AUTHOR’S NOTE: Poopdeck Platt, who lived in Homer for more than forty years, and in Alaska for more than a half-century, was cherished on the southern Kenai Peninsula, particularly in his hometown.

At the beginning of the Poopdeck Platt Community Park Trail near the center of Homer stands an informative sign describing the man for whom the path was named: Clarence Hiram “Poopdeck” Platt, who spent the final 53 years of his long, productive life in Alaska.

Not far from this sign and the trailhead on Klondike Street stands the log cabin in which Poopdeck spent many decades. The old place, which Poopdeck once called “the best bachelor pad in Homer,” has been modified and transformed into an office for the Kachemak Heritage Land Trust, but the nearby sign and trail, in addition to Poopdeck Street to the south, bear testament to the man and the legacy of kindness and good humor he left behind at his passing, at age 96, in November 2000.

Connections

By the late 1970s, Poopdeck was already investing in stocks and bonds. “He subscribed to the Wall Street Journal and spent much time managing his portfolio,” wrote his family. “His investments would fund his own travel around the world. Not bad for a truck farmer from Montana.”

For the first third of his life, Poopdeck spent little time outside his home state of Montana. His late-in-life travel bug, then, may be traced to his time in the U.S. Navy during World War II, when he sailed as an assistant navigator throughout much of the South Pacific.

In the latter third of his life, he traveled — usually with a small cruise company specializing in remote and unusual destinations — to Antarctica, New Zealand, Australia, the Galapagos Islands, Easter Islands, Africa, Latin America, South America, Egypt, China and Russia.

Since the cruises attracted repeat customers, Poopdeck often renewed friendships on his trips.

In his 1985 holiday letter to friends and family, he announced that he had a new girlfriend, with whom he had made an intra-Alaska trip that summer and learned that they “seemed to be able to stand each other’s company,” so he planned to take her along on a December trip to London and then South Africa (prior to the end of apartheid).

He knew readers would worry about his plans, but tried to quell their concerns: “Now don’t start telling me it’s dangerous,” he wrote. “Hell, I know it’s dangerous, but it’s dangerous to cross the street, too, but people get away with it every day.”

“In the 40 years that I knew Poopdeck,” said his buddy Kenny Moore, “his motives were always beyond reproach. Honesty and integrity were just natural qualities for him. His generosity was not thought about; it just flowed out of him.”

Moore had experienced Poopdeck’s kindness and positivity firsthand, from the beginning of his time in Homer. “Poopdeck,” he said, “has been an indispensable part of my life in Alaska. I moved here with almost no money, part interest in a boat — on paper — a much better understanding of baling hay than catching fish, and I hardly knew anyone. Poopdeck was always there. I could count on a place to stay, advice if he knew something about the subject, and encouragement if he didn’t.”

The two men fished together, hunted together, and shared numerous other adventures. They also spent countless hours just talking. “As much as Poopdeck loved to tell a story,” Moore said, “he also loved to listen to one. In later years, one of his real enjoyments was to have guests over and just get caught up on what they were doing. Of course, there weren’t too many topics that he didn’t know about, considering he read around 35 magazines a month.”

One day, Moore was approached in town by a man who wanted to know whether he was the nephew of Poopdeck Platt. Moore said he was.

“I felt flattered to have people think that Poopdeck was my uncle,” he said later. “I had heard the uncle business from quite a few people, and they were nearly right. He was actually my cousin’s grandfather’s sister’s husband. That’s close enough. I would have been quite happy to have Poopdeck as any kind of relative. He was totally honest, not only in business, but he always let you know what he thought, whether it was what you wanted to hear or not.”

Moore recalled others who had been helped out by Poopdeck, including other fishermen, but also hitchhikers or anyone who appeared to need a hand.

“Empathy and generosity were his response to the hardships and loss in his life,” said his family. “He never drove by a hitchhiker without stopping, and he frequently opened his home to temporary ‘roommates’ for a week or a winter.”

Moore said that Poopdeck, when ill near the end of his life, received a phone call from a hitchhiker named Mike whom he had once picked up back in 1972. “Mike was broke,” said Moore, “and stayed with Poopdeck for several days waiting for the ferry.”

On another night, Poopdeck was awakened by something in his bedroom. It turned out to be a drunk man just trying to figure out where he was. Poopdeck put the man to bed on his couch and let him sleep it off before sending him on his way.

Poopdeck, said Moore, “never failed to provide (me) a place to stay, an interested ear, a willing hand for help and, always, a straight answer. I think it is very questionable whether I would have stayed in Alaska were it not for Poopdeck’s help, inspiration and great attitude toward life. ‘Uncle’ is probably not a close enough term.”