Economic engine starts with salmon

By Susan Chambers Staff Writer
November 11, 2006

World Photo by Susan Chambers Commercial salmon troller Bob Kemp holds one of his cans of Capt'n Bob's Fresh Catch smoked Chinook salmon in Coos Bay on Oct. 3. Kemp, who fishes out of Newport, was one of a few fishermen who fished during the limited season set by federal fishery managers this year. He also adds value to his fish by having it canned and available for sale.

Fishermen scramble to find new niches to make a living

CHARLESTON - Maybe it was Sen. Joanne Verger who said it best: “They are the economic engine of this section of Oregon.”

The Democrat from Coos Bay was talking about commercial salmon fishermen from her district during a meeting with federal fishery managers in July in Charleston.

It was a forum during which the local fishing industry attached numbers to the disaster in the wake of a lost commercial season this year: so much here for insurance, so much there for liferaft re-packing; bills in the hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars at the gear stores; a percentage of shipyard crew lost due to fewer boats hauling out; one ice plant closed due to a lack of business.

It wasn't an easy point to get across. The salmon world peg doesn't fit into the business world hole of 9-to-5.

The exacting calculations of economics don't translate well for an industry so closely tied to the environment of tides, phases of the moon, rainfall, ocean temperatures and pockets of feed.

Nonetheless, every troller knows the salmon fishing “schedule” and by the business of fishing, works some of the money he makes from catching Chinook into the local community.

But none of that happens without the fish.

Or fishermen.

Two fishermen, one goal

Newport troller Bob Kemp and Charleston fisherman Tommie Hockema are about as different as Chinooks and coho.

They're similar in that they both depend on and catch salmon, Kemp on the 48-foot Judy II, Hockema on the 38-foot Kluane, a skinny boat that's really big enough for only one person to fish.

But not this summer.

Kemp is older than Hockema by about 20 years. His family didn't fish but, “we were a boatish family,” Kemp said. He was 7 when he got his first boat, a skiff he'd take out on lakes and bays near Bandon. This summer, he's followed the current of Klamath River issues, going on the road to other parts of Oregon and California, talking to Klamath Basin farmers, Indian tribes, the public and fishery managers about salmon.

Hockema has taken a different tack. He's young and has a young family. Hockema's family has fished here for years. His dad and his uncle have boats just three slips down from his boat, the Kluane, on D-Dock in Charleston. His brother's boat is next to theirs. Fishing runs thick in his blood, but he's not dropping hooks in the ocean this year. Instead, he's doing maintenance and repair work on other people's boats.

“I'm keeping food on the table and that's about it,” Hockema said.

In September, Hockema was hard at work fixing some leaks in the F/V Little John in Charleston. Using a reefing iron and tools seldom made anymore - he purchased one, a caulking mallet, at an antique sale - he tap-tap-taps between the planks of the Little John to clear the way for new cotton and oakum caulking.

His enthusiasm is evident as he talks about wood boats. His voice has an odd cadence of accentuated syllables that betray determination and a humble pride in his work.

“By God, I'm going to stop and learn,” he said of his journey in studying the repair of wooden vessels.

Former wooden boat builders and shipwrights taught him the trade over the years, after his boat needed some work a few years ago. Instead of paying someone else to do it, he decided to do it himself.

“When you've been around boats all your life ...,” Hockema said, the rest of his thought undone but evidenced by the care with which he treats the Little John.

Do it yourself

Like Hockema, Kemp decided to do things himself.

But instead of maintenance, he concentrated on markets.

Technology has been his friend. He doesn't find the tools that make his business run in antique stores; they're available through marine electronics shops and on the Internet.

“I've got a whole houseful of electronics,” Kemp said with a laugh.

He takes a laptop computer on the boat or on the road, with satellite and cellular hook-ups so he can get his e-mail. He also can download current sea surface temperature charts - handy while fishing for albacore tuna - and a satellite picture of the chlorophyll layer of the ocean, an indicator of where salmon may be feeding on other fish.

“These tools are pretty effective if you have a lot of area to go work in,” Kemp said.

His boat is big enough, barely, to follow the “bite” - areas where there are a lot of fish. In years past, individual fishermen relied on an encyclopedic group memory of fishing patterns, fish behavior and ocean characteristics, handed down through generations. Radio modified that. It allowed fishermen to communicate, oftentimes in their own peculiar codes, and alert other trollers to areas where fish were plentiful. Everyone on that channel could hear the chatter. The advent of cellular and satellite technology insulated fishermen further, allowing running partners to talk without trollers nearby listening in.

Kemp is not a highliner - a top fishing boat or captain - but he makes a living. His fishing days were limited this summer since there were restricted openings north of Florence, unlike Hockema, whose fishing season was closed completely and whose boat remained docked all year.

Kemp takes advantage of “value-adding”: putting a private label on salmon and albacore canned at Chuck's Seafood in Charleston and Sportsmen's Cannery & Smokehouse in Winchester Bay. He also is a member of a small processing cooperative that uses a facility in Newport for cold storage and the process of fileting, vacuum-packing and freezing the fish.

“We use it to ‘high value' our fish to try and get more for the amount of fish we had,” Kemp said. “Early on, that didn't make sense for one person. Before, you could make it up on volume.”

Roughly 15 percent of Kemp's salmon catch last year went into Capt'n Bob's Fresh Catch canned salmon, he said. He also uses this “expensive business card,” he said, to educate the public about what small-boat, hook-and-line fisheries are all about. They're also for sale: Each can of salmon goes for about $6.

“If you don't have that volume, the only thing you can do is look for new angles to sell your product,” Kemp said.

It starts with a fish

While Kemp was traveling this summer and Hockema was working on boats, fishery managers and politicians continued to work on ways to get aid to the industry and to design seasons for next year. It's something few of those involved would normally be doing.

The closed season this year also has given fishermen time to consider the future. Next year could be as grim as this one.

Cell phone bills have gone up as fishermen struggle to communicate with politicians.

Some fishermen have pushed the limits on their credit cards.

A few trollers have filed bankruptcy as bills pile up on the table.

Businesses are losing patrons.

Canners are canning less fish.

Shipyards are losing employees.

An ice plant closes.

An economic engine grinds to a halt.

All for want of Chinook.

Kemp is worried about losing markets the industry re-established a few years ago, yet despite the bleak outlook, he's still attracted by wooden boats and the romance of the sea.

“Personally, I don't feel like I can only fish anymore,” Kemp said, noting that he likely will have to continue canning his own product just to make a living.

At the shipyard in September, Hockema is a half-mile from where the Kluane is docked. On a “for sale” sign in its window is written in the corner: “(with) salmon permit.”

Hockema's working on other fishermen's wooden boats so they can go trolling for albacore.

But he'd rather be fishing.

“If I could fish (the Kluane), I'd fish it,” Hockema said, with barely a hint of resignation in his voice. “If somebody'd buy it, I'd sell it.

“But I really don't want to sell it.”