When I entered semi-retirement on April 1, there was something that just felt right about handing my Duluth Seaway Port Authority office over to a fellow traveler in the Great American Lutefisk Fraternity.

Adolph Ojard is, like me, of Nordic stock and, for the uninitiated, lutefisk is lye-soaked cod that people consumed before God gave humans the ability to smell and taste. Once He gave us the senses of smell and taste, only the Norwegians, Swedes and Finns continued to eat it. (The Danes might eat it too, but won't always admit it.)

Transplanted Nordics still eat lutefisk because people of these nationalities are (1) traditionalists (how else do you account for their settling in the coldest parts of North America?), (2) proud of anything their ancestors did (the original Vikings are revered, probably because unlike today's version, they usually won the big ones), (3) stubborn to a fault, (4) tough, (5) occasionally crazy, (6) sometimes don't know any better, (7) all of the above.

But back to Adolph Ojard. The basic difference between us is that his grandparents came from the west coast of Norway and a fishing heritage, while mine were Finnish farmers. Otherwise, although our ancestors had separate origins and unrelated languages, they were given to hard work, endurance, an innate love of nature and periodic disputes with the Swedes. And they also liked lutefisk.

"We had it at home until I was about 10 or 11," Ojard remembers. "When it was good — with creamed potatoes and a white gravy and butter — it was delicious.

"When it was bad, it was terrible. It usually had too much lye in it. It would turn your fork black."

It might have been the ability to digest (and ingest) lutefisk that made young Adolph a feared fullback and linebacker on the Two Harbors High School football team. But four years as a regular took its toll on his shoulders, a factor that might have kept him from trying professional baseball. A power-hitting catcher, Adolph batted over .500 in his last two years of high school, and the Cincinnati Reds were scouting him, but a damaged right shoulder affected his ability to throw to second base.

He also sustained a broken cheekbone during his senior year when he hung in there too long against a high, inside fastball. Nonetheless, he was back in uniform, behind the plate, a week later.

This is worth something, because if there's one quality required to be a port director, it's resilience. Things don't always go according to anyone's script. Like a football field or a baseball diamond, the port arena is a place of frequent disappointment. The good guys don't always win, but there's always the next game.

But we were discussing herring and lutefisk …

Adolph Ojard's father, Adolph Sr., was one of six sons, all of whom spent at least parts of their careers as Lake Superior fishermen. For locals or tourists, next time you're at Canal Park read the series of laminated stories in front of "Crabby Bill's." The old boat that houses the take-out fish service is the Nels J. Its namesake was Adolph's great grandfather; the original family name, Jentoft, was changed years ago in favor of a place on Norway's West Coast.

Adolph's mother also was of Norwegian stock, and her father, Gust Torgerson, drowned on Lake Superior when he was only 45 … working his new gas fishing boat.

Although young Adolph didn't follow the family fishing tradition, he did spent a lot of time on the water aboard the old steam tug Edna G., where his father was the captain for 25-plus years. Like the Nels J., the Edna G. is now a shore side monument, in this case in Two Harbors.

His career is well-chronicled elsewhere in this publication, but I thought it might be worth knowing something about Adolph Ojard beyond the standard biography.

I know he will do well. Anyone who can survive lutefisk will move the port forward.