The Sinking of the Angie Piper

by Chris Riley

  “Yeah! You’re gonna be our deck ape—the guy with the muscle. So listen up, Danny.” I stood between the bait table and the large totes of whole cod we used to complete the bait setup and pointed to the jars hanging off the rail. “Listen for Salazar. When he gives the call, I want you to bring one of those jars, and two of those fish—don’t forget to hook them. I want you to bring them over to the pot with the rest of us. We’re gonna clip all that shit on the inside.” Confusion mingled with excitement on Danny’s face. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  I grabbed a filleting knife off the table and sliced through the bellies of the cod—heavy, fat fish, the size of small dogs. Baiting crab required a setup that included at least one of these fish, along with a bait jar of crushed herring. The entire rig would get clipped on the inside of the crab pot. The task was easy enough, but you could get clumsy if you hadn’t mastered it. Or you were beyond tired.

  “Just start cutting through these guys, like this,” I said, slicing open one fish after another. “We’re gonna be using them real soon now.”

  Leaving Danny, I jogged across the deck over to Salazar, who stood behind the hydraulic controls, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Referred to as the “hydros,” these controls are mounted on a small table about three feet high, near the ship’s superstructure. They control the various machinery we run on deck, including the picking crane used for transporting the crab pots. The hydros are the heart of a crabbing operation—without them, we’d be screwed. As our deck boss, Salazar ran the hydros and had the privilege of staying out of harm’s way. But this privilege also came with the responsibility of keeping the crew safe. One miscalculation with the picking crane, and a thousand-pound steel cage could suddenly become a swinging menace for everyone on deck. It could easily crush a deckhand, or send him over the rail to an icy death.

  “Are we still dropping forty?” I asked Salazar.

  “Yep!” Pulling his cigarette from his lips, Salazar flung it over the side and tested the controls to the crane. On a smooth day with a solid crew, forty pots meant roughly forty minutes of labor. We could drop one pot a minute and be back inside the galley sipping coffee within the hour—not a bad way to start a season. Yet the waves were crashing hard against our ship, causing our entire world to sway up and down, making it a challenge just to stand in one place.

  “Gonna be rough!” Salazar shouted, casting a glance at Danny.

  “Yeah! I know,” I replied, with a nod. “I’m gonna help him out some.”

  Just then, over the loudspeaker, the captain announced that we should start dropping. Loni gave a cheer while he and Dave took positions near the pot launcher—the hydraulic ramp used to load and off-load crab pots, as well as dump them into the ocean. With a squelching sound, Salazar navigated the picking crane over to our stacked gear—the tower of seven-bys—and I followed along, mentally preparing myself to climb on up.

  A very tricky and dangerous job was climbing up and down the anchored pots (known as the main-stack) in order to secure or unsecure them, as needed. One slip and you fell over the rail and into the freezing sea, or straight onto the deck with a broken neck. Nothing about the task was easy; the pots were wet or icy or both. In any case, they were slick under a rubber boot. And the swaying seas were a constant threat, as you fought to keep a tight grip and firm balance along the gear. It was the one feature of my job that both scared the shit out of me and filled me with exhilaration. I had done it many times before, so I knew what to expect. And what I expected was that Danny would want to do the job also. Although not necessarily a daredevil, Danny was caught up in the thrill of working on the Angie Piper. He showed it the minute we had stepped on board. I assumed that he was living his Navy SEAL dream, and I feared that because of this, he might also get a little too careless.

  “You just stay right there,” I told Danny, as I grabbed hold of the steel framework of the lowest crab pot. “Get a jar and some fish. Make sure you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready,” Danny replied.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw him pull a jar then look back to watch me scramble up the tower of steel cages. Seconds later, I was at the top, securing the crane cable to a pot. Then, unsecuring the chains of that particular pot, I released it from the main-stack. Down again I climbed. Salazar skillfully hoisted and transported the pot over to the pot launcher, where Loni and Dave grabbed it and positioned it in place. Suddenly, there we were on deck, our first launch seconds away. Danny’s first real test was about to begin.

  “Bait boy!” Dave shouted, a clear note of contempt in his voice.

  “Let’s go, Danny!” I ran up to help him, but Danny was two steps ahead of me. Carrying two fish and a bait jar, he led the way to the pot launcher, not really knowing what to do but willing to try all the same.

  “Watch this, Danny,” I said, relieving him of the bait setup. I climbed inside the pot—an eerie task if there ever was one—clipped the bait jar and bloody cod onto the steel rigging, and then climbed out. “That’s it, buddy. It’s that easy.”

  “Now we gonna see,” Loni said, as he swung a crab-pot line onto the cage. Roughly six hundred feet of coiled rope that sat nearly three feet high, the line weighed almost a hundred pounds and required a certain finesse and swing of the hips of a man in order to toss it anywhere. Loni was a master of the maneuver, and could toss one line after another for hours at a time. “We gonna see a whole lot, for sure!” Loni repeated, as I stepped back and watched him and Dave tie shut the cage’s door. “Gonna see that boy work. Gonna see this pot come up full. We gonna see money in our hands, yes sir!”

  A blast of wind slapped me broadside, ripping down the hood of my raincoat. This was our first pot over the rail for the season. It was a symbolic moment, one familiar to every crewmember who had ever fished the seas of this world.

  “Let her go!” Dave shouted. Seconds later, with another hydraulic squeal, our first pot went over the rail and into the frigid seas of Alaska. What followed was a quick dance between Dave and Loni as they both worked together to hurtle shots of line and buoys attached to the thousand-pound cage. One false move—a lift of the foot at the wrong time, for example—and a person could find himself attached to the descending pot, following it into the icy waters and pulled to the bottom of the ocean in a matter of seconds.

  “Remember what I said about your feet, Danny.” I pointed to Dave and Loni. “See how they keep their feet always on the deck?” Danny stared, scratching the whiskers of his chin. “It’s important, Danny. Always, always, keep your feet planted on the deck. Keep ’em there, and you’ll stay there.”

  “Hooyah, master chief!” he replied.

  Dave hollered, “Next!” which was the cue for our second launch. Loni raced across the deck to retrieve another coil of crab-pot line, a job that would quickly become one of Danny’s. Salazar maneuvered the picking crane toward the main-stack once again, while I crawled up it. Danny gathered another bait setup over at the table. And Fred jogged the Angie Piper against the trough of the waves. We chugged along roughly thirty miles south of Tugidak Island: a fully operating fishing vessel, prospecting for the elusive snow crab some five hundred feet below us.

  Loni was right: over the next few days, the crew of the Angie Piper would see a whole lot of things. Many things. Things that looked gray, such as the belly of the ocean churning up and down in her endless roil of anger. Or the leering face of a cruel sky, lifeless in its own hoary shade, yet mocking all the same the insanity in which every fisherman conceives at one point or another. We were going to see things that would drive a man wild with hate and sullen with fear. And things that no person should ever have to endure, regardless of their sins. Finally, I was going to see something much more than any of this, something that would forever change who I was, or what I thought, what I believed in, and ultimately, what I would do for the rest of my life. I would see my true character—my strengths and my weaknesses. And I would see these things within Danny Wilson, as well.

&nb
sp; “Is it time to bring the bait now, Ed?” Danny was standing by the table, a fistful of bleeding fish in one hand, a swinging bait-jar in the other. His barrel chest and rigid shoulders, in all their mighty strength and bulk, pushed against the inside of his raingear. And his almond-shaped eyes, dripping with candor, lit a fire of enthusiasm straight into my soul.

  “You’re damn right it is, sailor!” I shouted. And with a crashing bellow, Salazar landed our second crab pot onto the launcher, while Dave and Loni manhandled it into position. “Bring on the bait, Danny-boy!”

  Chapter 11

  Forty pots later became another forty after a two-hour ride west of our first string of gear. Six hours after that, we dropped twenty more pots north of Tugidak Island, and the day was yet bright, and half over. The rough seas calmed down considerably, allowing for easy going as the captain acted on a “hunch” and steered the Angie Piper west for another thirty miles. Awake now for over fifteen hours, Fred told us to get ready to drop the last of them. Sixty more pots, and then we would break for the northern end of Tugidak Island to anchor down and get some rest.

  By this time, Danny was proficient at doing his job as bait-boy, which pleased the hell out of me. I noticed that he watched and listened to the sounds of the operations on deck. And, uncharacteristically, he began to take the initiative in retrieving the crab-pot lines for Loni. But above all, Danny swiftly showed signs of becoming a true fisherman—which I think pissed Dave off more than anything else. Just as I predicted, Danny had proved that he was exactly what every fishing crew looked for in a greenhorn: someone who would work constantly, ask few questions, not once complain, and simply do their damn job until told otherwise. Like his dad, Stephen Wilson, Danny demonstrated that he understood the value of hard work as he slit open fish after fish, pulled jars, secured bait setups, and dragged pot lines across the deck.

  Furthermore, despite the chaos inherent in working on a crabbing vessel, Danny quickly established a routine. It was easy enough to do, and quite expected considering the repetitive and limited nature of his tasks. And although it probably wasn’t a conscious decision on his part, more of a natural reflex to the stresses of the job, it worked in Danny’s favor all the same. Our first day of fishing would soon be over, with sixty more pots to drop, and looking at my friend, you might conclude it had just begun.

  But then he tripped over a coil of rope and fell flat on his face.

  “Ha!” shouted Dave. “You guys all see that? That’s what happens when you let a gimp on board.”

  I grimaced as I went over to help Danny up, Dave’s words still echoing in my head. It dawned on me that Danny’s greatest strength might also be his greatest weakness. The fact that Danny would work himself to death if you let him made him a potential liability. He might become injured and unable to do his job. I wondered if there was some truth to Dave’s words, after all. It was an ugly fall, caused likely from fatigue, and I feared Danny might have broken something.

  “Don’t be starting on like that, Dave,” Loni said. I glanced over and saw his scowl. Loni’s brows drew together, anger mixed with Samoan pride, as he stood up for Danny—something I could never seem to do for my friend.

  “Oh, come on, Popo,” Dave replied sarcastically, referencing the nickname Loni used among his relatives. “You really think that guy’s gonna work out? Do you? You think he’ll be able to rough it out here for a month? Shit, I bet he couldn’t count the money he’d earned even if he did make it through a season.”

  “You be careful, or he might go and work you out of your job. I’m thinking that’s what scares you now, huh?”

  “Go fuck yourself, Loni!” Dave shouted.

  Dave’s face grew redder with each word Loni spat back at him. We had just worked some long hours with a few more left to go, and fatigue was beginning to set in, the limits of mutual respect tested by Dave’s natural response to stress. We had all seen his grumpy side many times. Unlike Loni, I chose to ignore the big man when he blew off steam at the end of the day. Shit, what am I saying? I was a coward; I didn’t choose much of anything.

  But this time was different. Danny made it different. I was nothing like Loni. He grew up in a culture that valued the ways of the warrior, with Mother Nature being their toughest adversary. Loni “Popo” Winston wasn’t the least bit afraid of using the big stick he kept hidden under his ostensibly jovial character.

  “Cool it, guys.” Salazar’s reasonable voice rang out between the two arguing men, carrying as much authority as his position of deck boss allowed. At times I wondered if he just hated it. Running hydros on deck was a risky enough job that took hours of practice, precise timing, and careful observation of everything around you. Salazar was excellent at it, maybe because of his experience as a drummer. But the added responsibility of being a deck boss—having to come between two cranky pit bulls—was something no man liked to do.

  “You all right, Danny-boy?” Loni asked, effectively changing the subject, breaking off his argument with Dave. He crossed the deck to inspect Danny. It turned out the fall wasn’t bad. I had worried about him snapping a bone in his ankle or falling overboard, but he just picked himself up and was fine. “Don’t go working too hard now,” Loni said, “you gonna make us look bad.” He smiled, but I caught the sidelong look of triumph he threw at Dave.

  “I’m not hurt,” Danny replied. And he wasn’t. The fall had scarcely fazed him. “Just a war wound, master chief. It’s just a war wound.”

  “That’s right.” Loni patted Danny on the shoulder and laughed. “A war wound here … for our Navy SEAL.”

  I remember thinking that Loni must have been one hell of a dad. His kids probably loved him to death, as I bet he played with them every minute of the day when he got home from fishing. Loni wasn’t stuck at a certain “level” like many other fathers—unable to relate to the fantasy world children play in, let alone that of a person like Danny. That Samoan had Danny’s number the minute we stepped on deck, and was fearless in his way of demonstrating as much. I felt warm inside as I thought about this aspect of Loni’s character. It was great to have such a strong person in my corner, ready to throw punches on Danny’s behalf. But also, I felt envious of the man. Why couldn’t I be so fearless? What was Loni’s secret?

  “All right boys, let’s get dropping.” Fred’s voice broke in over the loudspeaker, and everybody sprang into action. Shifting mental gears, we began the process of dropping those last sixty pots. Daylight was waning. The bitter sky was a blanket of gray ash. It was anybody’s guess as to what the impending weather would be like, but I figured a storm was on the horizon.

  We hustled for two hours to get our gear off the deck. The routine was the same for the whole crew: retrieve a pot with the crane, load it on the rack, insert the bait setup, tie the door, add crab-pot line, drop the pot, and finally, throw out the trailing shots of line and buoys. But it still hurt like hell.

  After our last pot went over the rail, I inhaled deeply. My body was stiff, sore from the relentless labor, and the prospect of sitting down in the galley for a hot meal was all that kept me going. Yet Danny and I had more work to do. While the rest of the crew went inside to change clothes and take a break, I showed Danny how to secure the deck, getting it prepared for “running.”

  First, we dealt with the hydraulic block. It was a pulley system the size of a basketball, and looked like a stout arm hanging over the rail when operated. We pulled it in and secured it. Next, we battened down all the hatches and cleared the deck, making sure nothing was out of place or unsecure. Anything left loose would be gone after a few big waves crossed us.

  Although securing the deck wasn’t a job that took a whole lot of time to complete, it felt like forever to me—a cold wall barring my path to the wonderful serenity of the galley. I understand how ridiculous this sounds, but while fishing the seas of Alaska, a person learns new definitions for words such as dullness, drudgery, and tedium. They also learn what it means to hate every long second of a day that h
as no apparent end to it. Isolated from friends and family for months at a time, exposed to nothing but an endless gray sea and the everlasting prospect of death, a person also learns very quickly how brittle and limited the human mind really is.

  And yet, there were some days I couldn’t get enough of it.

  Alas, we were only a few days into the season. Danny seemed only slightly fatigued when I gave him the nod indicating our job was done, and we left the growing cold of an early dusk, entering into the ready-room of the boat. We stripped off wet raingear, gloves, and boots, and I told Danny to go change into something warm. “Make sure you’re dry. Wet clothes will kill you quicker than a heart attack out here.” I did the same, and before long, Danny and I were sitting in the galley, our eyes heavy as anchors, as we dug our forks into a plate full of food cooked by none other than grumpy old Dave.

  Our dinner was a healthy portion of reconstituted mashed potatoes and gravy, chicken-fried steak, mixed vegetables, sourdough rolls stuffed with butter, fruit cocktail, and last but not least, our choice of several varieties of soda. For dessert, I ate a bowl of vanilla pudding and three candy bars. Content, I was ready for bed, and just about to slide out from the dining booth when Loni boldly spoke up.

  “So why you always busting Danny’s balls, Dave?”

  Dave didn’t miss a beat. “He’s the fucking greenhorn,” he replied. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  Most of us were crowded together in the dining booth, but Dave sat on a barstool near the kitchen. There was a television and VCR mounted on the ceiling above him, but nobody had the energy or mental wherewithal to put on a movie. We all simply wanted to eat and go to sleep.