Annual FisherPoets Gathering nets a great catch
Published 3:30 am Monday, March 2, 2026
Like March’s proverbial lion, the 29th Annual FisherPoets Gathering ushered one month out and another in with a roar of exultation. Over the three-day event, at least 105 fisherpoets cast their lines out and caught the attention of hundreds of attendees, hook, line and sinker.Poets and attendees traveled from near and far, including Alaska, British Columbia, Maine, Idaho, California and Washington.
More than 70 poetry readings spread a wide net across seven venues in downtown Astoria over Friday, Feb. 27, Saturday, Feb. 28 and Sunday, March 1. In addition, there were a number of workshops covering diverse topics from artificial intelligence and creative writing to knot tying, sea chantey singalongs and more.
By noon on Saturday, a sign announcing it was sold out was posted in the window of the event’s pop-up party central, the Gearshack on Marine Drive.
The weather cooperated for the once-a-year throng, giving the crowds sunny, blue sky days with temperate climes. The only stormy weather came from tales told by some of the poets and storytellers themselves as they held people silent and spellbound with harrowing descriptions of wild gales, torrents of rain, dashing waves and the unforgiving sea.
Moe Bowstern, the winner of Friday’s FisherPoets at the Line Poetry Slam, also performed at the Farewell Mic on Sunday. She said being a part of the event was instrumental in her relationship with her father. “FisherPoets helped him see me.” The other poet contestants at the slam were: Meezie Hermansen; Todd Waterfield; Kat Wiest; Chelle Meyers-Garcia; Barry McDermott; Will Hornyak; and Balika Haakanson.
At the end of the Farewell Mic on Sunday, after the final poet had spoken, FisherPoet Amanda Gladics called the event’s “founding father,” Jon Broderick, to the stage. Gladics presented Broderick with an award, a hand-carved piece of art called “The FisherPoet,” created by Rich King, a fellow FisherPoet from Kilauea, Hawaii. King, who could not be at the event because he was recuperating from knee surgery, said Gladics, sent along this message to Broderick: “Thank you for your unconditional love and compassion for what we do.”
Poetry is powerful and those who write it are the magic vessels who bring that power to nurture our souls. Margaret Atwood once said: ““Poetry is one of the ancient arts, and it begins as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.”
One of the poets who performed at the Farewell Mic, supplied a perfect description of why their words are so entrancing.
“It is our stories they hear, that make a person a person; nothing more, nothing less.”
The winning poem from the FisherPoets at the Line Poetry Slam
“True North” by Moe Bowstern
How do we find true North?
Eyes Open, ears open, Mind open, heart open
when daylight fog wraps the boat,
blindness comes thick
We peer in denial, apply fishing logic,
Just…look a little harder!
Til our eyeballs burn, a futile effort.
How do we find True North?
Ears Open Mind open Heart Open
Funny isn’t it,
how the engine sounds louder in a real pea souper
hind brain freaking out about rocks, other boats
front brain delivering photographic replicas of that mast we passed in Kupreanof,
jutting up on the falling tide.
How do we find true North
Mind Open Heart Open
met a guy at a harbor party
leaning on someone’s galley counter, clutching a bottle like a life ring.
“we just got back to town, fog the whole way up the east side from Alitak”
spilled me his story all down the front of his hoodie:
How up in the top house,
staring through a double wheelwatch at nothing,
skipper started raving,
compass was broken, radar was lying.
“I was with him for hours” this deckhand told me, “telling him jokes
asking him about his life, how’d you get into fishing, where’d you meet your wife?”
“Tackled him finally, fist fight. locked him up in the head to keep the course right.”
His eyes told me more about fishing than the week I spent catching halibut all night in fine weather.
As a greenhorn, the phrase, ‘trauma-informed care’ was not yet in my ditty bag
Nor had I encountered that undiscussed feature of nautical life,
the spectacular mid-season psychotic break
(someone wins that lottery every year)
I burst out, “You need to quit!”
Not understanding how deep a bond survival makes.
He snapped back into his body; clammed up, slipped off the boat. the party ate his wake, just another Kodiak deckhand, just another trip to town.
How do We find True North?
Heart open
There exists on earth a magnetic equator, an irregular, ever-changing line, where the vertical component of the magnetic field is zero.
There exists within each human heart a desire to belong, to locate oneself in that belonging.
If I can’t see where I’m going, how do I know where I am?
If I don’t know where I am, how do I know where my edges are?
If I don’t know where my edges are, how do I know who I am?
If I don’t know who I am, how do I know what is real?
If I don’t know what is real, how can I be safe?
Who stands beside, inside, willing to tackle me?
When spectacle skews to what I want things to be?
North south east west
How do I know what course is best?
East West North South
Can the heart keep a promise
made with the mouth?
How do you find true north?
