Seining is a very complex process requiring six highly skilled individuals doing the right thing at the absolutely right time. This usually means pulling on the correct line, yelling the appropriate curse word or getting out of the bunk just before your cabin mate decides to put his buttcrack in your face. Buttcracks in the face are a serious problem when living in such tight quarters. Timing is everything. If you know it's the time of month when underwear gets changed, it's best to be on deck before the anchor comes up.

Once the skilled crewperson is on deck, the dance of the seine begins. I have outlined the intricate procedures below. Pay close attention. Your skipper will expect you to know every fucking detail even before you step foot on the boat.

When it comes time to let the net go, be sure that you stand clear of everything that's whipping around on deck. This includes lines, web, and cigarette butts. Yes, unfortunately it's time to get that last precious puff on the Camel, but not because it interferes with your work. Rather with all the water and slime flying around, your only reason for waking up will inevitably get soaked.

After the net is set, there isn't much for the crewmembers to do. This really disturbed old-time skippers so they invented plunging. In theory slapping the water with a little aluminum cup on a stick is supposed to scare the fish into the net. In reallity, it keeps crewmembers out of the galley and away from the Playboy collection. Notice the Seventies carpet on the back deck, a perfect quick fix for snags. (See tying the bucket under the hydrolic leak.)

Plunging only lasts until somebody starts making sandwiches three minutes after the net goes out. Three minutes after that it's time to nap, read or participate in handycrafts. This goes on comfortably until the skipper gets mad. He's angry because he's the only one working so he starts screaming that jumpers (jumping salmon) are going by the boat because nobody is plunging. Those few fish could make an entire season's market.

Eventually the 23 minute break known as the net-in-tow ends. The sound of the approaching diesel engine signals the skiff coming in, but don't make any radical movements. You still have a good three minutes to finish glueing the finishing touches on your toothpick igloo. The skiffman may not appreciate this after sweating and toiling for the last half hour, but everyone knows that the skiffman is a pussy anyway.

Now comes the misery of bringing in the net. If you're on the pile, you stand underneath jellyfish, seaweed and whatever else gets stuck in the net raining down on your overpriced raingear. The skipper now reaches the height of abusiveness, yelling every curseword in the book because you can't read his mind. These are the good times.

After the dance ends, the fruits of your labor are at hand. You may have thought you were catching food, but the cannery makes more money grinding your hard earned fish into fertilizer. Hence the reason that seining doesn't pay so well anymore.