Thrown into the deep end

When I was told we needed to bring a bathing suit for a jump in the pool at the end of the day, I had no idea it would be this hard.

My 43 classmates and I, taking part in the American National Fisheries Institute (NFI)’s 2014 Future Leaders program, have already learned a lot from lectures and in-depth plant tours, but it doesn’t get more hands-on than wearing a heavy neoprene suit designed for deep-ocean survival.

We spent the past three days in Oregon, taking in some tours of Pacific Seafood’s properties, learning plenty about fishing off the coast of the Pacific Northwest, but a lesson on the realities and dangers of fishing hit home at the end of the day on Wednesday, 9 July.

We settled in for the first “classroom” part at the Hallmark Resort in Newport, Ore. Our instructor, Mike Herlya, with the North Pacific Fishing Vessel Owners’ Association, showed us some footage of real incidents on fishing boats to illustrate what fishermen do right — and wrong — during a disaster.

Then, a show-and-tell lesson where we got to handle and use a lot of equipment now available to help fishermen in a crisis. There were flares of all types, including old-fashioned versions similar to automotive road flares, and some newer ones that run on batteries.

There were locator beacons of various sizes. The largest, about the size of a small shoebox, had a cubed shape at one end and a switch to activate a distress signal, complete with location, beamed automatically up to a satellite. In concept, it reminded me of the LoJack devices police use to find stolen cars. The smallest device could have been mistaken for a cell phone from 10 years ago, but it attaches to one’s clothes for convenience, and also broadcasts location using global positioning. Herlya informed us that they are similar to what hikers take with them in case they get lost.

Then there were what Herlya called personal flotation devices, ranging from foam rubber discs with rope to fling off the side of the boat to various vests and harnesses to the survival suits themselves, the ultimate form of survival gear. These full-body outfits are unofficially called “Gumby suits.” They cover every inch of you except for your eyes and nose. They are loose enough to put on even while fully clothed, but they cling tightly enough, especially around the face, to keep body heat in and water out — a necessity if you find yourself abandoning ship somewhere in the Arctic.

This was what we tried out at an indoor swimming pool. My legs went into the suit all right, but once I got one arm in, putting in the other became a struggle. The suit may be made of rubber, but it didn’t give much. I felt like I was fighting my way into a straightjacket, and finally needed a hand from NFI’s Cindy Jacobs to get in. More than once as I tried to pull this thing on myself, it occurred to me that if I had this much trouble in bathing trunks, I couldn’t imagine trying to do it while wearing fishing gear, especially on a ship that was sinking or on fire.

Finally, zipped up and covered, I stepped sideways into the water on command. I’ve jumped into countless swimming pools, but this was the first time in years that I had water forced up my nose. The suit kept me afloat, but at first all I could do was lie on my back. With half my head below the water line, my own movement kept splashing me in the face as I tried to breathe. I felt like I was drowning and being kept afloat all at the same time.

These suits were used, so some water did leak in, but I don’t think it would have been any easier if that hadn’t happened. I can only describe my movements as “awkward.” As I tried to position myself in a circle with a group of 14 other participants, it seemed all I could do was flail for the other swimmers, grabbing with the mittenlike covering over my hands — “Gumby” indeed.

And they weren’t kidding about retaining heat. It’s the first time I can remember being in a swimming pool and having sweat dribbling down the front of my face. By the time we got out, I was grateful to peel the suit off, and even more grateful to step outside after changing back into street clothes.

For many of us, it was the ultimate hands-on lesson. Some of my fellow classmates, notably those who were in, ahem, better shape than me, said it wasn’t so bad, but almost everybody said the experience was a challenge. None of us came away with any illusions that we were ready to be thrown off a fishing boat off the Alaska coast in the middle of the night in gale-force winds with smoke, flame and shouting crewmen behind us. Still, I think we all have a much better appreciation for the inherent dangers in this industry, which I think was the point of it all. It certainly gave me a new respect for the men and women who head out to sea every day, and what it takes to make sure they come back alive.

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