Bay Area ‘Gentleman’s Fishery’ Turns Nasty

Nothing makes Mark Kuljis feel more alive than a strong run of herring on those winter nights when the hoarse shouts of his fellow fishermen compete with the complaints of sea gulls overhead.

On board the Lori Marie K, a 40-foot aluminum bowpicker named for Kuljis’ ex-wife, the gill net winds up from the coal-black water to deposit hundreds of foot-long herring that flop about the deck like ricocheting bullets.

The 46-year-old Kuljis is among hundreds of commercial fishermen who four months a year pursue the blue-green and silver catch within the calm confines of San Francisco Bay--where, unlike the Bering Sea herring fields, there are no perfect storms.

Working in what experts call one of the nation’s last remaining urban fisheries, boats like the Red Herring, No Problem, the Stress Point and Lethal Weapon harvest within the shadows of the city--off Alcatraz Island, beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, along the deserted Naval shipyards south of Pac Bell Park.

But after three decades of economic smooth sailing, the local herring fishery is caught between two unrelated realities: reduced local catch quotas and a shift in the culture and financial climate of an island nation half a world away.

In Japan, the primary market for Bay Area herring, tastes among younger Japanese are changing. Teenagers now eat more fast food and less sushi, including the sacks of golden-yellow herring roe, called kazunoko. And with Japan in a recession, their parents are forgoing the higher-priced roe herring for cheaper salmon and tuna.

The result: Fishermen who once earned $2,400 per ton of herring have seen the price plummet to $700 in recent years.

Jostling for Fishing Space

“Japanese teens would rather go to Burger King than eat sushi, causing a ripple effect,” said fisherman Bill Schoening. “Fishermen feel the pressure.”

The unstable market has brought new competition among the 150 boats that gather here from November to March, migrating from Alaska, Puget Sound and Monterey Bay. Tensions have flared when scores of fishermen jostle for space to catch fish as the herring spawn along the bay’s rocky shore.

In a 20-square-mile area once referred to as a “gentleman’s fishery” for its good-natured camaraderie, $1,000 gill nets have been cut. Anchors have been thrown through boat windshields. There have been fistfights and worse.

“During one scrape, a fisherman climbed aboard another boat with a knife in his teeth, swinging and cussing,” said Department of Fish and Game Lt. Keith Long.

Many boats have invested a small fortune in permits and equipment. Fishermen fight to protect their livelihoods.

“When you get a dozen boats stuffing their nets into the same place, it can get pretty testy,” said Schoening, a retired fire inspector. “It’s survival of the fastest.”

Now there are even fewer herring to be caught. In an attempt to preserve the fishery’s long-term livelihood, state officials have reduced the annual catch limit from 13,500 tons in 1996 to 4,500 tons this season.

The measures came after warm El Nino currents, pollution and competition for food with anchovies and sardines reduced the cold-water herring schools.

“This fishery is worth fighting for,” said Eric Larson, a state Department of Fish and Game biologist. “As America becomes industrialized, fisheries like this one that are close to home are being depleted--their habitats are gone.”

Since relocating to the Bay Area four years ago, Kuljis has watched herring catch numbers drop like an anchor toward the sea floor. As a result of the weaker market and diminished quotas, a herring permit that cost $60,000 several years ago when times were good can now be purchased for $5,000.

Kuljis, a Washington state native, comes from a family of fishermen: His grandfather, father and three uncles all trolled for salmon and herring along the West Coast.

When salmon prices dropped, he opened a Marin County anchovy bait business and joined the local herring hunt.

Kuljis says he has never seen such competition among fishermen.

Like the day that one sharp-elbowed bowpicker poached a fishing spot he had spent hours finding.

“I used to put up a screaming match with these guys,” he says. “But not anymore. Now I just find another place to fish.”

Out on the Lori Marie K, Kuljis endures more routine occupational perils. He and his crew must often navigate 10-foot swells and a strong undertow near rocks and piers while avoiding the speedy ferryboats. One man this season lost two fingers when his hand became caught in an on-deck hydraulic winch.

State wardens have worked to control the violence while preserving the size and health of the catch--ranking the San Francisco Bay among the nation’s five best-managed fisheries, according to the National Fisherman Assn.

They formed an advisory board of herring fishermen to improve relations and create a system of staggered fishing fleets so everybody gets a chance at carving out their share of the catch limits.

But the exhausting work of finding and catching the herring has become a covert game of spy versus spy. Boats hailing from the same cities work in teams, using radio signals, scanners and scramblers to keep their on-water communications secret.

“There are only a half-dozen large herring spawns each season, so finding one is striking gold,” Schoening said. “If you and your crew can be the first ones in on a good set, you can catch a lot of fish.”

Time-Tested Traditions

With a Sunday-to-Friday fishing window (leaving the bay open on Saturdays for pleasure craft), the two-man crews stay aboard the cramped bowpickers for days. Kuljis--a stocky man with a stud earring in one lobe--remains awake for 48 hours at a time, striving for his seasonal goal of 80 tons of herring in his hold. The 400 fishermen rotate so that only 75 boats and 150 anglers are working at once, a limit enforced by Fish and Game officials.

To track his prey, Kuljis follows time-tested traditions that range from echo-sounding sonar to following the tides and the phases of the moon. Veterans believe the herring won’t enter the bay until the anchovies and sardines are driven to sea by winter waters from the Sacramento River.

Most of the best fishing comes after dark during mean tides, when the fishermen scan the water for silvery flashes. At night, there is less competition with the birds and sea lions.

“During spawns, every creature shows up for a piece of the action,” said Larson. “It’s an all-you-can-eat feeding frenzy. Everybody wants to be where the fish are.”

On a recent evening, Kuljis prepares to pull his nets from alongside a deserted Navy dry dock.

“I dunno,” he tells veteran crewman David Hays, nicknamed Purple Haze. “There’s some Monterey guys. If we start now, they’ll summon every boat on the bay.”

But they crank up the winch and reel in the net. Resembling a cobweb strung from the boat, the net rises from the water as a machine called a shaker loosens the fish from the mesh. Soon, the deck is covered with flopping fish, their gills bloody from their struggles.

Kuljis and Hays wear tattered black raincoats to shield themselves from the coating of scales that soon cover the deck like a fresh snowfall. Nearby, another fully loaded bowpicker heads for port, a clutch of seabirds trailing like worried chaperons.

While the protected harbor provides less adventure, most fishermen enjoy their months on calm waters. “We can see the traffic jams onshore, but it’s quiet out here,” Hays says.

When the herring aren’t spawning, the boats huddle in groups and the crews trade fish stories. Some risk-takers head to shore for an afternoon matinee--wearing pagers in case the fish appear.

Yet the fleet’s proximity to terra firma causes problems.

Marin County homeowners complain about the racket during late-night herring spawns next to million-dollar shoreline homes.

Fishermen such as Schoening dismiss the complaints: “A few fuddy-duddies can ruin a good thing.”

But Kuljis admits that nighttime noise levels are often high. “When you’ve got all those fishermen yelling and motors roaring, it’s really loud.”

State officials now enforce no-wake speeds near shore, require engine mufflers and have reduced the use of noisy deck speakers.

They also outlaw the small M-80 firecrackers that fishermen detonated to scare the sea lions that patrol their nets. And they monitor the size of the mesh gaps so fishermen take only mature fish, allowing smaller herring to swim through.

Kuljis welcomes any scrutiny to save the only living he has every known. “I’ve never had a 9-to-5 job,” he sighs. “I’m a fisherman. This is what I do.”