In the 1960s (and today), for kids living on the west side of West Seattle who liked to fish, there was no close place to go. No legal place, that is. But there were three piers within easy walking distance, three giant piers that took you way out over deep water. Three perfect piers for fishing. But then (as today), fishing there was taboo, forbidden, a big no-no. Come along now, as two young boys decide to go fishing.

It was a summer morning in the late 1960s, and my friend Larry and I were about to set off on our latest adventure. But I had some misgivings.

"We might get arrested," I said.

"Nah, we'll play it like we're just a couple of stupid kids," Larry said. "They won't arrest us."

"Okay. You got bait?"

"Yep." And he showed me his year-old jar of fish eggs.

"They look a little dried out. Are they still good?"

"We'll find out. But let's dig up some worms, just in case."

Tackle boxes in hand, we marched down to the Fauntleroy ferry terminal. The two of us then nonchalantly walked onto the dock, as if we were just going to board the ferry. We came to a spot halfway out on the dock, next to a big 'No Fishing' sign, and stopped. Nobody would be bold enough to fish there, so we'd not get a second glance. (Or so we thought.) We looked down into the dark green water below, and saw our prey. A half dozen fat perch were languidly swimming around the black pilings, lazily passing the time thinking about whatever it is perch think about.

"Look at those nice boys up there. Maybe they'll send down a snack," said perch A to perch B.

"I hope it's not dried out eggs, or mangled worms," said perch B. "I could go for some bacon."

Standing next to the 'No Fishing' sign, we dropped our egg-baited hooks into the sound. We wondered how long we'd have before getting caught. Long enough to snag a big one if all went well. But all did not go well. After a half hour of fishing, the fish disdainfully eyeing, but not biting the bait, a worker manning the car ramp saw us and asked if we could read the sign. We stared back, acting dumb (a role we were born to) and, after an awkward silence, said "What sign?"

But the jig wasn't up, not quite yet. It was now time to activate stage two of our ingenious master plan. We packed our gear, bought two walk-on tickets, and in short order were sailing the sea to Vashon Island.

On Vashon dock we stood next to another 'No Fishing' sign, and dropped our worm-baited hooks into the sound. We wondered how long we'd have. Long enough to snag a big one if all went well. But all did not go well. After an hour of fishing, the perch sniffing, but not biting the bait, we heard "Shoo... Shoo." One of the workers was hollering at us like we were pesky flies. The jig was up. We debated taking the ferry to the Southworth Dock to complete the final stage of our triple play master plan. But, as the fish were not biting, we decided to call it a day. So we packed our gear and waited for the boat back to West Seattle.

No perch filled our creels as we sailed home, just candy bar wrappers and empty pop bottles. But it had been a full day.

Thoughts of future adventures filled our minds as we walked home through Lincoln Park. What would be next? An expedition to the joke store on First Avenue was desperately called for. We were dangerously low on plastic poop. But something else was calling us. We had planes on our brains, for the first gigantic 747 had rolled out of the factory just the year before, and we could occasionally see it flying overhead. So we decided to make our annual pilgrimage to that glorious Mecca of free airline giveaways. Come with Larry and I next time, as we raid a dozen downtown offices in search of airplane plunder.

Bruce Bulloch may be contacted via wseditor@robinsonnews.com

Marc Calhoun

Adventures from West Seattle - Part 2: Ferry Dock Fish Tales

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