by Chris Riley
As I stacked the cord of wood on that Sunday afternoon, asking myself those questions, I realized that I had been shedding tears myself. I felt true empathy—pitying the man, and Danny, and even Danny’s sister Mary, all having to grow up without a mother in the house. Later, when Mr. Wilson came out to pay me for the work I had done, I just shook my head and told him not to worry about it. I told him it was the least I could do. Then I quickly turned around and walked home.
Presently, Danny and I got a table next to a window overlooking the busy street. Men and women wandered the sidewalks, carrying duffel bags or backpacks, making gossip, laughing with one another. These were people from all across the globe. Drifters, college students, locals, and even a few tourists. Most of them had jobs lined up with the fishing community, but others might have been on their way down to the docks in search of work. All of them, however, would likely be busy once the crab season hit.
I looked up at the pale blue sky with its banners of orange fire tearing across the horizon and was reminded of another set of rules all fishermen abided by.
“Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” I said, over the rim of my coffee cup.
“What’s that?” Danny asked.
“Superstition,” I replied. Danny looked at me and blinked. “That’s the other thing you’ll learn, buddy. We’ve got hundreds of them—hundreds of superstitions.” And that was the truth. Working a boat on the deadly seas of Alaska, a person discovers real quick how fragile life can be. A person will begin to observe every ill omen, imaginary or otherwise. He will curse the presence of a woman on board a vessel. And he’ll salute a passing seagull, paying homage to the lost fisherman whose soul now resides in the feathered creature.
“What’s a super-tition?” Danny asked. It was a tough word for my friend to pronounce, and an even tougher one for me to explain.
“Ghosts and things,” I said. Danny blinked again. “Black cats crossing the road … you know—bad luck.”
My friend at last nodded his head, but he still seemed confused. He might have been wondering what a black cat crossing a road had to do with fishing for crab. I dropped the subject once the waiter came over and took our order. But in the back of my mind, I wondered if there were any superstitions that accounted for having a person like Danny on board a fishing vessel.
It wasn’t the first time I had pondered this possibility. I had even joked with Fred over coffee, on the morning he told me to give Danny a call. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Fred had said. I had convinced myself that Danny would be nothing but good luck, considering how much he reminded me of his father. Like a mule, Danny could work straight into his grave without so much as asking for a break, let alone complaining. In fact, Danny never complained, not ever. And when it came to hard work, my friend was like a machine, tireless and showing no emotion.
The waiter swooped in and delivered each of us a cheeseburger and chili fries, with a small bowl of canned fruit.
“Eat up, Danny,” I said. “We’ve got a long, hard day of work ahead of us.”
Seconds later, Danny smiled, then mumbled through a mouthful of food, “Sailor take warning.”
Chapter 5
For all his simple, easygoing attitude toward life, Danny had a legendary stubborn streak. As a little boy, he was nicknamed Sitting Bull by his dad, in that when Danny got angry he would drop to the ground, sit criss-cross applesauce, fold his arms tightly over his chest, and remain like that for hours on end. One time, when he was about five years old, Danny sat in that position all through the night, exhausting both his dad and his sister. Apparently, their jaws dropped in speechless wonder when they found Danny still sitting there in the hallway the next morning. In all my life, I’ve never met a person who could be as stubborn as Danny Wilson.
But I don’t mean to paint my friend in such a bratty light. In many ways, Danny was a typical five-year-old boy. And he wasn’t all that unusual at age twenty-four, the year I got him his job aboard the Angie Piper. Danny, in fact, was basically an average young man, despite not being the sharpest tack on the wall.
If compared to others with his condition, Danny’s IQ would have measured favorably, in that he had always been regarded as “high-functioning.” Many times, I had seen him demonstrate sound common sense. And he seemed to learn skills that required physical coordination with surprising speed. Danny did learn how to read, and could perform basic mathematical computations. In fact, he was damned proficient at taking care of himself. So much so, I believe, that given the opportunity, Danny could have been successful living on his own.
But people like Danny can never escape their DNA. And for anyone who’s known a person like him, the way that I have, it goes without saying that the condition carries with it a whole mess of symptoms not listed in any medical guide.
I pondered these symptoms as Danny and I sat in the diner and ate our lunch. Even while seated, I couldn’t help but notice the occasional glance from a fisherman, or baffled stare from a processor. This was nothing new, and hardly surprising to either Danny or me. We both had years of experience tolerating this type of public gaping. But thirty minutes later, after we’d left the diner and were standing in the general store, Danny and I received what I call the “googly-eyed stares.”
What the hell? Are you kidding me? These were some of the thoughts I’d imagined running through the heads of the people in that store, once they spotted Danny trying on gear. At that time of year, most of the shoppers were people who planned to work in town or the seas beyond. They bought up all the raingear, boots, gloves, knives, jackets, beanies, and every other sort of gear needed to prepare for the harsh winter jobs. Whether they planned on catching the crab or canning it, these people knew that the coming days would be nothing but long, cold, and miserable. So what in the hell was a kid like that doing here?
I knew the confrontation would come at some point. I’d even prepared a few words for when I might need to defend Danny’s right to work there on the outskirts of Alaska. But also, for myself. I had a lot of emotional baggage to cope with.
As Danny struggled to pull on a rain boot in the middle of an aisle, a burly man passed by. At his odd glance, my thoughts flew back to our years in high school.
I would love to say that the kids at our high school had taken Danny under their wings and nurtured him like a mascot, the way teenagers do with their “special” peers these days. I would love to say that, but I’d be lying.
Poor Danny had a hell of time. The kids at our school picked on him relentlessly and seemingly without shame. They played tricks on him, poked fun at the way he looked, bullied him in the bathroom, and called him every kind of name a person can imagine. I couldn’t believe how Danny persevered through all that crap, for all those years. And he did this without once losing his temper. Nor did I ever see him break down. He just took their abuse like a faithful, longsuffering dog, until it was over.
As for me … I never once stood up for my friend. I was too much of a coward. I was too afraid of getting picked on myself. Or, more precisely, too afraid of having my reputation damaged.
Out of all the names those kids used to call him, their favorite was Beluga Boy, or something along that line. They’d call him the Beluga Monster, the Beluga Freak, or sometimes just plain old Beluga, all because the shape of Danny’s face resembled a beluga whale. At least that’s what the high school kids decided one year when Danny showed up for swim tryouts. Our school’s swim coach, Mr. Elmsworth, had taken quite a liking to Danny. I think he recognized Danny’s spirit and ambition. But no way in hell could Mr. Elmsworth let my friend onto the team. Simply stated, Danny couldn’t swim, not like the other kids. But those kids certainly had a field day when they saw him try.
Startled out of my bad trip down memory lane, I reached out and grabbed Danny, preventing his fall in the middle of the aisle of the general store; he had lost his balance attempting to get a rain boot on.
“That one’s too small, buddy,” I said, h
anding him a larger pair. “Trust me. For comfort, you’ve got to wear these things a size or two bigger.”
“Thanks, Ed.” Danny took the boots and plopped his feet into them. “These are big,” he said, his face screwed up in concentration.
“Working on a boat is a lot colder than on a dock, Danny.” I took a guess at what he might be thinking at that moment. Because of Danny’s work as a fish processor up in Naknek the previous salmon season, he was accustomed to wearing rain boots and raingear. But that was in July, in a warehouse, away from the ice-cold seas and rasping winds of Alaska’s ocean. Danny had never been doused by a ten-foot wave while standing on a slick deck in freezing temperatures.
“When you’re wearing two pairs of wool socks, they’ll fit just fine,” I said. “Now let’s go find you some gloves.”
Thirty minutes later our shopping cart was piled high with Gore-Tex, rubber, and wool. Although I already had my gear stored on board the Angie Piper (save for a new pair of boots in the cart), I spotted Danny the money he needed so that we could buy him an extra pair of everything. It was a dumb fisherman who headed out to sea without more than one of every essential item. And every item of clothing is essential when you’re a deckhand on a commercial fishing vessel. One season of crabbing could wipe out an entire wardrobe.
“So when do we go?” Danny asked, as we walked toward the checkout counter. “When do we catch the crab?” His voice vibrated with excitement, as if we were simply heading for our favorite fishing hole. I had already told him it might be a few days before we left Kodiak. A lot of preparation still needed doing on the boat before we could pull anchor. But I thought I understood how Danny felt. Everyone in that town shared a certain excitement, which struck me as rather odd and contradictive, since we all knew what awaited us beyond the horizon: cold, miserable days spent in everlasting winter darkness. There would be brutal snowstorms, cast down from the north, bringing with them hundred-knot williwaw winds. Fishermen would clock countless hours of tedious work out upon a sea consisting of nothing but gray—a maddening color if there ever was one. And beyond the numerous concussions, lacerations, broken bones, bruised ribs, and predictable bouts with pneumonia, there would also be death. During every season, the undeniable truth that that grim fate could await us lingered in the air, waiting, biding its time.
But the stakes were always high in Alaska. The probability of earning thousands of dollars in a few short weeks was incentive enough to accept the constant presence of the Grim Reaper. The money attracted all sorts of people to fish these waters, many of them desperate and tough as nails. There were the young fools like me, eager to capture a full share of life from the bountiful seas of the last frontier. And then there were the broken wrecks of humanity: chain-smokers who’d spent their happiest days on board a golem of steel, riding the boundless sea. For these people, the Harry Hallers of the world, no other place in life—be it a secure job, a loving family, or the blessed sanctuary of land—could provide the sense of belonging they hungered for.
At the checkout counter, I looked at Danny and realized I was wrong. He might be the only person in Kodiak who thought the way he did about fishing. My friend couldn’t care less about making money, and he certainly wasn’t running away from anything. Hell, Danny might have been the only person in the town eager to catch crab for no other reason than to do it. This simple outlook might be another symptom not listed in any medical guide: a trouble-free personality prone to innocence and beautiful naivety.
“Don’t worry, Danny,” I said, “we’ll be out there soon enough. I promise.”
The guy who rang us up was named Dewey. He was a wiry kid with a brown mullet and crooked teeth, and he smiled as if nothing on earth mattered more than the customer. I had seen him often enough in the bars, cackling and drinking, having fun, never too popular with the women.
“You guys find everything?” Dewey asked, giving us his biggest smile yet, although failing miserably to keep from staring at Danny. He might have been wondering about my friend, and perhaps dying to ask us a few questions, but he refrained.
“Yeah, we sure did,” I replied.
“Hear about the Polar Betty?” Dewey continued, still smiling, as if this nugget of gossip was the highlight of his day. “Your captain, Mooney, was in here earlier, talking with another guy. They both seemed pretty upset.”
“Well, we were good friends with the crew,” I replied.
“It’s a damn shame, ain’t it?” Dewey added, bagging our supplies. “Seems like every year, more and more boats go down.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” I said, my tone deliberately casual. But in reality, I was feeling anything but casual. Dewey had hit the nail on the head in one respect. Not so much that more and more boats were going down—that might or might not be true—but that this job was beyond dangerous. One mistake could easily cost the lives of an entire crew.
As I stepped outside, the first thing I did was inhale a lungful of wild Alaskan air. My neck and shoulders were cramped and tight, like they’d been welded together. I was glad that the first part of our day was almost over. Looking down Shelikof Avenue toward the docks, I realized that I had been anxious all afternoon. Just like in high school, I was nervous that Danny would draw unwanted attention, there in the streets of Kodiak. I guess I had been looking forward to pulling anchor myself, getting on with the crabbing season and heading out into a massive ocean where no one could possibly taunt Danny—or me, for hanging out with him. I’d been pushed around and barraged with insults more times than I could count just for being friends with Danny.
From half a block away, I spotted Salazar leaning against Fred’s truck, lighting a cigarette.
“Come on, Danny,” I said. “It’s time we get back to the boat.”
I took a step, and then from behind I heard, “What’s going on, Ed?” I turned and saw our engineer Dave Jenkins walking toward me, from across the street. “Do anything crazy with all that money you earned last season?”
“Oh, you know me, Dave,” I replied, “blew it all on meth and booze—the usual.”
Dave gave a dutiful chuckle, then said, “What did you really do?”
“Just some traveling, that’s all. A few weeks here and there, nothing too spectacular. What about you? What’d you spend your fortune on?”
“Oh, you know,” Dave said, “the usual—meth and booze. So who’s this?” he asked, his gaze landing now on Danny.
“This is Danny Wilson, the new greenhorn.”
“This is your friend—the one the captain hired?” Dave sounded incredulous. His face flushed, and his eyes widened in alarm.
“Y-yeah …” I stuttered and squirmed at the awkwardness of the situation. “Danny’s tough as nails. Wait and see—he’ll work out.”
Dave exploded into a fit of anger. “Fred Mooney up and lost his fucking mind!” He threw his hands in the air and began pacing the sidewalk, side to side. Then his eyes went cold and dark, and he looked at me, scowling. “This was your fucking idea, wasn’t it?”
This was Danny’s first meeting with our fellow crewmember. Dave was known to be ill-tempered. He often appeared sullen and irritable and was given to sudden shifts of mood, but he knew how to run crab gear as well as most deckhands. He was also our ship’s main engineer, and could keep a vessel running better than the best mechanics. His instincts about machines made him invaluable. Dave had been with the boat for over ten years and was a trusted friend of the captain. I had learned how to get along with the man, how to tolerate him and his irascible nature. I had also learned when to stay out of his way. But because of our captain, I never thought Dave would have much of a problem with Danny. Fred had told me that if Danny worked as hard as I had claimed he would, Dave would give him a decent enough chance. And that made sense to me, because underneath the bluster, Dave seemed to be a reasonable fellow.
“That son of a bitch!” Dave shouted. “What the hell was he thinking taking on a gimp like him?” He jerked a thumb toward Danny bu
t kept his eyes on me.
Oh yeah … I’d planned on what I would say, knowing that sooner or later it would come to this. I’d mentally rehearsed my lines several times: Danny has a right to be here! He worked up in Bristol Bay, and kicked ass so much they didn’t want him to leave! He’s as strong as you are, fool! But just like when we were back in high school, once the brutal words surfaced, I sank back into my weakness, a broken vessel headed for the bottom of the sea.
Salazar suddenly appeared next to us. “Cool it, Dave,” he said.
“Cool it? You want me to fucking cool it?” Dave turned a shoulder and spat on the ground. “Fred’s hired us a goddamned idiot! As if greenhorns aren’t stupid enough … and now we’ve got this guy?” His head looked like an overripe strawberry about to burst, pushing out through his full and scraggly beard. He lowered his voice into the black depths of a threat, pointed a finger at Danny, and said, “You’ve got no business being on the Angie Piper, kid. No business at all.”
“Hey, come on.” Salazar raised his hands in a gesture of exasperation.
“Don’t ‘come on’ me! Last year we had a hell of a time with that fruit loop from Nebraska. Who knows how much money we lost on account of him?” Dave paused for a second, staring hard at Danny. I wanted to think that maybe, in that brief moment, he was beginning to recognize how much of an asshole he was being. And that maybe Dave had caught a glimpse of Danny’s talents buried beneath his goofy, innocent exterior.
But then Dave turned and headed toward the store. “This is total bullshit!” he hollered, shaking his head as he yanked the door open. “We’ll fucking see about this!”
Chapter 6
