Those who would benefit or lose by the imposition of individual halibut quotas voiced their stands so strongly that the Council postponed votes for a later meeting. It left Nels and his buddies, seated behind Hank, muttering about overpaid lawyers and lost fishing time.
The scheduled topics moved to the remaining foreign fishing effort still allowed off the Alaskan coasts under the two hundred-mile law of 1976.
A staff member reported on the program called Joint Ventures, only a couple of years old, between U.S. and foreign vessels. The JVs negotiated so far allowed Americans, who lacked ships to process masses of fish at sea, to catch and deliver to factory ships from Korea, the Soviet Union, Taiwan, and now Japan. The staff man noted that the Japanese, the newest to agree to the program after great reluctance—since they wanted to retain the catching privilege also for themselves—were now being cooperative.
Nels leaned forward with a hand on Hank’s shoulder. “You know it. They agreed after Ronnie’s State Department told the Japs: no JV co-op, no fish. Finally we’ve got Republicans back in D.C., people who get the picture. Fuckin’ finally.”
A Coast Guard enforcement officer reported that its patrol planes had counted more than four hundred Japanese vessels in Alaskan waters during the period, plus a few of other nationalities. All were fishing legally negotiated quotas.
“A pathetic four hundred,” whispered John Gains beside Hank. “Compare that to two thousand four hundred Japanese boats out there in 1976 just half a dozen years ago, and you see their problem. Think of the personal disaster in that cutback, whatever the American interest. Not to mention more than a thousand Russian boats back then, plus the Koreans and Taiwanese. All those fishermen gone home hungry. And we have more fish here than we can catch.”
“Tough,” said Hank. “They were greedy, or more of’em might still be there.”
Gains nodded back toward the halibut crew. “Hark up behind us if you want to hear greed.”
The Coast Guard officer listed citations issued to foreign vessels during the period since the last Council meeting. Infractions concerned mainly catch log irregularities but included, on a Soviet trawler, “failure to stop immediately to facilitate an authorized boarding” and “failure to provide a safe boarding ladder for the authorized boarding party.”
“Nab the cheaters however you can,” muttered Nels.
During a five-minute break to stretch, someone said, “Hello, Hank. Is this seat taken?” It was Odds Anderson, his voice quiet and his words slowly chosen as always. He wore the sober clothing of spokesman for one of the native corporations formed with Native Claims Act money. They shook hands, and Hank removed his coat from the seat he’d saved for Tolly. Odds settled beside him with knees straight ahead and large hands clasped on his lap.
John Gains on his other side coughed expectantly. Hank introduced his two former crewmen from different periods. “Oddmund Anderson now makes the wheels turn at the native—”
“Not Anderson anymore,” interrupted Odds. “I went to court and changed to my mother’s name. I’m Nikolai. A native name. Because maybe I’m part Norwegian, but more important, I’m Aleut. I wanted to change Oddmund too. But people told me I’d better not, even my wife. Because they wouldn’t remember that so easy.”
“Interesting,” said Gains, all business. “Your corporations are acquiring properties, I hear. Even trying to outbid the Japanese, they say. What are you working on?”
“Oh. We’ve got plans.” Odds nodded. “There’s lots happening.”
“Like what?”
“Lots. Wise investments. We’re doing real good.” With that the conversation died, since Odds volunteered nothing further. Hank listened, half interested since Odds had clammed up. Ask again another time without Gains around, he decided. “So, Odds. Are you still fixing up the old Russian Orthodox churches?”
“The one in Kodiak’s doing good. Lots of good people there give some money. And the church in Ouzinki village, it just needed some paint. It’s the other village churches. The one in Karluk’s real bad. Near as bad as the church I helped fix in Unalaska when I was on your boat.”
“You didn’t help fix it, Odds. You fixed it by yourself whenever we hit port. Have you been out there recently?” Odds shook his head. “Well, those onion domes are still the first good sight coming in from a rough week in the Bering, and now thanks to you, they’re all blue and shiny.” Odds appeared pleased, so Hank added, not sure it was true, “People around there clear over to Dutch Harbor thank you for it.”
“People there thank me? That’s nice.” Odds’s smooth Aleut face changed expression no more than his voice, but the compliment brought a light to his eyes. “I only did what God told me to. But I’m glad people like it. Important thing now—do they come to church regular?”
“Sure they do.” (Whether true or not.)
The meeting resumed. One by one, representatives of American fishing groups took the witness chair facing the Council. The testimony concerned possible new restrictions on sablefishing in the Gulf of Alaska. Speakers couched their statements in formal terms, using so many acronyms that for Hank they talked a half-foreign language. But clearly all those representing American interests opposed further allotments to foreign vessels since the foreigners crowded the grounds. (“Even though,” muttered John Gains, “American boats can’t begin to catch all the sustainable yield the biologists state is out there.”) On the table indeed was one proposal to eliminate any further foreign quotas, and a tougher one to cancel even those quotas already granted to foreign boats for the remainder of the current year.
Hank shifted his legs on the narrow chair and tried to appear neutral. Where’s my loyalty here? he fretted. He envied Tolly’s freedom at some bar.
“Under this approach,” droned a staff member reading from a paper, “The OY for Area 3-A west of one hundred forty degrees west would be set equal to seventy-five percent of EY. DAH would be determined so that the unsatisfied domestic needs in southeast, and in east of one hundred forty west, would be met. TALFF in the area would equal OY slash DAH. The SSC heard public testimony which suggested . . .”
“How in hell does this shit make sense?” muttered Hank.
“Do your homework, that’s how,” said Gains. He scribbed for a few minutes and handed Hank the paper. “Partial list, but this should do it for you here.”
—NMFS or “Nimfs” of course = National Marine Fishery Service
—ADF&G = Alaska Dept, of Fish & Game.
—FMP = Fishery Management Plan
—FCZ = Fishery Conservation Zone
—JV of course is Joint Ventures
—TALFF = Total Allowable Foreign Fishing
—OY = Optimum Yield
—EY = Equilibrium Yield
—DAH = Domestic Annual Harvest
—DAP = Domestic Available Processing
—ABC = Acceptable Biological Catch
—AIC = Allowable Incidental Catch
—PMT = Plan Maintenance Team
—EIS = Environmental Impact Statement
Within the Council:
—SSC = Scientific and Statistical Committee
—AP = Advisory Panel
Hank sighed. “Thanks.”
After intense whispering within the Japanese bloc, their overweight American lawyer took the chair. His manner was earnest and sincere. “We wish to offer this in the spirit of cooperation with American fishermen,” he began. His voice stayed cool as he leaned his elbows on the table in front of him and read a statement. It named the large area west of Yakutat in the Gulf of Alaska, and declared that the Japanese would refrain from fishing there until October despite any previous agreements or negotiated quotas.
Silence followed the statement. “Boy, oh boy,” muttered Nels. “Look that one over for holes.”
“We also wish to offer technical assistance to any American fishermen who need it in those areas where Japanese boats do fish. We’ll share catch information, and alert boats to any high con
centrations of fish we encounter. Again, this is in the spirit of cooperation.”
Hank glanced back at the Japanese. Some listened to the headphone translation so intently that they leaned forward. The oldest senior had fallen asleep. Satoh’s face was angrily red. Tsurifune father and son, without headphones, might have been watching an interesting movie for their calm demeanors. Mike Tsurifune’s eyes caught Hank’s and an eyebrow twitched.
The chairman, a man with graying reddish hair who was normally outspoken, even aggressive, conferred with staff members beside him and suppressed a smile. Some members passed him notes, and two came up to bend over and confer. At length, he said, “Do we understand that Japanese boats have offered to leave the Yakutat West area immediately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s . . . mighty interesting. Let’s hear from members first, and then I expect we’ll have input from the audience.”
Many commended the Japanese, even some of those who had spoken most strongly against them. Although others, including Nels’s spokesman, still urged an immediate end to all foreign quotas, the Japanese proposal had dampened their drive. By a near-unanimous vote the Council agreed to postpone action on foreign quotas until a committee had examined the new proposal and could report at the next session in two months.
“They got away with it this time, but fuckin’ something’s up their sleeve,” commented Nels. “See you at the bar, Hank.”
“Sure. Later.” Hank kneaded his neck to occupy his hands.
After the session, Hank took a different elevator to avoid passing the hotel bar, and returned to his room. He had begun to hang up clothes bunched on the bed, keeping things neat for Jody tomorrow, when Mike Tsurifune found him there by phone. “Well,” said Mike with brisk smoothness, “that astrategy saved us from the killer vote, at least. But there’s no time to lose, Hank. Not going to D.C., as I’d originally planned. We need you back in Japan. Must get you out there fishing for us. As I said, we have your long-liner with western headroom, but it’s still rigged for trawl. You’ll like it. I’ve booked you back with us to Tokyo tomorrow. On to Hokkaido the next day.”
“Now, wait!”
“You’ll probably want to fly back to Kodiak tonight for passport and packing, then back here first flight in the morning. We’ve made those reservations for you. Paid by the company, of course.”
Hank controlled his impulse to let loose. Instead he said firmly, “Sorry, Mike. Made other plans with my wife. I can join you in three or four days.”
“I don’t believe you understand, Hank. Father and I’ve decided we want you in Japan. This is business, not personal pleasure. Your good wife will accept when you tell her.”
“Four days, Mike.”
“Father the director will be displeased at this.”
“Too bad.” Hank hung up.
11
HALIBUT BUZZ
JAPAN, EARLY SEPTEMBER 1982
A few days later, on the layover night in Tokyo between Alaska and Hokkaido, Hank waited for Mike’s inevitable banquet or party invitation. None came. If Shoji was pissed at his delayed arrival, too bad. It allowed him a stroll through the neon Ginza, and then freedom from a hangover when he made a 5 AM return to the frenetic, structured Tsukiji auctions. The abundance of sea creatures that were offered and passionately presented amazed him afresh.
Mike sent word that he needed to stay in the city, so Hank flew north alone to Kushiro where the ship stood in drydock. Kodama met him at the airport. The man no longer wore an office coat and tie. His chest and shoulders, freed to press against a crisp sport shirt, seemed to have gained inches. Kodama had left the fishery agency—cut himself loose, on faith, Hank knew—and committed to the Tsurifune payroll as technical advisor on converting the trawler to longline gear. The fierce expression now allowed a certain humor. “You looking fat from eating eating, Mr. Carford!”
At the shipyard Kodama held out his arms. “See, Mr. Carford. Your vessel!” The ship was five years old, built to western headroom. Refitting was already under way. Hank gazed. Should feel excited, he thought. Why did 130 feet of hull appear twice as long as the Jody Dawns 108 feet? This boat would hardly take waves with the same bounce. Nothing merry about it like his Jody Dawn. To what had he committed?
Once aboard and on deck for a while, however, he began to accept possession. He crawled into every hold and space, and pored over specs and blueprints. He examined rivets in the plates; strode the wide wheelhouse inspecting grander electronics than ever he’d needed before; examined the crews’ four-bunk staterooms, supervisors’ two-bunk quarters, and officers’ singles; fingered double stoves in the big galley; wandered an engine room the size of a small seiner, idly wiping spots of oil from glistening valves as he studied a capacity of marine power new to him.
Most of the metal nameplates over the hatches were in Japanese; some remained in Spanish from the earliest owner. “I want all these pulled off, or painted over completely, Kodama-san.”
“I am seeing done, Mr. Carford.”
“Call me Hank.” He grinned. “I give you permission.”
“Phooo . . .” Serious face. “Not right.”
“After all, when you can throw me in judo . . .”
Flash of amusement, but, “Different,” Kodama said.
“At least get the Crawford part straight.”
“Mr. Carford, of course.”
While in Kushiro Hank traversed other working Japanese longliners, ducking perpetually low overheads as he quizzed Kodama on gear and placement. Kodama’s knowledge was reassuring. Hank had begun to feel possessive enough to call his new ship informally “Jody Maru. ” The real name, he settled with the Tsurifunes (who insisted it was entirely his choice, while suggesting names like “American Enterprise,” “Victory,” or “Fortitude”) would be Puale Bay. The name should please Jody; it was their wedding site nine years ago in remote wilderness, aboard the old Nestor pulled in from an ice storm.
His calls home to Kodiak were restless affairs. Usually it was Adele he reached. Only once did Jody pick up the phone from the house, in from fishing for three days and full of anecdotes. “Oh, I’m bushed! We hit a jackpot jag of chums and cohos in Kiliuda Bay, set right on top of them. Call it luck, or my good eye. And Terry’s eye, of course. Then Ham’s quick maneuver in the skiff. Those two are great, and you’d better not have hired anybody to take their place.”
“Don’t worry. Just give ’em back in one piece.”
“Well, the other two we hired aren’t worth much, but without Terry they’d be near zero.”
“I told you midseason all the good ones would be taken.” He enjoyed being right.
“Yes, yes.” She barely noticed the small victory as she continued. “Well, that big jag we set on? Wait.” Her voice sharpened although it went out of range. “Pete! Get off there! You want my hand? Dawn, you’re supposed to be watching your little brother. Well, see to it.” She returned to the phone. “Adele’s spoiled them, although I couldn’t be more grateful. Anyhow, that big jag? We must have set on all the fish in the bay since none of the other boats caught much. If they’d sounded I might have lost the boat. The tender came right alongside and we brailed straight into her. For hours! Old Gus in his wheelhouse, the whole Hinda Bee crew on deck, they’d come alongside now and then just to watch and kibitz. It was wonderful! They weren’t catching anything! Terry and Ham nearly hopped from their skins ragging them. It meant that finally my guys won a bet.”
“Ah. Wish I’d been there.” He tried not to sound as wistful as he felt. Remaining casual, he told her he’d named his new boat Puale Bay.
After a silence, Jody said quietly, “That’s nice, Hank.” But soon she began again to talk of her own fishing excitement.
A few days later it was Adele who phoned him. “Hank! Don’t worry, everybody’s fine, no emergency—even though imagine me calling all the way to Japan! Your children are even better than fine, I’d say. I love ’em, but they’re a package. Lord knows I�
��ve never phoned Japan before on my own. Poor Daddy would have had a fit, although once he did call home from Paris France, when I dragged him over there for a little culture, and he read of a tidal wave scare in Kodiak, years after the big one you and he survived. Where was I?”
“It’s your dime,” said Hank gently. “I’m glad everybody’s fine. I miss you all.”
“Oh. Yes. Hank! Jody’s on the way home for good this year. That one big amazing run she found in Kiliuda Bay seems to be the end of it, nobody’s catching much anymore. I’m so proud of her. And I hope you are too. But I think a mother shouldn’t be away from her children for too long, much as I love them.”
Amen to that, thought Hank.
“Now. You know, Hank, now that I’m an owner, people have been advising me. Many of the boats my size around here, they tell me—as if I don’t know after forty years a fisherman’s wife stuck in Kodiak. People up here seined for salmon all summer, then used to convert to crab pots in the fall. Nobody needs to tell you what’s happened to the crab, of course—they’re gone. At least for a while. But they say halibut’s now everywhere in the water. Do you suppose those big halibut ate all the crabs? That’s what some people say.”
“Maybe, Adele. Nobody knows.”
“So, do you know what I’m thinking? There’s a halibut opening just next Friday, one week from today. It may be for as much as a week, but definitely for several days. The biologists still haven’t decided. They count and count and I do think waste our good taxpayers’ money, but! Definitely the final one this year after that couple days each last May and June. Halibut’s all the rage. Everybody’s going, because there’s so much money to be made.”
“Adele, halibut needs an entirely different gear than salmon.”
“Exactly! And that’s why Elwood Stevens at his boatyard has offered me—El loved poor Daddy, you know—the dear man’s giving me a nice price at fifteen thousand on credit to fix up my Adele H for longline. Secondhand roller and gurdy—that’s what they’re called—but good condition.”
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