Captain Phil Harris (26 page)

Russ Herriott, Phil’s business manager, was having dinner with friends in Temecula, California, when his cell phone rang. He reached into his pocket and saw the area code was 907.

He knew that was Alaska but didn’t recognize the number and
remembered Phil and the boys were out in the Bering Sea, so he stuck the phone back in his pocket without answering it.

“I later felt terrible about that,” Russ said. “Big-time regret for a long time.”

The guilt first hit him the following morning around nine thirty when he got a text message from George Neighbors, a Discovery Channel executive.

“If there’s anything you need, anything we can do, just let me know,” wrote Neighbors.

Russ was puzzled. If this was a joke, it was lost on him.

“You want to do something for us?” he wrote back. “How about increasing our pay?”

Russ was always joking with Neighbors about how underpaid he felt Phil was as the star of the show.

Seconds later, Russ’s phone rang. It was Neighbors.

“You didn’t hear?” he said.

“Didn’t hear what?”

“Phil’s in the hospital. He had a major stroke.”

Standing in a grocery store, Russ froze, speechless. He had become so close to Phil, and yet he felt like he was the last to know. Russ managed to reach Jake at the hospital but still found it difficult to express his feelings.

When Phil’s old motorcycle partner Dan Mittman heard that Phil had suffered a stroke, he stuffed a pair of jeans, some underwear, and a couple of shirts into a duffel bag and hopped the first plane to Anchorage.

Russ stayed behind. “I was told by everybody around Phil not to bother going up,” Russ said, “because they knew that, if I was there, he was going to start freaking out.

“He was an excitable guy. If he saw me, he would want to have a business meeting right next to the bed. He’d be asking me, ‘What do we have going? Am I still doing that bike deal? Are we still doing this? Are we still doing that?’ ”

But, immediately following the surgery, Phil wasn’t asking anything. He lay in an induced coma for three days in the hospital’s intensive-care unit.

Medical personnel had warned those around him that Phil might not be able to speak for perhaps weeks after he awoke from the coma. Instead, when his eyes opened, he began talking within a few hours after ripping off his oxygen mask.

“The guy was a fighter,” Josh said. “He never stopped.”

The moment Dan entered Phil’s room on the day the captain came out of his coma, Phil’s heart monitor started spiking.

“You must be a very good friend of his,” said a nurse as she smiled at the man who considered himself Phil’s blood brother.

When Dan shouted, “Phil!” the captain’s haggard face broke into a wide smile, a slight sparkle in his once-brilliant eyes. But Dan was not reassured by either the heart monitor or the smile. His first thought was that he’d never seen Phil look so worn out, so fragile.

Still, with the pressure on his brain relieved and the coma ended, Phil was improving enough to start rehab.

“I thought it was amazing,” said Jeff Conroy, “that this man was going to get a second chance at life. Or actually, in his case, considering the earlier embolism, a third chance.”

Phil was soon talking about making a September comeback, the show about his triumphant return to the Bering Sea already playing in his head.

To doctors, that might have seemed an unrealistic scenario, but to family and friends, it seemed like the next logical chapter in an already legendary life. After all, this was a man who had risen faster, lived more dangerously, and succeeded more spectacularly than almost any other crab captain. He had always scoffed at the limits set by others.

On camera, Phil remained the tough, courageous sea captain as though his deteriorating condition was just another big wave he had to get over. At times, he seemed like an actor, the leading man on a
blockbuster show merely reading lines in a script that would ultimately lead to his demise.

Enmeshed in tubes, with needles penetrating his body and machines beeping his status, Phil kept snarling, “Get me a cigarette,” to anyone who might listen.

“He was still incorrigible, right to the very end,” said Thom, marveling at the man’s fortitude.

It should not have been surprising that he continued to project his tough-guy persona. After all, he had faced the specter of death many times throughout his life, whether on the high seas or the back roads of Bothell, and always survived. And each time, the aura of invincibility around him seemed to grow.

But in the quiet of his hospital room, when the ever-present cameras were turned off, Phil conveyed to Dan severe misgivings this time about his future.

He conceded that he wasn’t sure how much of the Phil Harris the world had come to know and admire was left in his body. He looked into Dan’s eyes and lamented that he’d never ride a motorcycle again. He shared his belief that he was destined to end his days outfitted in diapers. Dan’s heart sank as he listened to Phil admit that his spirit was withering at the possibility of being forced to live out his remaining days as little more than a vegetable.

It was painful for Dan to watch a man who had laughed in the face of death on a daily basis now fight off tears at the prospect of living as an invalid.

In those final conversations with Dan, Phil’s emotions soared and plunged. He would try to recapture his old resolve, vowing to face his condition with the same confidence and optimism he had exuded in facing a killer wave dead ahead. But that resolve kept faltering as the gravity of his medical condition sank in. He would succumb to spells of depression as he grudgingly came to terms with the idea that his body had betrayed him. But then, he would rally again. He would tell
Dan he was going to find a way to survive this devastating stroke, that Captain Phil Harris was going to find a safe harbor because, damn it, Jake and Josh needed him.

The staff at the hospital treated Dan well, recognizing that his steadfast presence could play a key role in bringing about their patient’s recovery. So while the staff chased away most visitors at the conclusion of visiting hours, they made an exception for Dan. It was probably a moot point because, where Phil was concerned, Dan stood firm. It would take a backhoe to remove him.

By February 7, Super Bowl Sunday, Phil was able to focus his mind sufficiently to watch the New Orleans Saints beat the Indianapolis Colts, getting engrossed in the game as he had in so many others on those long, happy football afternoons in the fifth wheel at Lake Connor.

The next day, Russ was told that Phil had progressed so much that arrangements were under way to airlift him down to Seattle.

Phil was told he was going to have to wear a helmet during the flight to protect the area of his skull where the surgery had been performed. Ever the participant, never just the observer, Phil, even in his life-threatening state, had to be involved in the process. Not just any helmet would do, he told doctors. He wanted a blue helmet,
Cornelia Marie
blue.

“But we don’t have that color,” he was told.

“Then paint one,” Phil demanded.

Who comes out of a coma making demands?

“Painting the helmet will take a couple of days,” a hospital official told Phil.

“I can wait,” he said.

Josh was dealing with a much bigger problem than a painted helmet. To airlift Phil down to Seattle was going to cost around twenty thousand dollars, an expense he and his family were going to have to bear.

Calling around in search of a cheaper flight, Josh found a company willing to cut the famous captain a deal.

“The fuel will cost around forty-five hundred dollars,” Josh was told. “Pay for that and we’ll fly him down there for free.”

That made a perennial bargain hunter like Phil proud of his son.

On February 9, the winter winds of Anchorage swept across the grey city, as relentless and biting as a pit bull. The swirling cold didn’t discourage Dan. He merely tightened the collar of his army jacket and pushed on along the icy sidewalks in what had become a familiar, though still unpleasant, march. Dan was heading for Providence Alaska Medical Center, just as he had each of the previous ten days.

When he reached room 205, Phil’s room, Dan was surprised to find it filled with people. Along with the usual doctors and nurses running tests and reading monitors, there were several physical therapists getting Phil ready to stretch his muscles and then leave his bed for a big outing to test his legs and stamina, a walk to the nurses’ station and back.

Dan waved to Phil, told him he’d be back after the workout, and then meandered around the large building.

Phil had charmed the hospital staff into looking the other way when he wanted to break the rules, but they wouldn’t budge when it came to nicotine. So, when Jake arrived at the hospital earlier that morning to say good-bye, Phil, figuring he had a soft touch, greeted his son by asking for a cigarette. Jake, showing his new inner strength and resolve, turned his father down.

“You’re sneaky, but I can’t do it,” Jake said.

“I just want one,” pleaded Phil.

“I know, one after another,” said Jake. “I’m going to be a nonsmoker myself in a little bit. I just got hold of the rehab center today and made the arrangements to go in for help. I’m still going to keep my promise.”

“Hey, I’m real proud of you,” said Phil, kissing his son’s knuckles.

“Thank you,” replied Jake, soaking in the words he had longed to hear.

“Thank
you,
” said Phil.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jake said, “but this is for the better.”

“Yeah, it is,” Phil agreed.

“You just keep on doin’ what you’re doin’,” Jake told him.

Phil again assured his son that his actions had brought some welcome joy into Phil’s long, bleak days.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Jake said. “I’ll give you a call when I hit Seattle. I love you, Pops.”

As he left the room, Jake turned for one last, lingering look at his dad. It is the parting image he will carry with him for the rest of his life.

With Jake gone, the responsibility for standing vigil over Phil was solely on Josh’s shoulders. He welcomed it as an opportunity to solidify a bond with his father that had so often been tenuous in the past.

Bolstering that desire was the news he brought when he came to his father’s bedside. All the arrangements were complete. The flight home to Seattle was a go.

“We’re taking you home, Dad,” he said. “The pilots are doing it for free because they like us, so be nice to them.”

“Get me my crab necklace,” Phil ordered his son, referring to his favorite piece of jewelry.

“But, Dad,” Josh said, “they won’t let you wear any jewelry when you’re all hooked up like that.”

“Just go get it,” said Phil.

The jewelry was in Josh’s hotel room. Before he left to retrieve it, he reached out for his father’s hand, remembering how his dad had taken his hand when he was a child and his little world was in crisis.

In healthier times, the macho Phil might have slapped away an adult son’s hand, deeming it unmanly to show affection in such a
manner. But now, desperate to maintain a link with his flesh and blood, Phil welcomed the hand, squeezing it with all his remaining strength.

“Okay, we know you’ve got power,” said Josh with a smile.

“I’m sorry,” Phil told his son.

“Why?” asked Josh.

“When you were growing up, I should have been a better father,” Phil said.

“No way,” said Josh. “You’ve been the best father you ever could have been. You taught me great skills, everything I need to know to be a man. So don’t ever say that. Don’t ever apologize, Dad. And now, I’m gonna take care of you as best as I possibly can. I’m not going to let you out of my sight. Same thing you’d do for me.”

Tears formed in Phil’s eyes, quickly brushed away by his son.

“I love you, buddy,” Josh said.

“I love you, too,” responded Phil.

“I know. I’m being strong here,” said Josh.

Phil put his hands on his lips and then tried to touch Josh’s lips. Josh responded by kissing his father’s forehead.

Josh hated to cry, especially in front of his father. He flicked a tear of his own away and fled the room, motioning the
Deadliest Catch
cameraman not to follow him. This reality show had gotten too real for him.

As Phil was being carefully taken out of bed for his brief walk, Dan was in another wing of the hospital where he had struck up a conversation with the security chief. It was then that an uneasy feeling came over Dan, a feeling he couldn’t shake: Phil needed him.

He quickly made his way back to room 205, where he found Phil totally exhausted after his brief walk and his conversations with his two sons. He was irritated and somewhat confused.

“I’m hot,” he told Dan.

“Well yeah, you got your fat ass out of bed for the first time since
you got here,” said Dan, trying to ease his friend back into the typical banter between the two that had always brought a smile to Phil’s face. “You took three steps to the toilet, so hell yeah, you’re gonna get tired.”

Beyond consoling, Phil yelled, “They wore me out!”

A male nurse named Dave came in and reattached Phil’s arm to an IV tube. As Dave worked, Dan kept talking, hoping to take Phil’s mind off his increasing distress. Dan reminded his old friend that they would be heading home the next day, bound for Seattle’s Swedish Medical Center, located between I-5 and Lake Washington, southwest of Bothell. Dan brought up all those familiar places along with many of the haunts where the two had had so many good times, reinforcing the idea that Phil was going back to the familiarity of the area where he had lived his entire life.

“Just chill,” said Dan. “If you settle down and make it back home, everything will be fine.”

But everything wasn’t fine. He could tell from the desperation he saw on Phil’s face and the tone of his voice that something was seriously wrong.

Phil barked out, “I’M HOT! I’M HOT! I’M HOT!”

Then he started to convulse. With tears in his eyes, Dan grabbed him and hollered, “Phil! Phil!”