Late fifties, early sixties Alaska. Wooden boats and iron men. No GPS, no Weatherfax. You best know how to read the wind and waves. Out in the wind, and on the water, would be John. His smallish, underpowered, no nonsense, double-ended fishing vessel was perfect for the consummate bachelor whose lover and mistress was the sea. Until she stepped aboard.

A hippie chick, all layered up in wool and down, long hair and beautiful smiles, jumps on without permission and says she wants to find what fishing is all about. Now, boarding John's boat without a "Permission to come aboard" would usually get you a long walk on a short pier; but John got all bashful, explaining that "Out there is not a romantic notion, just hard work and heartache." She stood resolute (Later, the name of the boat.) During a tour of the boat, after they were underway, she asked about the bathroom. John casually pointed to a covered wooden bucket lashed to the floor. The look of horror let John know that a chink in her armor was evident.

Never-ending is the thrill of casting off the dock lines. Into the unknown. The salutes to the other vessels in the boat basin as you slowly chug to open water. The calm of the harbor, to the ripples, give way to waves and wind. The delicious taste of salt from that first spray when the bow buries. The increasing green tint to John's neophyte shipmate. Suddenly she sprinted down below, with John bellowing, "I wouldn't do that!"

Let me explain. A man at sea alone will almost always whiz over the lee side and poo swinging from the bob chains. The bucket is used only in extremely bad weather, or when tied up at the dock. You dump it after you are offshore away, or when you get around to it.

Seasickness is terrible under the best conditions. These were not. Some of the softer turds had dissolved in the urine due to the agitation. This slurry was diluted by the vomit, and therefore made more lively by the motion of the boat. This fact that this mass seemed to want to leap out of the bucket increased the ferocity of the retching. Her long hair held out at arm's length to keep it out of the splash. She looked like she was holding her own hangman's noose.

The puke gave way to the dry heaves, followed by what I call a Shirley McLain: vomiting stuff from past lives. Finally she crumpled, passed out.

After a few hours, she staggered on deck. "Where can I sleep?"

He'd thought she would start begging to go back. "Use my bunk. I won't need it as long as the fish are biting. Maybe twenty or thirty hours."

Then John got another surprise. "How can I help?"

The day trip turned into two, then a week, then a season. As the boat was chugging back to the dock for the last time that year, she came on deck with two mugs of coffee. They looked out on the beauty that is Alaska, smelled that wonderful mixture of salt, diesel, fish and coffee. The satisfaction of a good catch and a profitable season.

"I put a toilet seat on the bucket," John said, continuing to scan the horizon.

"I noticed. Thank you," she replied, doing the same.

"That is as close to a marriage proposal as you will get."

She looked at John, who was now trying not to look at her. "I know that, too."