Tales from Stool 17; Finding Port St. Joe: The Nigel Logan Stories (Vol. 1) (Volume 1)

by Kirk Jockell

  Then it dawned on me. He was allowing me to isolate someone, a bug in the group, a dysfunctional member of the unit, someone we all would take pleasure in seeing do push-ups, undeserving push-ups, but not totally. The Chief’s words came back to me. They’re all innocent? Every single one of them?

  I didn’t have to think long before a name popped in my head, Melvin Brown. Brown was from Detroit and a piece of work. I didn’t like his attitude, didn’t like him. He always did the very minimum and flew just under the radar of trouble. If there was some problem within the company, he was somewhere close to the fire. If there was a short cut, he took it. He wasn’t a team player, never helping other shipmates in need. And he always looked like shit in his uniform. While the rest of us ironed and creased our dungaree shirts, his minimum but passing standard of uniform preparation looked like ass in comparison.

  As I stood at attention thinking of all the perfect reasons to mention Melvin’s name, the bottom lip of the Chief began to swell again. Then he spoke, yelled actually, in frustration, “Goddammit! Pick somebody, Logan. We’re all getting hungry. You’re going to make us miss chow. Now quit screwing around and pick one.”

  I stood at attention, eyes straight with a hard, serious, focused look. I asked, “What color’s shit, sir?”

  The Chief shook his head in anger. “What did you say? What the hell is that supposed to mean, Logan?”

  He got in my face again, closer than before, and before he was about to let me have it, I spoke again. “Shit, sir. What color is it?”

  At that moment, the light came on. He backed off with a smile, a smile only I could see. It was another silent message. Maybe it was, I like you kid, or ... you’re going to be just fine in this man’s Navy. But I think it was more like, that would have been my choice too.

  I asked the question one more time and the Chief backed off a few steps and jumped all over me, “What do you think I am Logan, stupid? Is that what you are saying? Everybody knows the color of shit. It’s Brown!”

  They were the easiest 75 push-ups I’ve ever had to watch another person do. Poor bastard.

  No Cream ... No Sugar

  I looked at my hand, then to the pot of money. It was fat with cash. I looked back to my hand. I liked my chances, but didn’t want to look too eager. I wanted to frustrate everyone with my indecisiveness, play it dumb, which is the way most of my poker playing is done anyway. I wanted to appear confused, expose my inexperience. Stay in or fold? There was no confusion; I was all in, regardless.

  “It’s to you, Nigel,” said Joe Crow.

  I looked up and around the room at the other players around the table. They were all looking at me, growing more impatient. “I know. I know. Give me a minute,” I said.

  Red said, “Giving you a minute to look at your cards is like spending the night in jail. Morning never seems to come.”

  From straight across the table, Michael Bobo said, “Come on Nigel. Are you in or out? My hand is getting cold.”

  “Come on, Mike,” I said. “Quit busting my chops, dammit.”

  Mike Bobo owns the Gulf Shrimp Company and has a fleet of boats. Although he is the CEO, it’s in name only. He turned the everyday operation of the company over to his daughter. Mike isn’t a salesman, nor is he the desk jockey office type. His heart is in the boats. And if he’s going to be in the shrimping business, he’s going to do it from the wheelhouse, not a telephone. He skippers the Miss Cecilia, named for his little girl that now runs the company.

  I slid my cards to the edge of the table and bent the ends up to take another look. Red was humming the theme song to Jeopardy. I cut him an eat shit look.

  I took another look at the cards, put them down and threw my chips in the middle, “Okay. Crap, I guess I’m in!”

  The sigh that was heard around table said, it’s about time.

  The bets went around the table one last time. Then it came time to air out the laundry, hang it out there and show everybody their goods. I had a queen high straight, my best hand ever. I had bested everyone at the table, but Red hadn’t shown his cards yet.

  “Well,” Mike said. “Cough ‘em up, Red. It’s show time.”

  “Hold on a second,” Red said. “I’m not feeling so good.”

  I looked over at Red. His head was drooped over the table. He didn’t look well at all, terrible actually. He looked dizzy and out of sorts, even unstable as he wobbled around in his chair.

  I said, “Red. Brother. You, Okay?”

  “Yeah. I think so,” he said. “I’m feeling a little...” Then he picked up his cards and threw them on table and yelled with great laughter, “Flushed!”

  Sure enough he had five hearts of varying varieties.

  “Son-Of-A-Bitch!” I said.

  Joe said, “I saw that coming.”

  The table busted out in laughter. Mike slapped his hand on the table and yelled, “Sucker.”

  “Ya’ll knew? Ya’ll knew he was going to do that?” I asked.

  Laughing, Joe said, “It was only a matter of time. It happens, eventually, to every new guy at the table.”

  As Red smiled and pulled his chips over to his side of the table, I said, “Ya’ll are a bunch of assholes, but I wouldn’t trade you for the world.”

  We all laughed as I gathered the cards. It was my turn to deal. We were taking verbal jabs and stabs at one another. As I shuffled, a phone rang. It was Mike’s. He looked at the screen and stood up saying, “It’s Cecilia. I need to take this.”

  I took extra care to shuffle the deck as we waited on Mike. Red got up to get everybody a fresh beer and Joe counted his chips. He had done pretty well and was starting to get that “stop while I’m ahead” look in his eye.

  Mike came back to the table and said, “I got to leave. Trouble on the boat that I need to handle before the morning.”

  “Sinking?” Red chuckled.

  “No, personnel problem. I’m short-handed for tomorrow.”

  “Short-handed,” I said. “That can’t be good.”

  “I’m going to be down a guy. He’s had a death in the family. With as healthy as the drags have been, it’s going to put one hell of a strain on the rest of the guys.”

  “Hell, Mike,” I said, “I’ll come along and give you a hand. I’ve never been shrimping, but I’m no stranger to boats. Surely there is something I can do to lend a hand.”

  “I appreciate that Nigel, but shrimp’n is tough and messy. I’m not sure it’s for you.”

  “Damn, Mike, I’m not asking for a job. I’m willing to give you a hand, step in and help take the load off the other guys. Hell, I think it would be kind of fun.”

  Mike laughed at that.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Nothing really”, Mike said snickering. “It’s just that nobody has ever left the boat after their first day and proclaimed it a bunch of fun. It’s tough and physical. By the time you’re done with the day, you’re pretty well exhausted.”

  “I can appreciate that, but I’m not afraid of a little hard work. Kind of used to it actually.”

  “Plus, the crew can be a little rough on a new guy. They don’t extend a lot of mercy because it’s your first day. It would be an initiation by fire. I always tell the new guys to expect it and that I simply have too much going on in the wheel house to police the antics of the crew.”

  “Mike ... Listen ... I’m willing to help. I’m a retired Navy Chief: tested, selected, and initiated. I think I can take care of myself. The offer remains open. It’s on the table, just let me know.”

  Mike thanked me, cashed in his chips, said good night, and hit the door. The rest of the guys decided to call it a night as well. That was fine with me since my pile of chips had pretty well been exhausted. Without a good streak of luck, I only had enough for a couple of more hands.

  When I got back to my house, a strange cat, a dark gray tabby, was at the back door. It was sitting on the top step, like it belonged there. It didn’t. I knew most of the cats on my str
eet, but I didn’t recognize this one.

  “Now, where in the world did you come from?” I asked. It replied with a short meow.

  I approached the stoop. The cat didn’t have a collar on, but few of the local cats do. I chased it off with a gentle shoo and watched it as it ran around the side of the house.

  Inside I was emptying my pockets on the kitchen counter when my phone rang. The Caller ID read, Mike Bobo.

  “Hello, Mike. What’s up?”

  “Were you serious about getting underway and helping out on the boat?”

  “Hell Mike. I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t serious.”

  “Well, it turns out I may need to impose on you after all, if you don’t mind. I’m still short and most of the others guys I’ve called are either too drunk to make boat time or not answering their phones. I’ll pay you. I wouldn’t ask you to do it for free.”

  I laughed and said, “You’re damn right you’re going to pay me. You bastards clean me out at the poker table every night. I need to get my money back somehow. What is boat time?”

  “We shove off at 5am, so if you can be at the boat an hour early that would be great. I’ll pour us a hot cup of coffee and show you around the boat.”

  I got up at 0330, put on some coffee and took a quick shower. I poured a huge cup to go and hit the door. The early morning air was clean and clear. It was pitch dark. I was half startled when I felt something nudge my ankle. I jumped back a step and opened the door of my truck. The interior light revealed the cat from the night before. It was rubbing up against my shoes and legs. I reached down and picked it up.

  Rubbing its head I asked the cat again. “Now where in the hell did you come from?”

  The cat said nothing. It tilted its head and pressed hard against my hand. I put the cat down and shooed it away. “Go on now. Go back to where you belong. I have work to do.”

  I showed up wearing an old Navy t-shirt, a pair of bibs from an old set of foul weather gear and Topsiders. The boat shoes were an old favorite but not long for this world. They were incredibly comfortable and showed years of faithful service by their weathered leather tops. The bibs were still serviceable but heavily worn in areas, the memory in the elastic suspenders all but gone. The t-shirt had seen better days and I had kept it around for such an occasion, one last hurrah.

  Prepared to get nasty, I brought a change of clothes. Nothing I wore was expected to get past the garbage can as I left at the end of the day, except for maybe the shoes. It’s difficult to part with an old pair of Sperry’s, no matter how worn they are, throwing them away is like saying goodbye to an old friend.

  Mike met me at the dock with a hot cup of coffee, as promised. He took a couple steps back and looked me over. He gazed at my shoes and said, “I didn’t figure you’d have any Reeboks. What size you wear?”

  “Reeboks?”

  “Yeah. What size?”

  “A twelve, but Reeboks?”

  Mike waved for me to follow. We went through the office and into a storage room. He rifled through several boxes before declaring, “Ah ha! Here we go.”

  He pulled out an old pair of rubber boots. I could see they’d once been snow white in color, but had long since taken on the tones of a lifetime of shrimp’n and fish’n.

  Mike said, “St. Joe Reeboks. They were my Dad’s. Don’t fuck them up.”

  “They look like they’ve been through hell.”

  “Well, that’s the point. You don’t want to show up at the boat with a brand new shiny pair. That would make you stand out too much, make you look like a greenhorn rookie.”

  “But I am a greenhorn rookie. And I’m comfortable with that.”

  “Trust me. It is best this way.”

  I put the stained and weathered boots on and placed my worn out Topsiders in my dry bag. There you go my old friend. You live to walk another day.

  We walked down towards the boat. I saw two deckhands working and making final preparations to get underway. Mike first introduced me to Phil, Phil Stewart. Phil is Mike’s lead deckhand.

  “Phil, come here a minute.”

  Phil dropped the line he was flaking on deck and walked over.

  “I guess you know by now we’re short handed. Ken can’t make it. An emergency. He said a death in the family.”

  Phil looked at me hard with an unwelcoming expression. I continued to smile. Damn, is that real anger in his eyes, or is he just screwing with my head? He said nothing for a beat or two then turned to Mike and said, “Family emergency my ass. Ken got drunk last night. Besides, both his parents are already taking a dirt nap, so I can’t imagine who else could have croaked to give him enough reason to miss work.”

  I looked over at Mike and asked with a grin, “He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”

  Phil said with a gruff, “I’m none of your goddamn business. That’s who I am.” He looked at Mike and asked, “What the fuck is he doing here?”

  Mike looked at me confused and asked, “Ya’ll know each other?”

  I shook my head no.

  Mike interjected, “Phil, meet Nigel Logan. He’s going to lend a hand today. He knows his way around a boat but nothing about shrimp’n, so give him the quick tour and use him where you see fit.”

  “Whatever, Skip.” Phil shrugged his shoulders and went back to his duties.

  Mike pointed to the other guy, a tall, lanky kid. He looked to be in his early twenties, sported a bad haircut and even worse acne. He was standing at the edge of the boat leaning up against a swab when Mike pointed and said, “And that one there is K.C.”

  K.C. waved back with a big grin. Happy enough.

  I waved back with a smile.

  “He’s from Mississippi. Was in the Navy for a short while stationed in Panama City, but was processed out on a drug charge.”

  “What drug? Ya know?”

  “Pot,” Mike said. “I told him I’d have none of that around here and he told me not to worry. Said he was innocent and has never touched the stuff.”

  “K.C., huh? What’s that stand for.”

  Mike looked at me with a blank stare and I saw the corners of his mouth droop. His body language said, Really? Do you have to ask? Isn’t K.C. enough?

  I raised my eyebrows. Well?

  “With an exaggerated look of seriousness, Mike said, “Karl.”

  “Okay,” I said, “how about the last name?”

  Mike got quiet and looked around ignoring me. He didn’t want to establish direct eye contact. Mike repeated his first name.

  “I get that,” I said. “Karl. Karl is the first name. What’s his last name?”

  With a big grin, Mike again repeated his first name?

  “Mike, you’re not making a lick of sense. What is this, a bad rendition of Abbott and Costello’s, Who’s on first?”

  With a slight laugh Mike said, “His first and last name are the same. First name with a K, last name with a C.”

  “You have got to be kidding me?” I asked.

  “Nope. That’s why we call him K.C.

  “Karl Carl? You’re serious?”

  Mike nodded his head yes, holding back the laughter.

  I looked over at K.C. He had returned to his swabbing duties. Skinny and absent of coordination, it was hard to tell if he was controlling the swab or if the swab was controlling him.

  I turned back to Mike, lowered my voice and said, “This kid is screwed.”

  Mike nodded his head and replied, “From the get go. Good worker though.”

  I found Phil in the galley pouring a cup of coffee. I asked if he would top me off, but he looked at me with contempt and put the pot back on the burner. Okay, I thought, if that’s the way you want to play it. I poured my own.

  I tried to keep the conversation light, so I asked, “How long you been working with Mike?” It was clear, for whatever reason, my presence wasn’t appreciated, so I thought it best to be careful with my words. Working with is a lot less insulting than working for.

  Phil didn’t say a
nything at first. There was only awkward silence, but I remained patient. Then he said, “Ten years.”

  “Wow. That’s a long time.”

  “You two seem mighty chummy. You and Skip that is.”

  “We play poker on occasion,” I said smiling. “I show up, and he and the others take my money.”

  “Skip’s never asked me to play poker.”

  That created an awkward moment. I wasn’t sure how to reply, so I ignored it and changed the subject. “What about that quick tour?” I asked.

  “Skip says you know your way around a boat. What kinds?”

  “All kinds,” I said. “Retired Navy.”

  “Navy, huh? Well, this ain’t no Battleship, Bucko.”

  Still trying to keep things friendly I said, “That’s a good thing. I’ve never been stationed on a Battleship, so little good it would have done me anyway, huh? And the name is Nigel. Let’s keep things informal, first names.”

  Phil gave me the Reader’s Digest version of a shrimp boat. He showed me around but provided little in explanation. What he did showed me I could have figured out on my own by looking around.

  He showed me the primary winch in the middle of the deck, the outriggers, the large rectangle panels called doors, and the nets that were draped high in the rigging. He showed me the ice machine and said I would become quite familiar with it. For the most part, the tour was worthless.

  As we pulled out into the channel, the sea conditions were calm, but the boat rocked more than I would have expected. Once we cleared the Highway 98 bridge and steamed towards the gulf, K.C. lowered the outriggers so they reached horizontally port and starboard over the water. With the rig stretched out, they worked like the long pole of a tightrope walker, making the ride much more stable.

  I was leaning up against the stern railing, the fantail. K.C. joined me and we talked over the rumble of the powerful diesels and stern wash that churned behind the boat. I asked, “So what’s your story? Skip tells me you were in the Navy. Me too. A Chief, retired. How long were you in?”

  I didn’t let on that Mike had told me about his troubles. I figured if he wanted to volunteer those details, he could on his own terms. And if he did, I could better determine if he was lying about it or not. The truth is easier to detect in the course of a casual conversation as opposed to a direct question.