As a break from my studying, I just checked into the Sitka Soup, Sitka's local paper. Here is one of the treasures that I found (no author mentioned, in case you are curious).


December 15, 2005

‘Twas the night before Christmas -- throughout Sitka Sound
Not a creature stirred anywhere on the fish grounds.
The hootchies were hung in the wheelhouse with care
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The swabbies were nestled all snug in their berths,
Dreaming of boat shares they soon would be worth.
And Mom in her Hellys and I in my Tufs
Had just set the hook where it wasn’t too rough.

When out in the spray there arose such a flapping,
Till I found what was up I wouldn’t be napping.
Athwart to the starboard I jumped with some dread
Threw open the porthole and stuck out my head.

And what should the dark waves I visaged now feature
But a mythical skiff drawn by eight ocean creatures.
With a little old captain so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his denizens came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
Now, Coho!, now Humpy!, now Ling Cod!, now Orca!
On Herring!, on Dolphin!, on Gumboot!, on Tuna!
To the top of the swell, to the top of the squall,
Now dash away, dash away, dash away, all!”

As the whitecaps that drive before a big blow,
Those fishies rose out of the waters below.
Right onto the deck of our boat up they flew
With a skiff full of toys and St. Nicholas, too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the deck
The slapping of tail fins in one steady “thwack!”
The scraping of metal, the screech of the latch
And there was St. Nicholas, in through the hatch.

He was dressed all in rubber, in greens and in reds,
All covered with slime and remains of fish heads.
A duffle of toys he had flung on his back
And he looked like a fishmonger opening his sack.

His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples, enchante.
His stomach the size of the ferry Le Conte.
His smiled in the shape of a boat front – the bow –
But he smelled like a section of seldom-scrubbed scow.

His gut was bleached leather, the tone of a bellyfish,
That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jellyfish.
He was corded and gnarled, a right salty old tar
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of his scar.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his craft,
Depositing goodies for all, fore and aft.
Then, laying a finger aside of his neck
He swept himself upward, back out on the deck.

He sprang to his boat, to his mates cried “We’re legal!”
And if that little skiff didn’t soar like a seagull!
But I heard him exclaim as he sailed into space
I’ll be back! Russian Christmas is here in
12 days!”