the water, and slung the rope over my shoulder. I swam back to the boat and I climbed up. No cheers, no accolades for a job well-done. I started scrubbing. The next time I woke up, the sheet was sticking to my chest. The rope had rubbed burns on my chest and neck—they were weeping, raw scrapes. A couple days later, the scabs looked like lizard skin.
A couple days before the end of the trip, I coiled up a rope and placed it neatly on the deck. I did a good job, I thought, because I had some experience doing such things. When Kinnaird asked who had rolled up the rope, I proudly said that I had. I was expecting to be praised for my work. After another smack in the mouth, I revised my expectations. I wasn't supposed to leave the rope on the deck—it could fall off and flip the boat over somehow. I stopped trying to understand.

At one point, a small boat came near us. It was a launch from a larger boat nearby. They asked for something. We didn't give any help. They were off our starboard side for only a few seconds. After they were gone, I imagined jumping over the side and getting in their boat; but I'd have had to say goodbye to my tape player that had been my constant companion, my camera, and my journal, which was worth more than anything. The mind can grow accustomed to the most atrocious reality. By the time the little boat visited us, I was used to the Manx-I's air of hostility—it would take more than a few smacks to the mouth before I would throw away my journal.

Since the physical abuse began immediately after we began trawling, it might seem as though Kinnaird was trying to create a mood of fear and absolute devotion to his rule. Except for Andrew sleeping in the wheelhouse, the punches came at times when it was impossible for us to know what the expectations were. But the fact that he continued to let punches fly until the bitter end gives failing to this idea; when we were finished trawling, why did he still need to enforce our loyalty with an iron fist? I can conclude only that he was mentally off balance.

For the last week of the boat trip, I was merely moving my body, disconnected from thought. We pulled up a shark, someone cut it open, and seven baby sharks spilled onto the deck. Kinnaird threw the baby sharks back into the sea. I didn't understand this, either; we had kept and cut up many sharks of exactly the size of the babies. Maybe he was showing his softer, gentler side. I had no time for it. I overheard something about the shark barely fitting into the freezer. Andrew repeated it. A full freezer would mean that we'd have to quit. I didn't want to get my hopes up, though; they had been trampled before.

On January 9, after 18 days, our 10-day trip on the ocean was over.

10 jan. Police came to harbor to escort us away. Terry and buddies were around and very drunk. He's a happy drunk and was really chummy. One of the cops knew him and arranged for us to receive our money. Told police we had no interest in filing complaint. The cop who didn't know Terry, however, came back to the hospital with a sergeant to talk to Andrew. Told him they would really like him to file a complaint.
The police came and took us to the hospital. Andrew was admitted because he had something called 'ulcers' on his legs. I went back to the youth hostel. For the next few days I had a feeling not unlike that of Gary Paulsen's character, Brian, in Hatchet. Brian had been in the Canadian wilderness by himself for 89 days and returned with a lust for milk shakes and hamburgers.
The atmosphere on the boat was us (Andrew and I) vs. them (Kinnaird, Jon, John). I can't get my head around the idea that John, the first recipient of Kinnaird's insanity fully backed his wickedness. I consider why I didn't do anything in retaliation. My unfamiliarity with ways of the ocean, my minority status, and my fear of failure kept me from fighting back.

On January 20, 1990, the Cairns Post ran an article with the headline, "US backpacker tells of 'nightmare' trawler trip." Many people say things like, "I would have hit him with the pipe when he was sleeping." If I had killed him, or even disabled him—all injuries have the possibility that they will be permanent—I would be the bad guy. He'd done nothing serious to me. Who is to say what story a jury would believe, anyway? Of the people on the boat only one other crew member would see things from my point of view.

At any other time, I would have loved to stay on the boat. If I would have gotten along with the captain, or at least he didn't hit us, I would have stayed with the boat and worked there for several months. I understand now why Kinnaird had to go to bars and backpackers' hostels to find crew members.

I have a deposit slip from March 5, 1990 indicating that I received $250 Australian. It was from the Innisfail Magistrates Courts Office, representing "Compensation CF141/90 T.A. KINNAIRD UNLAWFUL ASSAULT CAUSING BODILY HARM r. 594428 12/02/90. (February 12, 1990)

After I came back to the States, I asked a lawyer if it was possible that I could charge this guy with something. He said maybe, but captains on the sea have nearly unlimited power. I'm sure I could've found a lawyer to file a huge personal injury lawsuit. That is an opportunity I have missed. But what kind of opportunity is that anyway? An opportunity to ruin another person's life isn't attractive.