No fish guts, no glory: What it’s like to be a Deadliest Catch deckhand for the day

For the past two decades since it debuted on April 12, 2005, The Deadliest Catch has taken viewers inside what’s touted as the deadliest job on Earth: crab fishing in the Bering Sea. Almost every channel surfer has seen at least an episode, and many credit the series with launching the “dirty jobs” genre of reality TV.

While much of the series’ format has remained the same, a lot has changed since Keith arrived in Dutch Harbor with nothing but a backpack nearly 40 years ago. “The biggest thing is, it used to be just a wide-open derby, and then it went to a quota base system,” he says as we sit in the Wizard’s control room. He’s talking about the Alaskan crab industry’s switch in 2005 (just after the Deadliest Catch’s inaugural season). “There were too many boats, too many fatalities” in the derby, which led to more regulations when it comes to fishing in the Bering Sea. Under the derby, boats were essentially in a free-for-all to catch as much as they could during a small fishing window. Under the quota system, boats are given a maximum they’re allowed to catch within a longer time frame.

A low crab population caused fisheries to close for two years. (Deadliest Catch fans will know this well, and remember that it led Sig Hansen to Norway for a time to see if he could have better luck there.) When crab fisheries reopened in 2023, regulations included a caveat: Boats were allowed to catch more crab if another boat didn’t meet its quota – rules reminiscent of the old derby days. “That’s really unique about this year,” showrunner Arom Starr-Paul jumps in from across the room while I’m sitting with Keith. “It’s like season 1 again.”

Or as Keith puts it, “The race for crab is back.”

Changing tack

The next day, I’m sitting in the bridge of Sig Hansen’s Northwestern, attempting to steer the 125-foot vessel out of Captain’s Bay. Sig already scolded me for sitting cross-legged in the captain’s seat (“Don’t embarrass me. Spread ’em.”), and corrected my terminology (“You run a boat; you drive a car.”). Now, he looks at me skeptically. “You don’t want to hit that dock, right?”

After I successfully maneuver into more open waters — avoiding the dock and an otter floating nearby — Sig ushers me out on deck, where a handful of his crewmen gamely teach me how to toss the anchor (“You fish with line, not rope,” by the way. According to Sig, rope is for cowboys), throw a pot, pick up a pot, and even operate the crane — which is terrifying enough on this beautiful bluebird day, even as Sig reminds me that usually I’d have waves, wind, and rain to contend with, too.

Like Keith, as I ask Sig about the glory days of crabbing back in the ‘80s, he can’t help but note the industry’s changes. “I see that there’s still a future, but a more controlled future,” Sig tells me as we sail out of the harbor, surrounded by the snow-covered mountains that dot the Aleutian Islands. “[The] industry is getting smaller. They’re streamlining it more… What we had with the derby days and the amount of people, you’ll never see that again. It’s less boats that are fishing the same amount of crab.”