Night of the Tustumena

by Arne Bue

  The woman pulled up to a low-slung frame house with a narrow porch that served as the taxi stand. "Here. Store your stuff here. Like last time."

  Mr. Nakano helped her offload the duffel bag.

  Nobody talked as she drove to the first stop, the bowling alley.

  "Have a good day," the brown bearded one said, getting out. Mr. Nakano believed the man had spoken with little sincerity, as some Americans are wont to do when occupied with many things at the same time. The man paid half the fare, and headed inside.

  "I think I'll walk today," Mr. Nakano said to the taxi-woman.

  "Oh, yeah? You want off now? Here?"

  He looked out at the corner of Heath and Pioneer, near a park bench and a place called Blackbeary Bog. Although the weather looked of possible rain, he said, "Yes. I will eat my lunch."

  Mr. Nakano paid the woman the appropriate amount. He was uncomfortable at her suspicions of him, and decided he had better allay her sour mood. He gave her a tip of $5.00, and said, I am embarrassed. Sometimes my English is confused. I was, how you say...flustered when I told that gentleman this was my first trip here, when indeed it was not. I would lose face of course to have to admit I had presented him with false words. So sorry."

  "So that's what was going on. I just was wondering if I was losing my mind or what, you know? I knew I seen you before, but there you go, saying all that about you never having been here before. Figured something was up, so I just shut up."

  "I did not mean to confuse you."

  "No, no, that's OK. Here's my card. See the phone number? Now you call me when it's time to head out to the spit, meet the Tustumena. I'll come pick you up and we'll get your gear. Like last time. OK?"

  Kenso read the card, "Maggie's Taxi, 235-2345."

  She drove off down Pioneer. Hungry, Mr. Nakano sat at the park bench. Two teenagers passed. A Golden Retriever followed. The dog looked much like the one Jeffrey Johnson owned; the animal sniffed at him, and hurried along to join the teenagers. The Kumagoro Restaurant in Anchorage had prepared rice and chicken to go, and had filled his thermos with green tea. The thermos had leaked during the flight. This sorry omen struck Mr. Nakano like a slap to the face. Although the packaging people in Japan had used waterproofed packets, he must dry everything, but not here. Neatness was important, orderliness the signature of control. And he certainly would not show panic to passersby. Rather, he consumed the food, warily glancing up and down the street. According to the sign on the corner, the Homer Police and the State Troopers were just around the corner, up Heath.

  A sprinkle of rain visited. Were a patrol car to drive by, he would draw their attention, eating here like this, so he dropped the food cartons in a waste repository near the sidewalk.

  The Blackbeary Bog sign was rustic, faded, and the roofing held lights the owners probably turned on during evening hours. The door to the shop was open, address number 6 fastened to the frame. Windows displayed Alaskan gifts and artifacts, and flowers hung in a basket and bloomed in planters fastened to the store's front. Alaskan flora were not strong and eye-watering, as those he'd encountered in the Bahamas. A crockery pot squatted by the entrance near a couple of chairs.

  As he stepped inside, a State Trooper drove by. The clerk, a narrow, auburn woman in a maroon sweater, looked up. He purchased nothing and browsed until the drizzle stopped. Last trip here he'd photographed a gazebo, not far from here, but exactly where?

  He felt the clerk's eyes raise his skin as he headed out to the sidewalk. The gazebo was practically right next door, set back from the sidewalk. The tiny edifice had a shingled conical roof, an open door in the back, and two poles in the front. Native Alaskan fine art adorned its front base, and the structure nestled among trees with leaves turned yellow, and sat on grass still holding summer green. No one on the street noticed him leave the sidewalk and head toward this semi-private area.

  Someone had been eating a burger in the gazebo, and had left an empty drink container with a straw on the counter. He gathered up the paper napkins provided by the Kumagoro Restaurant and dried the packets of shabu and the insides of the bag.

  Across the street from the Homer City Hall was Wolf Sculpture Gifts and Art, where the Americans sold ice cream and espresso. He passed the Land and Sea Gift Shop, Ptarmigan Arts, The Grog Shop, the Wandering Star Bed and Breakfast and the Neon Coyote Cafe. A sign at Alice's Champagne Palace said The English Bay Band would provide live entertainment tonight, but he would not hear them. He'd be aboard ship.

  Mr. Nakano took Main and walked a ways down the hard-packed dirt on the side of the road, past a video store, Barb's, and Kachemak Bay Ceramics.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Captain John Sewell normally would have relieved Captain Siegel in Homer, but that had all changed because Port Captain Jim Kelly in Juneau Headquarters had ordered Sewell to fly to Seldovia right now, relieve Siegel right away so Siegel could attend to the Taku on the Southeast Alaska run. Fine with John Sewell. The sooner aboard, the better. Then he could get this trip over. And by God he was going to file the papers this time, go for the early retirement package. Imagine, being ordered to run a snoop operation for some snot nosed Trooper. On a professor. Draws pictures of birds and sea lions. A full captain taking orders from some damn Trooper.

  He flew ERA Aviation to Homer, took the next flight on Southcentral Air to Seldovia.

  He didn't board ship right away. Captain Sewell was more interested in the two men advancing along the dock, looking to pass and go up the gangway. One of the men weaved.

  Captain Sewell blocked them.

  "Excuse me, Cap," Quinsen said.

  "You're drunk," Sewell said. "Get out of here, don't come back until you're sober, both of you."

  "One or two each, is all," Quinsen said. He lifted his shoulders to his ears and dropped them. Lingenberry peered up at the Captain, a touch of weather and sadness in his narrow face, a pleading look, but Sewell did not budge, his blood coming up.

  Sewell took long walks in cold deck winds, and the sea and high blood pressure had turned his face crimson. The doctor said to eat better, get his blood-pressure down, not get into stressful situations, said to walk even more than he already did, take his Procardia. Sewell resented that. He was in good enough shape, hands strong, same as his back and legs. Sure, he smoked a pack a day, but that was down from two packs a year ago. Doc told him to stop entirely, but he hadn't. He was in control, not the doctor, and he was in control now of these Deck Officers, and he rolled his thick shoulders, loosened up, and he stuck his chin right into Third Mate Quinsen's face. The booze on the Third Mate's breath overtook the low tide and the creosote on the piles.

  "You're drunk as a skunk, Quinsen."

  "Come on, Cap. A few is all."

  The Second Mate, Harry Lingenberry, poked his head around. "John, I don't do this. I just had a lot to get off my chest. Gary and I had a drink back there, a swig is all, and talked a few things out, you know? I think it might have done some good."

  The Second Mate never came aboard drunk. And he wasn't the one weaving, wasn't bleary-eyed. Third Mate Quinsen was the problem.

  "Trying to turn my Second Mate into a bum, Gary?"

  "Hey, Cap, what's the matter with a drink? You used to have a few. Now look at you, cushy job, Masters Quarters all day pushing papers and shit around and watching movies. All you do is dock and undock the damn ship and sleep all the time. I should be so lucky."

  The Captain's lips folded down like rope, and his shoulders spread out black as iron and his feet seemed to grow down into the dock.

  "Hey, Gary. Hey, hey," Lingenberry said. Captain Sewell traced over a mark under his beard left from a boil. The movement of the big hand was quite sudden, and caused Gary Quinsen to step off half a pace.

  "Go on up, Captain Sewell said. "Not you, Quinsen. Lingenberry." The Second Mate slipped by the Captain, up the gangway, quick, sober-looking steps.

  "He goes up, I go up," Quinsen said, moving as though thinking to push by.
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br />   Sewell's hand covered Quinsen's face and pushed. Quinsen worked for his balance, swung his arms, teetered. The palm of Sewell's hand carried a wicked scar left by a flying fish hook. He'd gone on a salmon fishing trip to Russian River with Joyce. She'd been happy that trip, until the mishap with the hook.

  "I don't put up with staggering Deck Officers, Mr. Quinsen," Sewell said. Appearances were important. The Captain himself took care even when he had a head cold. With one of those, his balance was no better than Quinsen's.

  "It was from earlier," Quinsen said. "Cup of coffee, I'll be fine. I didn't have but the one." Quinsen's fingers were shaking.

  "Shakes?" Sewell asked.

  "I'm used to that," Quinsen said.

  "You expect to stand your watch in that condition? Like a little kid. My God, this is an ocean-going ship. We've people aboard, cargo. I can't let you board in this condition, Gary."

  "My watch isn't until midnight, right after Lingenberry's. Isn't even four bells," Quinsen said. "What's the big deal? I've come aboard a little tired before. I'll be in shape when we sail. Besides, my life-style ashore is none of your business."

  "Hell it isn't. You don't give me all you got, I throw you off."

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Now you listen here, Gary. I want you at this gangway in one hour, and you'd better be sober."

  "Yes, Captain," Quinsen said.

  Sewell moved stiffly up the gangway. The seaman checking tickets touched the brim of his cap. "Captain," he said.

  "Passengers?" Captain Sewell asked, thinking to get a feel of the trip coming up, a fix on anything or anyone unusual for the Chain. The seaman would know. He had a pretty good eye for the unusual ones.

  "Not many, Captain. End of the season. A few locals going to Homer. One or two repeats. The birdwatchers from Maryland again. And a couple from Washington State University.

  "Check your watch," the Captain said. The able-bodied seaman looked. In fifty-five minutes, Sewell said, "I want you to come get me from quarters. We're going to give our Third Mate a good look-see, right here at the boarding area. That clear?"

  An angular man with an Edgar Allen Poe mustache waited in the foyer, the officer Sewell was replacing. Captain Siegel was tall as a mast, thorough and tough, a no-nonsense officer, respected by crew and Deck Officers.

  "Ship shape?" Sewell asked.

  "Like a clock," Siegel said. "But take a look at the Third Mate. He's got a problem."

  "I'm onto that. Sent him off for a walk."

  "That'll wake him up."

  "What's his problem?"

  "Knocked up his girl friend," Siegel said, "the one in Guam. His morale is a little low."

  "I heard something about that," Sewell said.

  Siegel and Sewell, like the other Captains, held regular ship drills and crew meetings in the dining room for morale and safety. Siegel looked at his watch. "Plane to catch," he said. The two Captains shook hands, an exchange of power. Siegel stepped to the boarding area, worked his way down the gangway to the dock and climbed into a waiting van.

  The Chief Purser was working in her office across the passage from the Purser's Station. Sewell tapped on the door.

  Anna Knight, bespectacled and bright, looked up. "Captain?"

  "Call the crew together in the dining room," Sewell said.

  "We having another drill? Siegel just had one of those." Captain Sewell caught the wonderment, the curiosity in Anna's face.

  "Not a drill," Sewell said.

  This voyage, a crew of thirty-four. Not present at the meeting were the seamen manning the boarding areas for vehicles and passengers, an oiler and an engineer below with the engines, and Second Mate Lingenberry and a Wiper, who were on the bridge for the watch, a twenty-four hour responsibility, even when docked.

  Anna Knight the Purser, Judy the waitress, Billy Sullivan the Porter, Tommy Brown, the cook, and Dick, the night watchman, the others, gathered around. Most sat in the booths and twisted about to hear, others stood. A curious, taut ambiance silenced the crew chatter as Captain Sewell rose up and looked over his people.

  "Lay back. You're a good crew, you know that. And no, this is not another drill." The dining room lightened, perhaps from the late afternoon sun, maybe from the stern grace of the Captain.

  "Our job is to ensure the safety of passengers and cargo," Sewell continued. "Sometimes we take on more, whatever will serve the ship, the crew, our cargo and our passengers."

  Sewell could practically read their minds, the way they looked at him, and about at each other, waiting for his point.

  A change in procedure? Coast Guard stick us with new regulations?

  Sewell continued, "A man has been aboard the Tustumena every trip out to the Chain these past two years. You've all seen him. Some have tried to talk to him. The man does not speak English. He may be from China or Korea. Maybe Japan. He's the one doing the sketches, taking the pictures."

  Silence. No one breathed. A few murmurs. Anna Knight, the Chief Purser, said, "Does this guy have a health problem we should know about?"

  "No. I'm not going to say too much, because I don't think there's much to concern ourselves with. But I think you all know who I mean."

  The cook said, "I seen him. He's the guy who did a sketch in the dining room last year.

  "What's the matter with him?" the waitress Judy asked.

  "Treat him kindly, with respect, and let me know what he does. That's all I'm going to say for now."

  "What do we look for?" Dick, the watchman asked.

  Sewell regretted he'd called the meeting. Perhaps the memories from Northway Mall had driven him to this, the dark horror he could not forget. One bullet. Sewell brought himself back. He was sure Mr. Nakano wasn't running drugs. He did not wish to start rumors about a man, a passenger he considered totally innocent, but now the crew wanted answers, what to look for.

  "What's he done?" Billy Sullivan, the porter asked.

  "Is he dangerous?" Judy, the waitress asked.

  Captain Sewell said, "No, no. Nothing like that." He must explain. His people were concerned. He was making them nervous, the way they were looking at one another.

  "He goes on every Aleutian trip," Anna said. Captain Sewell saw a cloud of suspicion rise in her eyes and tiny lines of doubt trace across the faces of the others.

  "Let's just say that with regulars, we don't want our Coast Guard Regulations violated," Sewell said. "He's been aboard a lot, maybe he's too used to the ship and gets a little careless out there. He's been out in the storms too often, and he should be watched. Familiarity breeds carelessness. He may not be as watchful as we'd all like. It's his safety we must look for. We don't want a man overboard."

  The crew looked at each other, giving each other the something-not-right look. Captain Sewell knew each of them personally. Anna Knight understood the Captain did not wish to say more. She cut the air and the tension and the wonder with, "OK, Captain. We'll keep a close eye on him, keep you posted."

  Chief Mate Elaine Miller said nothing. Sewell could feel her eyes moving over him in that familiar way she'd begun after Joyce died.

  "That'll be all. Let's have a good trip," Sewell said.

  He set off to give his ship the once-over, trying to move with the hard grace of one who has total control of himself, feeling inside the craving he'd carried so many years for the security of his captain-like traditions. Though he moved with vigor, he left a draft of sadness in his wake.

  He walked about the deck and passed Seldovia passengers he'd seen aboard before. He walked the ship's length, looking for anything that might be awry. The Tustumena's length, 296 feet, 2,100 tons.

  He took the elevator to the car deck.

  "How many for Homer?" Sewell asked Mr. Webster, the Bosun.

  "Three. Two Broncos and a Chevy. Some of these others going on to Kodiak, one over there going out to Chignik," the blue-overalled man said.

  The Ferry System allowed aboard any vehicle that could be driven or towed on the highway.
The wider and longer the vehicle, the more they paid. Passengers loaded and off-loaded their own vehicles. Access to the car deck was prohibited while underway, unless for an emergency. People would forget their medicine or the diapers, so for good reason, a crew member while underway would accompany a passenger to the car deck.

  There were no electrical hookups for vehicle refrigeration units and no refrigerated storage aboard. If passengers didn't get their car off on arrival, Captain Sewell would have the Purser find the culprits, charge them fifty bucks, and have the deck hands remove the vehicle. Passengers had to secure their own motorbikes, two of them this trip, not the crew's job. Since the main thrust of the tourist season had ended, not many cars.

  Sewell took the elevator down to the engine room. The First Engineer, Katherine Haven was checking out the twin 3,200-horsepower diesel engines, Fairbanks-Morse's, re-built World War II workhorses.

  "How's everything?" he asked.

  "We're ready, no problems," she said.

  He continued up to the second deck and made a return pass through the galley. The Tustumena served Alaska seafood, hot meals, salads, sandwiches, yogurt, fruit, juices and snacks. The bartender was preparing for departure, cleaning glasses.

  Sewell checked out the forward observation lounge. Seldovia passengers had already boarded, many with hand luggage. Some stored their back-packs in coin-operated storage lockers, a few used baggage carts furnished on the car deck. Everyone did their own baggage handling. Several passengers sailed without cabins. They found recliner chairs for themselves. Some had already claimed spaces to roll out sleeping bags. If they wanted, they could ask for pillows and blankets, if they were willing to pay a little rent to the Purser.

  A senior couple from Seldovia he knew said, "Hello, Cap." Sewell stopped and spoke politely, and continued on. These old-timers were at least 70. They probably hadn't had to purchase the full fare, going home to Homer. The Ferry System offered a $5 boarding fee for passage to passengers 65 years or older for space available travel between Alaskan ports.