Captain Phil Harris (27 page)

No response.

Phil’s eyes rolled back in his head.

An urgent call sounded through the halls: “Code Blue at wing E2 . . . 026 . . . room 205.” Captain Phil Harris was slipping away.

Medical personnel streamed into the room.

Meanwhile, Josh got back to the hotel, grabbed the necklace, and dropped it into the left breast pocket of his coat. At the instant he felt it softly hit the bottom of the pocket, Josh heard his cell phone ring in his right pocket. It was a hospital administrator telling him, “Your dad just hit code.”

“What does that mean?” asked Josh.

“It means you need to get back here,” he was told.

As Josh raced down the frozen Anchorage streets, his cell rang again.

“You really need to step on it,” said the voice on the other end.

Dan had talked to Grant that morning, letting him know his son was showing tremendous improvement and would be heading home the next day. And now, Phil was on the verge of death.

When Josh burst into the operating room, he counted sixteen people working on his father. Phil’s chest was split wide open and doctors were aggressively performing heart massage.

Josh was advised to wait outside but was updated constantly on his father’s condition.

Fifteen minutes went by. Thirty minutes.

Finally, over an hour after the Code Blue had sounded, Dr. Robert Lada, head of Phil’s medical team, emerged from the operating room.

“Your dad’s dead,” he told Josh, softly yet firmly. “If we continue on, we might get vital signs back, but he’s going to be brain-dead.”

With Jake already on his way to rehab, it was Josh’s call.

“That haunts me,” said Josh. “It was my decision alone. I was by myself. That sucked. Every day, I wonder if I did the right thing.”

He gave the okay to pull the plug. Eleven days after arriving at the Providence Alaska Medical Center, Phil was pronounced dead from an intracranial hemorrhage.

Josh called Jake to give his little brother the horrible news. Phil Harris belonged to the ages, and Jake and Josh Harris were all alone.

When Phil died, Dan grabbed Phil’s cell phone, walked to the hospital’s rooftop, and hurled the phone over the edge, watching it sail down to the pavement and explode into a million pieces. Then he looked up at the heavens and smiled.

“The toughest part,” said Thom, “was that he rallied and we thought he was going to live. And then, we lost him.”

At five forty-five on the afternoon of February 10, 2010, Russ was walking into a gym when Mike Lavallee called.

“Is it true?” Mike asked.

“Is what true?”

“That Phil died.”

“Phil didn’t die,” Russ insisted. “They are airlifting him down this week, and I’m going to fly up and see him.”

“I just got a call from a guy who knows Jake, who said Phil passed away,” insisted Mike.

Russ hung up without even a good-bye and hit the speed dial for Josh. “Dude, it’s Russ. What happened?” he asked.

“I can’t talk,” Josh replied. “I’ve got to call you right back.”

That wasn’t necessary. Russ realized his friend was indeed gone.

“It was a miserable rainy day in February and everything had changed,” he said.

At her Bellevue apartment, Mary’s phone rang. It was Grant.

She had spoken to him the day before when she learned Phil was being flown back to Seattle, offering to take care of her ex-husband.

“How’s it going?” Mary asked.

“It’s not going so good,” Grant replied. Before he uttered another word, Mary knew in her heart the reason for the call.

“Phil’s gone,” Grant said. “He didn’t make it.”

“How can that be?” said Mary, slipping into denial. “He was coming home tomorrow.”

“Nope, he’s not,” said Grant.

“But,” said Mary, “we had so much more to talk about.”

•   •   •

With Phil’s death, the final chapter of his life came to a close, but the biggest chapter of
Deadliest Catch
still had to be edited. If it had been a movie, everybody on the set would have known whether they were filming the leading man undergoing a miraculous medical comeback or sinking into the throes of death. All they would have had to do was follow the script.

But this was real life, the ultimate reality show with a shocking, unpredictable climax. As they shot, no one could be sure of what was going to happen. Then the postproduction crew at the studio took on
the difficult task of assembling the footage to show the death of their leading man.

“We spent countless hours,” said Jeff, “debating what was right and what was wrong and where the line was that we couldn’t cross.”

One taboo was obvious.

“After part of Phil’s skull had been removed, it deflated,” Jeff said, “so he had a very concave-looking head. We were determined not to put that on the air. We were not going to show him in a gruesome way.”

“There were times when we were editing the show, reviewing so many powerful moments, that we had to stop,” Jeff said, “because we were emotionally drained.”

The production crew would put everything on pause, leave the room, take a deep breath, and compose themselves after scenes like the one in which Phil apologizes to Josh for not always being a good father.

The first season of
Deadliest Catch
averaged between 2 and 3 million viewers an episode, and that’s the way it stayed for six seasons until Phil’s death. Every fan of the show, from the most devoted to the most casual, and even countless numbers who had never watched
Deadliest Catch
yet had heard of Captain Phil Harris, knew that he had died. When the episode in which he passed away aired on July 13, 2010, five months after Phil’s death, 8.5 million viewers tuned in.

“Public opinion about the show was very positive,” Jeff said. “We had expected to be heavily criticized, that we would get a lot of backlash because we had filmed a person passing away. I can’t deny there was a degree of exploitation, but we tried to nullify that by presenting an honest look at this man and his life as much as his death.”

It is a show Thom is extremely proud of. “We wanted to cover the death of an international figure with as much class as we possibly could,” he said. “We didn’t actually show him die. There’s no way I would do that. Too much respect. What we showed was a phone call to the boys.”

“Frankly,” said Joe Wabey, “I’m surprised he lived as long as he did, because he lived so hard and so fast. Alcohol and coke was a bad combo for him, but he had been in denial about his health forever. He’d always say, ‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’ I never argued with him when he said that. It was his business. He was a big boy. Nobody can tell you how to live. But I’m still sad about his passing three years later, because he was a unique individual in my life.”

“Phil was at the top of his game,” said Tony Lara, “until that stroke messed him up. I don’t want to say his death was for the best, but, had he lived in that condition, he would not have been happy.”

Each person whose life Phil touched hangs on to their special connection to him. It’s often the little things that linger in their memories.

Grant smiles every time he turns on the late news on Channel 5 in Seattle. When it’s the time for the weather report, the newscast switches to a camera on the roof of the station’s building that zooms in on a garden overlooking the city. And clearly seen above that garden is a birdhouse, a Phil Harris birdhouse.

“When I think of Phil now,” said Russ, “I see him standing in front of the trailer, cigarette in hand, wearing a Harley cut-off shirt and jeans, boots on, hair slicked back like he’s ready to go out. And he’s saying to me, ‘Hey, tough guy, what are you doing today?’ Big smile on his face, not a care in the world.”

When it came to Josh and Jake, Phil cared a lot. Now that he is gone, every time an opportunity arises for them they can only guess what advice he would give them.

“Phil would like to see them succeed, of course,” said Joe, “but he would want them to be happy by being involved in something they enjoy. He wouldn’t have been insistent that they remain crab fishermen and run a boat unless it was what they wanted to do. He knew how tough a job it can be.”

“Phil’s two boys were his life,” said Mike Crockett. “I believe it would have given him the ultimate satisfaction to live long enough to see each of his sons get past their vicious cycle of party, trouble, party,
trouble, and to settle down, establish a career, have a family, and give him grandkids.

“There was more to come in his life. He loved being a celebrity and living the high life, but beyond that, he wanted to be with his family.”

Nobody, of course, took the loss harder than Jake and Josh. After his father’s death, Jake, emulating Phil’s own daring dashes with the law in pursuit, got involved in a high-speed chase through downtown Seattle involving a posse of squad cars.

When they cornered him, Jake remained defiant.

“They had their guns drawn,” he said, “and one of them just ripped me out of the window and threw me on the ground.

“I had basically lost it over my dad’s death. When the police let me up, they told me they were sorry about my father. They probably should have kicked my ass, but they were cool.”

The judge wasn’t so forgiving. Jake had to spend a week in jail.

“At first, you just want to drown the sorrow in booze,” remembers Jake. “But then, you learn to balance the sadness with the realization that you were fortunate to have had the time with him that you did. You focus on remembering the good things. It’s a process that you have to take in baby steps. But the feeling of loss will never leave me.”

One snapshot of his years with his father remains foremost in Jake’s mind.

“There’s a really curvy back road near Bothell called High Bridge Road,” he said. “I can see myself riding there on the back of Dad’s bike, hanging on to him.”

His son, his bike, the thrill: it’s the perfect Phil Harris moment.

If I could ask one last thing of my dad, it would be, “Tell me a story.”

—Jake

The fog rolls in, draping the Bothell cemetery in mist. Spread out across the manicured lawns are granite and marble slabs etched with epitaphs.

We are here with Russ Herriott. A few steps off the paved access path, we search for our father’s resting spot. It’s nearby, but we have trouble finding it because there is no eye-catching headstone.

Half of Dad’s ashes were buried here in the same plot where our grandmother lies, a few feet above her. His ashes were encased in twin urns that are actually teardrop-shaped Harley motorcycle gas tanks. Mike Lavallee provided a custom paint job: airbrushed images from our father’s life, all in red, his favorite color. One urn, the one we’re visiting today, depicts his life on land, from his family to his cycles.

The other one shows the captain at sea. It was deposited in the water in a memorable ceremony and today lies at the bottom of the Bering Sea, right where Dad wanted it. He figured that the tide would carry him wherever he wanted to go.

At Dad’s funeral, we felt like figures cast in stone. We participated
in the service, but we weren’t really there. The reality of losing our dad hadn’t fully set in yet, so we didn’t appreciate the opportunity to say good-bye.

It is only now, months later, that we’re finally ready to pay our respects. That is why we have come to the cemetery.

At last, we find Dad’s grave marker. It is simple, the area quiet, a stark contrast to the sound and fury that always seemed to fuel Dad. A few wayward leaves adhere stubbornly to the stone. When Jake drops to his knees to remove them, his fingers linger on the engraved words.

The two of us along with Russ form a circle around the headstone, but there is also someone else here. We all feel it, the fourth presence—Dad.

We take turns stealing deep, ragged breaths. We try to shield our vulnerability, but we know—we see it in one another—that there’s no hiding the loss. Our dad is dead, our best friend, our hero, and a truly legendary fisherman.

Yes, he is gone. But millions remember.

We thank every one of you.

Sincerely,

Josh and Jake