I would make fun of Elliott getting punked by a soulless Hollywood D-girl, but I’ve been there too. Being tough enough to fish the Bering Sea and dealing with LA girls are NOT the same thing, brother.
The Egg Ambush
Our last day on Dutch Harbor rolled around, and we got up early, had breakfast with the otters and eagles and sea lions for the last time, and then got our bags and got ready to leave. We had a 3pm flight out of Dutch Harbor, but before we departed, there was one more mission for us.
The whole week Johnathan had been telling us about his plan to get revenge on another boat. You see, one of the new boats on the show this year, the Seabrook crew, had snuck onto the Time Bandit and painted a red lightning bolt—which I guess is their logo—on the Time Bandit crane. This pissed everyone off, but Johnathan especially. He told us his plan to get them back basically EVERY SINGLE DAY since we met up with him in Anchorage. Here it is, translated from Bering Sea Hamburglar to English:
“We’re going to get everyone in town onto the Time Bandit, and ride by and throw every goddamn thing we have at them. Eggs, paintballs, fireworks—we’re going to dump it all on them and ruin their fucking lives. You don’t ever fuck with the Time Bandit! You want a fight, we’ll give you a fight! You bring a knife, we bring a fucking Howitzer!”
Seriously, we must have heard this speech like ten times. It was motivational at first. Then it was annoying. So I started making fun of him.
Tucker “What if the eggs block out the sun?”
Johnathan “THEN WE FISH IN THE SHADE!!!”
Anyway, the night before, Johnathan was emphatic that we get to the Time Bandit no later than 11am, so we could all be there and take part in the ambush. No argument from me.
That morning, we were a bit late, so we didn’t get in a cab until right at 11am. This shouldn’t have been a big deal—there’s only seven miles of road on the island; it doesn’t take more than ten minutes to drive anywhere.
Cab driver “Where to?”
We immediately realized something: We don’t know the actual name of any of the docks. How the hell would we give the taxi driver instructions? Even though Dutch Harbor isn’t a big place, one of the few things it does have—aside from thousands of bald eagles that eat trash—is a lot of docks. It’s basically all docks and processors, so you can’t just say, “Take me to the docks.” There are ten different sets of docks, all over the island.
Tucker “Do you know where the Time Bandit is docked right now?”
Cab Driver “The what?”
Tucker “The Time Bandit.”
Cab Drvier “Never heard of it. Is that a crab boat?”
Tucker “Uh … really? You don’t know the Time Bandit?”
Cab Driver “Nope.”
I guess if you live in Dutch Harbor, the last thing you want to do is watch a TV show about crab fishing.
Tucker “OK … uh … do you know the Northwestern? It’s docked next to them.”
Cab Diver “Oh sure, I know where that boat is.”
We went past the airport and down the docks to where the boat had been all week. We saw the Northwestern … and then a huge empty space where the Time Bandit had been all week.
Tucker “God damn it! We missed it! We fucking missed it! They already fucking left. I fucking knew we were late. FUCK!!!!!”
I was PISSED. Not only was the ambush going to be fun, but to be completely honest, I kinda wanted to be on the actual show, and this was pretty much my only chance. God knows I wasn’t ever going to actually work on a fucking crab boat, especially not after the 24-hour pukefest on the way in.
Drew “Let’s keep looking. Maybe they just moved the boat again.”
Tucker “They’ve already left! Fuck! We’re fucked. This sucks. Let’s just go to the airport. Fuck it. We lost.”
Drew “Drive a bit further down the dock.”
Thank God Drew was there. I would have given up. He had the taxi driver go around for ten more minutes as I pouted and cursed under my breath … and then as luck would have it, Drew was right: There was the Time Bandit, docked, but hidden behind a random building.
We got onto the Time Bandit, happy as pigs in shit. But Andy was the only one there.
Tucker “Where is everyone?”
Andy “Buying eggs.”
Tucker “Still?”
Andy “You’ve never seen Johnathan when he gets obsessed with something. He can go overboard. Here they come.”
We went down to the deck. Johnathan burst out of the truck, hands raised triumphantly.
Johnathan “We spent 500 fucking dollars! We bought every fucking egg on the island!! Two thousand eggs!! We’re going to ruin their lives!!”
That’s when I took this picture. If you look in the middle, you see the egg that Johnathan threw at me in mid-air:
The Seabrook knew there was going to be some kind of retaliation; they’re not stupid, plus the Discovery crew had to make sure they were on the boat when it happened so they could get it on film. I don’t know if they knew ahead of time exactly what was going to happen or when, but I do know they weren’t prepared for the biblical shitstorm of eggs that was about to rain down on them. It was so epic, Discovery Channel scrambled the helicopter to film it! I had done some serious shit in my life, but never anything cool enough that a helicopter had to record it.
This was not a half-assed assault. We distributed people all across the boat, with enough egg ammunition in each place. We’d thought out not only the initial ambush, but how to counter the possible counter-ambush. There were two paintball guns on the boat. Scotty was perched up in the crow’s nest with one, and Justin had one next to Cameron on top of the crab pots. Their job was to shoot anyone on the other boat who tried to throw anything back at the Time Bandit.
At 11:30am, with camera crew ready on both boats, we left the dock. We slowly passed by the Ramblin’ Rose, which was docked next to the Seabrook. The crewmembers who were on deck literally dropped what they were doing and stared in disbelief at the thousands of eggs we had laid out all over the boat.
Andy “Leave the Ramblin’ Rose alone. They’re not the enemy today!”
As we approached the boat, the crew of the Seabrook was busy readying the ship to head out to the fishing grounds. We all crouched down and hid behind whatever was available. Andy slowed the Time Bandit to a snail’s pace. I can throw an egg pretty far, but Andy, being the expert captain that he was, pulled up alongside the Seabrook at a distance of under five feet. At this distance, a little girl could hurl an entire carton on deck.
Four crewmembers who were on deck stopped what they were doing to look at us, confused as to why our boat was so close.
Crew member “Hey! What in the hell is all this?”
Andy’s voice came over the Time Bandit’s loudspeaker:
Andy “FIRE!”
And our eggs blotted out the sun.
That poor guy who was standing out on deck got it the worst. I think every single one of us took a shot at him. He took one egg right to the temple, and went down like a bag of shit. The rest of the Seabrook crew ran for cover in the front of their boat, where they were protected for the most part.
Andy “Target the windows! Aim for the wheelhouse windows!!”
Hundreds of eggs smashed into the wheelhouse windows. We covered every window in no time. One of the production crew cameramen on the Seabrook side was up there as well, on the outside, filming from their vantage point. I hit him at least twice, and I wasn’t the only one who managed to do it. We hit everything. Every last square inch of the ship was covered in egg.
It took until about this point for the Seabrook to start throwing eggs back at us. A bunch of their crew came running out from the front and hurled eggs at us. I think that they were waiting behind cover until we ran out of eggs so they could return fire—not a bad plan—but we just weren’t running out of eggs. There’s no way they could have foreseen this, either. I mean seriously—who brings two thousand eggs to an egg fight?
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The Time Bandit does, that’s who.
As our wheelhouse passed theirs, I dumped three entire 18-egg crates on their wheelhouse. It was awesome. Andy floored it and we sped away. A huge cheer went up on deck. I am not exaggerating in the slightest: the Seabrook was yellow. Bright yellow. Barely any red visible anywhere.
We tied up back at the pier and went down into the stateroom to watch the footage from the four cameras on our boat. They caught absolutely everything. It was even better on video.
Tucker “There’s nothing more satisfying that an undeniable, overwhelming, total victory.”
The Epilogue
Pretty much every “reality” show on TV is bullshit. Reality TV and the people on it are more unreal than most scripted series at this point. If they aren’t literally scripted like “The Hills” or “The Amazing Race” then at the very least they’re completely controlled by the producers to achieve the drama and results they want, like “Survivor” or “Jersey Shore.” I don’t even think I need to mention what a joke reality “stars” are; that’s become cliché.
Before going to Alaska, I knew “The Deadliest Catch” was different. But now that I’ve been there, now that I’ve hung out with these guys, now that I’ve thrown up on their boat and gotten hammered with them and lived in their world, I can tell you with authority that they are no bullshit. Not in any way.
That’s the thing about these guys—they were pulling crab out of the sea and ass out of the bars before the cameras came and they’ll be doing both well after the cameras leave. These guys aren’t in this for any other reason than because it’s what they do. THAT is what makes the show so good—it IS real. You can’t pretend to fish crab. These guys pull 1,000-pound metal cages out of the ocean in 40-foot seas for three straight days without sleep. And it’s HARDER in real life than you can imagine from watching it on TV.
Andy said it best, “Man, the show is cool and all, but it hasn’t changed much really. Crab fishermen have always been the craziest, the toughest, the loudest, the best. We were rock stars long before “Deadliest Catch.” I could have run a cannery, or fished for halibut or captained an oil tanker or anything like that. That’s why I became a crab fisherman in the first place: We make the most money because what we do is the hardest and most dangerous fishing job there is. That’s why we do it.”
[Note: The best way to see all this for yourself is to look at the pictures on my website (www.tuckermax.com/deadliestvacation). And you can see me and everyone else on the “The Deadliest Catch” Season 7, in the episode called “Sea Change.”]
DEDICATION
I want to dedicate this story—something I’ve never done before—to Justin Tennison, a member of the Time Bandit crew who hung out with us all week, and passed away a month after we left. He was a truly great guy who went before his time, and that sucks. RIP, Justin.
SEXTING WITH TUCKER MAX: MEAN
* * *
This may come as a shock to some of you, but I have a slightly volatile personality. I don’t suffer fools well. And when I’m in a bad mood, I suffer stupid whores looking to sext even worse. It’s not like I want to sext when I’m in a good mood. You really think it’s going to be sunshine and kittens when I’m pissed off? The girls who persistently annoy me to sext with them find out.
MEAN #1: STUPID IS AS STUPID TYPES
MEAN #2: THIS BLOWJOB BLOWS
MEAN #3: HOOKT ON PHON-ICKS
MEAN #4: WHORE ONSTAR
This girl was supposed to drive from her town about two hours away to fuck me here in Austin, and this exchange starts about the time she was supposed to be getting on the road. This didn’t begin as sexting, but this dumb bitch drove me so nuts AND KEPT INSISTING that we sext, I lost it on her and tried to say the most offensive shit I could think of, to see if I could get her so upset she wouldn’t even come over. It was impossible—like trying to rattle a 911 operator:
MEAN #5: POST “COITAL”
MEAN #6: THAT’S (BEEF) CURTAINS
MEAN #7: NAIL IN THE COFFIN
MEAN #8: ABORTION > DEAD BABY JOKES
THE FIGHT STORIES
Some people who read my books ask me how I don’t get into fights. It’s not normal people who ask this question—it’s almost always guidos or meatheads who can’t comprehend any social interaction that isn’t highlighted by a direct threat of violence. But still, the question is there, quite a bit.
I always laugh when this comes up, because the underlying assumption is that since I haven’t written a story about getting into a fight, that I must not ever get into fights. Listen up parents, this is the kind of reasoning that develops when you have kids before you’re ready and you send them to a bad directional state school: Just because I don’t write about something, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Lack of inclusion does not imply exclusion. I’ve never written a story where I mention feeding my dog, but she eats twice a day.
Here’s the problem with writing stories about fights: There is no way to do it that isn’t lame. What do most fight stories sound like? “I kicked his teeth out and cracked his skull with a hammer! I’M FUCKING AWESOME RAAAAWWWWRRRR!!!”
Come on, no one wants to read that shit, and for the most part, most of my fight stories are just as stupid and unfunny as everyone else’s.
I have two exceptions:
THE TMZ DEBACLE
Occurred, March 2011
South-by-Southwest (SXSW) is an annual conference in Austin, TX that hosts most of the big players in tech, internet, and music. It’s a pretty good conference, as conferences go, but that’s only measuring it on the scale of conferences. That’s like rating individual Vietnamese public toilets against each other. Even the cleanest and best is still a hole in the ground filled with festering excrement.
One of the big reasons so many people go to SXSW is not the conference—it’s the parties. In tech circles, SXSW is famous for its great parties. But here’s the thing you have to keep in mind—they are great to tech nerds. For these Asperger’s geeks, any event that serves alcohol and has attractive women in attendance BY CHOICE is legendary. For me, walking into any one of the SXSW parties is like a recipe for University of Chicago PTSD. These are basically the exact same people I went to college with—really smart and good at their jobs, but totally unable to drink, party, or be socially daring—and graduated a year early to get away from. Here’s all you need to know about SXSW parties: Most of the people at them wear backpacks.
One night during SXSW, I was hanging out with some of my Austin friends, plus Drew Curtis, who was friends with the founders of some new start-up, so we went to their party. All the nerds at the party were super excited because Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore were supposed to show up there. This party sucked the same way all SXSW parties sucked, but it was even more annoying for a different reason: Popchips.
Popchips was co-sponsoring the party with Drew’s start-up buddies. Besides putting their name on all the fliers and signage, they also hired three girls to pass out bags of Popchips to everyone at the party. Two problems:
Popchips are not only fucking disgusting, they are beneath me. Poor Irishmen eat potatoes because they can’t afford anything else. Fuck that. I eat meat.
The Popchip whores would not leave me alone. This was not a huge party, maybe 100 people there, so pretty much every two minutes they’d walk by and aggressively demand I take some Popchips. I might not have been annoyed if 1) the girls were attractive (they weren’t) or 2) Popchips were made of charred meat (instead of “natural potato ingredients” which is what it says on the label).
Eventually it got to be too much. I can handle the boredom of hanging out with nerds, and I can manage incessant Popchip peddlers, but not together. Together they formed a Voltron of frustration and mischief that got me looking for ways to amuse myself. I noticed that the bar had a massive ceiling fan, with huge fan blades that looked sharp as hell. I wondered how sharp they really were. Never one to shy away from the scientific method, I decided to
experiment. I grabbed a bag of Popchips and threw it into the ceiling fan. The spinning fan blade whipped the bag across the bar. Perhaps these Popchips could be useful after all.
I grabbed like ten more bags, and started throwing them into the ceiling fan one after the other. Sadly, they did not slice open like I had hoped. The fan blades either weren’t sharp enough or the fan wasn’t going fast enough; I don’t know. What I DO know is that with proper loft you can get the fan to fling the full bags of Popchips all across the bar and directly into people’s faces. Which is pretty awesome, and more than enough to keep me entertained.
As we were all laughing at this, I felt something brush my arm. It was a tiny little Asian dude in a red baby tee that had “SECURITY” across the front. Isn’t it so cute when parents let their kids stay up late and mingle with adults? He started squeaking at me:
Security “Alright buddy, let’s go, you’re outta here.”
Tucker “Maybe … but not for you. You aren’t doing anything to me.”
Security “What? I’m throwing you out. You have to leave, let’s go.”