The Sinking of the Angie Piper

by Chris Riley

  “But he’s a strong greenhorn,” Loni smiled, pointing his fork at Danny.

  “He’s strong right now … I guess. But …” Dave took a big bite and chewed slowly, letting his words hang dramatically in the air, “give him a few days, then you’ll see.”

  “See what?” asked Loni. “He got all I need to see. This boy here is solid. Nothing but strong muscle, a strong mind. Gonna make a fine fisherman.”

  Dave’s features screwed up and the tension in the galley was close to the snapping point. I expected a full-blown argument to ensue, but surprisingly, the man kept his cool. Salazar was half asleep in the booth, and I, like Danny, just sat there waiting as Loni confronted Dave. I knew I should have said something at that point—something noble and in defense of my friend. But my mind kept racing back to my previous encounters with Dave. He was a cruel bully at heart. He knew how to scare the shit out of a coward like me.

  “Yeah, well … we’ll see.” Dave finished eating. Before he left the room, he added, “Don’t forget to clean up the fucking mess, greenhorn.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Damn,” I said aloud, “several more weeks of this shit? I don’t know, Loni.”

  “He’ll cool off, once we’re on the crab,” stuttered Salazar.

  “He better,” Loni added. “Or captain gonna get a piece of my mind soon enough. Danny’s a greenhorn, but he don’t deserve none of that.”

  Typically, greenhorns took a bunch of crap from their fellow crewmembers. Sort of a rite of passage. Newbies had all kinds of extraneous duties thrown upon them. And oftentimes, they weren’t treated with the same respect as the other crewmen. But Loni was right. Dave’s attitude had been downright hostile the minute he laid eyes on Danny. Worst of all, he hadn’t let up for a second. Not even after Danny won him that money back in the bar. Or recently, when my friend proved how competent he could be on deck. I really hoped that Salazar was correct. I prayed, in fact, that once we found the crab, Dave would lighten up.

  A few minutes later, Danny and I left the galley for our staterooms. It felt like heaven to crawl under my blankets and curl up for some much-needed rest. The steady, up and down motion of the boat was like the gentle swing of a baby’s cradle. And the persistent hum of the diesel engine down below was sweet music to my ears. I closed my eyes and thought about the day. I could’ve counted crab pots, had I needed help falling asleep. The notion seemed ridiculous and made me chuckle. I felt the warm blanket of sleep drifting over me.

  Then Danny’s words jolted me wide awake. “Hey Ed,” he said, sounding alert and impulsive. “You think there’s another storm coming?”

  I waited a minute before answering. “Maybe so, Danny. Maybe so.” And then I drifted off to sleep once more, to the sway of the boat, the sound of the engine, my friend’s last words from our first day of crabbing echoing in my ears.

  Chapter 12

  The storm hit a few hours into our course toward Tugidak Island. With light drifts of snow, and frigid, fifty-mile-an-hour gusts, it was pathetic compared to what we all knew loomed on the winter’s horizon. And it did little in terms of slowing us down toward our destination point, north of the island. We’d arrived and dropped anchor there while I slept.

  Despite my overwhelming exhaustion, I left Danny snoring after six hours in the bunk and headed above deck. At the top of the stairs I opened the door and stepped into a pungent plume of smoke and the smell of oiled leather. From a mile out, the wheelhouse was an aged lantern, cozy and bright, swaying freely in the black hollows of a midnight ocean. This was where I found Fred, drinking decaffeinated coffee and puffing on a cigar stub. His feet were stretched out on the bridge. He sat in his captain’s chair, gazing out into the gloomy darkness. With the Angie Piper now securely anchored, the captain was ready to get some much-needed shut-eye himself. And since I had the first watch duty, I was there to make it happen.

  For six hours, it would be my job to make sure our boat didn’t drift. Staying awake was usually the most difficult part of watch duty. But on occasion, huge problems could arise. Problems such as rough currents and storms.

  “Hey there, Ed.” The captain greeted me in his usual jovial manner—broad smile, red cheeks, and twinkling eyes. “You want one of these to keep you company up here?” He lifted his cigar.

  “Sure,” I replied, “why the hell not?” I took a seat on the bench next to his chair.

  Pulling a cigar from a humidifier, Fred clipped the end before handing it to me. He then lit it. Although I can’t recall which brand of cigar it was, I remember observing the motions Fred completed in that short task of retrieving and preparing the stogie. They were methodical, almost like in a Japanese tea ceremony. He moved his hands slowly, deliberately, with careful precision. It got me thinking about what other interesting character traits Fred kept hidden behind that broad smile of his.

  “So how long does it take to become a captain, anyways?” I asked.

  Fred waited to answer the question, keeping his eyes closed, dragging on his cigar. “As long as a person lets it, I suppose.” He exhaled a pillow of bitter vapor, and then looked at me sideways. “Why do you ask, Ed?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” But I did. I had entertained the idea of getting my own boat someday, and this was the first time I’d brought up the idea with Fred. The natural path to becoming a captain of your own fishing vessel was to learn the ropes from the one you worked under. I knew that Fred would make an excellent mentor. In due time, I expected he would teach me all that was needed to run a crab boat and her crew. The latter part was by far the job’s toughest requirement.

  “Are you thinking you’d like to have your own boat someday, son?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I admitted, choking on my stogie, “I guess so. Seems like it could be a good enough job.”

  Fred’s belly shook from his laughter. “A ‘good enough job,’ you say,” he replied, after composing himself. “Well, I’m not so sure about that.” He sat up, pulled his feet from the bridge, and grew serious. “Let me tell you something, Ed: being a captain is a fucking bitch of a job. It comes with lots and lots of stress. More stress than you could possibly imagine.”

  “Yeah, but you get used to all that stress, don’t you?”

  “Hell no,” he replied, matter-of-factly. He gazed out the window, focusing on something in the distance. “At least not me. Think about what’s at stake, boy. Being a captain is much more than fishing, that’s for sure. If I don’t do my job right, then that’s six families who’ll go without. And if I fuck my job up, then there’s six lives that could easily be lost.” Fred slowly stood and stretched his arms to the ceiling. I heard vertebrae snap like peanut brittle. “That’s a lot of stress for one man, Ed, believe you me. That’s more stress than any sane person can handle.”

  “So why do you do it, then?” I asked. “Why run a boat if it’s not worth it?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say it wasn’t worth it, now did I?”

  I fell silent and stared at the floor, thinking about Fred’s words. I wanted to be so much more than who I was. I admired the notion of becoming what I considered a “noble man”—a man with guts of steel, ready to shrug off any pain brought on by Mother Nature. And I wanted to be a strong man who could smash down bullies like Dave, without so much as a taste of concern, that forever nagging and exhausting fear.

  Looking up at Fred, I changed the subject. “So what’s up with Dave? Why is he such an asshole to Danny?”

  “Yeah ….” Fred hesitated, scratching at his chin. “Dave’s got him a certain … history, Ed.”

  “What do you mean by that? What kind of history?”

  Fred’s reluctance to continue this conversation seemed a bit too obvious to me. His eyes kept darting about the wheelhouse, avoiding mine. “I don’t really have any business getting into it, son.” He stepped past me, heading for below, then paused at the door. “You’re gonna have to talk to Dave about that. Or … maybe just let it go. But don’t worry. I’ll tell him to back of
f with our greenhorn.” Fred smiled. “That boy’s got some muscle in him, that’s for sure. Who would’ve thought, huh? A kid like that working on a crab boat.” He turned and walked down the stairs. “Give a holler if she gets off course.”

  After Fred left, I dropped into the captain’s chair and looked out the window into the pitch black of night. The storm had retreated, and the first light of dawn burned at a corner of the horizon like a distant forest fire. Orange and red beams cut through a thick purple sky, bearing down on the grassy shores of Tugidak Island, lying not far across the Angie Piper’s bow. I sat back in the chair, put my feet up on the bridge just like Fred had done, and reflected on my audacious surroundings: the beauty of the Alaskan waters and the foreboding solitude of a desolate island. And then the possibility of one day becoming captain of it all. Fred’s words lingered in my skull, and truth be told, I found in them more of an inspiration than the warning they were meant to be.

  Outside the window, I observed three gulls flying in lazy circles around our boat, and my mind took a turn back to Dave. Dragging on my stogie, I pondered what Fred had meant about Dave having a history. What kind of history? I didn’t dare ask the man, as the captain had suggested. But I was damn curious. I thought I had a basic understanding of Dave, with his drinking, his presumed tendencies toward being an abusive husband and father. But there was something there, in Fred’s words. In his voice, I suppose. Something unique about “Dave’s history” that might explain his recent hostile attitude.

  Oh well. I gave up thinking about it, satisfied that the captain would talk to Dave about cutting some slack for Danny. He and Dave were good friends, and had been for many years, which never failed to strike me as ludicrous, given their differences. Fred was a good man, always true to his word. He treated his crew fairly and was generous with everything he had. Like his expensive Cuban cigars … or his advice about how to run a fishing vessel. Fred had a wife back in Seattle who had stayed with him for over thirty years. His three kids were all grown up and had families of their own, living in Washington and Oregon. The captain was fond of talking our ears off about his family vacations, visits, and holidays with the grandchildren. He and Dave were nothing alike. They were completely different, in fact. And as I sat in that chair, smoking my cigar, I wondered how it was that they’d managed to remain close friends for so long.

  Four hours passed with nothing but a calm sway on the anchor. The Angie Piper casually rode the passing swells of seawater. Periodically, I entertained myself with the prospect of running my own boat as I observed the various controls, knobs, monitors, and indicator lights scattered about the wheelhouse. These were tools of the trade, such as the steering controls and jog stick. Radar and Loran machines. Heading selectors, fathom meters, single-side band radios, and of course, the only thing I knew how to operate proficiently: the watch alarm. Every fifteen minutes, that alarm made sure that I stayed awake. If I happened to fall asleep, failing to turn the alarm off when it beeped, it would trigger a loud horn down below, alerting the entire crew that I’d screwed up—a surefire path to a shitty morning.

  The watch alarm happened to “beep” just as I broke away from a car and truck magazine to stare out the window and observe the lonesome beaches of Tugidak Island, now bathed in morning light. A gray fog hung above the ocean surface off our starboard side; it reminded me of a thick woolen blanket. But the sun fought its way through onto the sand and grass, the beach foam and pebbles, and painted the near horizon pastel gray.

  “What a sight. It has its own kind of beauty.” I said this out loud, to myself. I had just turned off the watch alarm buzzer when suddenly the Angie Piper swung hard and fast to the north.

  I sat up and peered out the starboard window, my eyes wide. Our boat was being pulled by a massive surge with an outgoing tide. The anchor was dragging hard on the ocean floor. I felt a violent jolt, heard the rattle of glass and metal, the strain against the hull, the sounds of things loosening up around me. Something fell to my left. Absently, I chucked my stogie out the side window and dropped the magazine. My mind clouded over—I couldn’t remember what to do. Fire up the engines, pull anchor, readjust, call down for the captain …. Each of these thoughts ran through my mind. Sure as shit, I froze and watched the Angie Piper tug along a grim course, winding her way out to sea into the deeper waters. Would our anchor catch on a rock? Could the momentum of our vessel riding the outgoing current snap the anchor chain like thin twine? We’d lose our anchor and be forced to head back to Kodiak. A lost anchor would cost the captain several thousand dollars to replace, not including the time and money we’d lose waiting for a new one. And it would likely cost me my job.

  That was not okay. Close to a panic, I lunged over to the stairwell and called for Fred. To my relief, he was already halfway up the stairs. A dedicated captain, he’d felt the abrupt change in position of the Angie Piper even while he slept. And since his quarters were right below the wheelhouse, it took him no time at all to push past me and take over the helm.

  “She just started heading out!” I hollered.

  Fred didn’t say anything at first. He just fired up the engines and began steering the boat against the tide, keeping her steady, mindful of the anchor’s position.

  “I just froze, Captain.” I felt ashamed at my reaction, or lack thereof. And to top it off, a groggy Dave came rushing up the stairs, face twisted in apparent crankiness after being awoken so suddenly. Like Fred, Dave knew the Angie Piper like the back of his hand. He had spent countless hours tinkering down below, learning the sounds and hums of a healthy engine. Or a sick one. He knew the feel of a secured boat, with the gentle glide over passing waves, and he knew danger in the sudden pull of a dragging anchor.

  I was screwed. I’d messed up, and now Dave was there to point it all out. I figured he would never let me forget this mistake. Yet much to my relief, that’s not how it played out.

  “How long has she been drifting?” Dave asked.

  “Only a few minutes,” I replied. “Fred got here damn quick.”

  “We’re good, Dave,” said the captain, working the controls to bring the Angie Piper back into shallower waters. “Might have to keep running against this tide a bit, but we’re good.”

  “Here,” said Dave, brushing past me, “I got this.” He offered to relieve Fred at the helm, but waited a few minutes until the captain stepped away. “It’s about my turn for watch duty anyways.” Dave looked at me then and grinned. “What’d she do, get away from you?”

  “It was the current,” I replied, defensively. “It just came out of nowhere.”

  “Mother Nature is a scary bitch,” Dave said. “It’s a good thing you called down, Ed. At least you didn’t try to be a fucking hero, then end up losing our anchor.”

  “Just keep her steady against the current, then,” repeated the captain. “We’ll be here for at least another twelve hours, so let’s get comfortable.”

  I realized the entire incident was no big deal for either the captain or Dave, who had been in this situation more times than they could count. They both reacted to the emergency with an ease that spoke to their unlimited experience of sailing the seas of Alaska. There was a bond between the two of them, despite their differences, and that bond made itself known right then and there, in that wheelhouse. It likely showed itself more often than I knew, but obviously I had not yet been of a mind to observe it. With a mere four seasons of crab fishing under my belt, I was still a damn greenhorn compared to the mighty Fred Mooney and grumpy Dave Jenkins.

  The captain must have read it in my eyes. On his way toward the stairs leading back down to his quarters, he slapped me on the shoulder and laughed. “So was that fun enough, or what? Don’t let it eat a hole in you, kid. It happens to the best of us. Now go get some food and some rest. With any luck, we’ll be turning gear this time tomorrow.”

  Ten minutes later, I sat alone in the galley, eating a ham sandwich, nursing my pride. On a listless morning, I couldn’t even keep the boat
secured at anchor. How then could I possibly tackle the worst weather? And I’d thought I might be captain of it all ….

  Chapter 13

  It was much more than twenty-four hours before we got around to our first pot of the season. Shortly after the Angie Piper had dragged anchor, another storm came in, much stronger and longer lasting than the first. We were forced to hole up near Tugidak Island for forty hours and alter our anchor point more than once due to the strenuous currents and wicked winds.

  The meager excitement of readjusting our position helped us to wait out the storm. Mostly, our time spent on board the Angie Piper during that wait was an exercise in defeating boredom. We were all restless, tired of reading books and magazines, tired of eating, tired of watching movies, and sick and tired of staring at one another. We were sick of wondering how long it would take before we could get moving again.

  Of course, Danny was the exception. He seemed to have no problem waiting out the storm. He occupied much of his time wandering the boat, learning this or that, trying to figure out what things were and how they worked. Once, while Dave was taking a nap, he even explored the engine room below.

  “Just don’t touch anything,” I told Danny. “That guy doesn’t need any more excuses to bitch us out.”

  Danny even spent time with both the captain and me while each of us took turns with watch-duty in the wheelhouse. Fred never trusted greenhorns to watch the helm. But for a time, he seemed more than happy to let Danny keep him company and ask questions, of which Danny had several. Despite his simplicity of character and manner—not uncommon for a person of his ability—he gave the captain quite a surprise with the types of questions he asked. His general interest in life on the sea led to specific inquiries regarding various mechanisms around the boat.