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three weeks, it was gone. That’s what crab fishermen did in those days. There was no shame to the game.
    —Josh
    Whether he was out in the precarious Bering Sea or back in the familiar surroundings of Bothell, Phil Harris was never far from a party. And most of the time, it was his party.
    His wild days and nights, both in Dutch Harbor and on the back roads of Bothell, are legendary. “When we came in with a load of crab to the cannery,” said Joe Wabey, Phil’s first captain, “it would take two days to off-load it. That gave us two days to drink, party, sleep, and party some more while also getting in a few boat chores.
    “Phil was a colorful guy, huge when it came to partying back when he was one of my crew members, but he sure had the ugliest girlfriends I’ve ever seen. He would hook up with the cannery girls—I guess we all did in those days—but his girls were distinctive. There was one we called Fish Face because her eyes were out to the side ofher head and she was kind of grey in color. He had another one that looked like the old greasy-haired rocker, Patti Smith, but she was really nice, the nicest of the group.”
    Phil fit right in with the wild bunch that walked the streets, caroused in the bars, and worked the docks of Dutch Harbor, a port within the city limits of Unalaska, population 4,376. Dutch Harbor is a focal point for commercial fishermen, seafood processors, and all sorts of boat operators.
    Vessels badly damaged by the ravages of the Bering Sea usually wind up in that harbor, designated a port of refuge by both the state and federal governments.
    Thousands of ships enter Dutch Harbor brimming with fish that is soon shipped all over the world, reaching markets in North America, Europe, and the Far East. For the last twenty-two years, Dutch Harbor has led the nation in seafood exports, handling almost 1 million tons of seafood annually.
    Just getting there is an adventure. Fishing in the Bering Sea is like a dip in a wading pool compared to the danger of landing at Dutch Harbor Airport. It’s like trying to touch down on a large life raft, the uninviting waters of the sea waiting on either end of the runway for any plane that misses its target. Compounding the problem are sometimes-ferocious winds and the ever-unpredictable storms.
    When first-time visitors ask if they can fly out on a specific day, they are told, “Nobody can be certain of leaving Dutch Harbor when they want. They leave when they can.”
    Danger has long haunted this town. A century ago, an epidemic of Spanish flu decimated the population. In 1942 in the midst of World War II, Dutch Harbor, site of a U.S. naval air station and army barracks, was bombed by twenty-five Japanese fighter planes in a two-day battle that left forty-three American servicemen dead, and a ship, oil tanks, barracks, and warehouses damaged or destroyed.
    Today, bald eagles, drunks, and a vampire are the biggest threats to the population. The vampire was a local who, according to the Los Angeles Times, was found with blood all over him, wandering around town on his bike, claiming his ex-girlfriend had turned him into a bloodsucker.
    The Unisea bar, advertised as the spot “Where Fish and Drink Become One,” is packed with crazy characters looking for a few hours of relief after weeks at sea. On any given night, many in there look like a cross between Jack Sparrow and Long John Silver.
    And right in the middle of it for thirty-five years was Phil, his gravelly voice, bleary-eyed look, and distinctively tattooed arms standing out even in that crowd.
    “He was definitely rough around the edges,” said Keith Colburn, captain of the Wizard . “There were guys in the fleet who were straitlaced and operated by the book. They were superprofessional mariners. You’d never see those guys in a bar. They were there for a reason, and that reason was business.
    “Phil knew how to mix business with pleasure. He understood that sometimes you’ve got to have a