Raiders

by William B. McCloskey

  Blessed summer was such an endless time away, when she’d again captain Adele’s boat for the salmon run and Auntie Adele would take over the children. Henny and Pete would fly to Hank’s parents in Baltimore for visits, then independent Dawn by herself since all of them together had been declared too big a package. (And come home restlessly spoiled but so what; Jane and Harry Crawford were warm and had good standards.) Her own mother, fortunately, never tried to take them although she sometimes whined about lack of visits. Need to invite her to Kodiak again, sometime. Give Hank a break and make it before he came home at last for Christmas. Or after he’d left again on that damned Puale Bay that was draining their lives.

  “Mommy,” said Dawn. “Why don’t we sing?”

  “Good idea, sweetie. Do you want to start?”

  “Old MacDonald, because there’s a horse in it and that’s my special part, so everybody else keep quiet when we get to that part.” They all sang and took turns imitating animals. Jody did the hee-haw, Henny oinked the pigs, and Pete eek-eeked the mice between giggles.

  At the chilly dark house surrounded by dripping trees, the real animals greeted them with meows and wagging tails. The kids hopped at once to their tasks. Soon there was light, heat, and cheer. After all, it was a good place to be.

  Hours after the freezer ship had departed, the dark engulfed the Puale Bay like soup. Hank again strode his wheelhouse. A red light on the chart table dimly outlined his skipper’s chair and the boxes that held electronics, while colors danced on the hooded and dimmed-down screen of the fish finder. Voices droned away on the radio bands.

  The norther had begun to shift east. A heading sea hit the bow and the ship shuddered. Grape-sized globs of water banged at the windows and snaked a trail down the thick glass. The ship was watertight and secure. Its engine missed not a beat, and with Terry as engineer its machinery would chug faithfully through any weather. And it had a sensible enclosed work deck to keep the crew dry. (It. It. Whenever he tried to think of the Puale Bay as “she,” the word stuck in his throat. She-vessels were the ones that you’d made a part of you.)

  On a smaller boat he’d hear yells from a drenched crew on open deck, would yell himself from sheer spirits, and enjoy the cascade of water down his oilskins. But who was he kidding? He was dreaming from a heated wheelhouse where his body craved exercise. On a smaller open boat those high spirits would come only in the first hour, before chill and wet entered the bones. Better to stay dry and relatively warm.

  What was Jody doing now? Home with Henny, Dawn, and Pete in their warm house, that’s what. Getting ready to turn out lights and snuggle under covers. Jody under covers alone. And the night quiet outside, secure and sleepy. Kidding himself indeed, to think a good life meant tossing in darkness with hours to go before the final line was worked, then having to set fresh lines to soak overnight, all before the next gleam of daylight and his call to start fishing again. When had this ever seemed the good life? The thought would have startled him except that it had crept over him more and more since he’d taken over the Puale Bay.

  °Puale Bay. Switch to channel,” came the voice of John Gains over the sideband speaker. Hank complied. “Yes, Hank. Call from Tokyo. You’re directed to finish whatever lines you’re working, then steam at once to a new position that I’ll give encoded.”

  “We’re doing fine here. It’s my own spot. And moving takes hours, so we won’t be able to soak the lines overnight.”

  “All very well, Hank, but the director’s apparently dissatisfied with your last delivery. He’s anxious that you relocate as soon as possible.”

  Hank felt his face burn. But he himself had been unhappy at the delivery totals. “Let’s hear the location,” he said grimly. Static interrupted and he asked for a repeat.

  “Didn’t you copy? It shouldn’t be broadcast more than necessary even in code. We’re not playing for marbles here, you know.”

  “I said, repeat.”

  “Listen carefully this time.” The transmission stayed clear. “And I think it’s best you report in as soon as you arrive.”

  Hank decoded the new location and checked it on his chart. Reaching it would take all of a day, and it placed him over a ridge of seafloor shallower than conventional sablefish grounds by more than two hundred fathoms. “Some mistake here. Black cod school far deeper. You say the director gave this order? The old man?”

  “As you surely know, Shoji speaks for him and handles the day-to-day. It’s the same thing. Shoji’s anxious that you get there soon as possible.”

  “What the hell’s he trying to do? Down my catch to zero? That’s bullshit, John. Not going.”

  “Hank, don’t make me remind you of contracts.”

  “Better you remind your Shoji that I’m captain out here, and I know where the fish are.” When John started again to speak of contracts, Hank interrupted with, “What’s this I heard that the Japanese—including, I assume, Tsurifune—pay longliners fishing off Washington and Canada six cents a pound more for their damned sablefish?”

  Pause. “I wouldn’t know. Unsubstantiated rumor, I’m sure. Your job is to fish and deliver. Those people are taking good care of you, don’t worry. In your case, there would surely be some adjustment if what you said . . . Unsubstantiated, Hank. Don’t speak of that again. And go now where you’re told. Don’t make trouble for yourself.”

  “Not going, John. Tell Shoji he’s made a mistake. Now I’m signing off. Out.”

  Hank, alone again, performed push-ups.

  17

  MOONJOG

  GULF OF ALASKA, EARLY DECEMBER 1983

  During the next few weeks the weather progressively roughened, then eased into a patch of deceptive calm, then entered early winter with fullblown venom. The Tsurifunes sent no further instructions through John Gains. Shoji must have realized how mindless his orders had been, Hank decided. The incident made him reconsider his position with them. They might be heading him toward eventual prosperity, but he’d no longer let them jerk him around.

  He also decided that it was time to stop feeling sorry for himself locked in the wheelhouse. He’d fallen into a trap of advancement from skipper to captain—from senior net-puller at one with his men to remote presence—that he’d seen happen to others as they climbed the ladder. Solitary at the top and out of touch. He realized that he barely knew this Puale Bay crop of crewmen, at least in the manner of the old days. They answered to him as did Kodama, of course. But they jumped only to Kodama’s bark.

  Despite Kodama’s disapproving frowns he started working periods on deck, giving Terry longer stretches in the wheelhouse. It quickly changed the balance with his crew. Kodama nagged them less in his presence. Despite bad weather, everyone seemed more relaxed and cheerful. Another thing was surely just a coincidence: the daily catch figures increased.

  Terry enjoyed the change too. When it came time to switch places he would slide from the padded captain’s chair and stretch. “Ahh, that was a good loaf, warm and dry. Skippers sure have it easy.”

  One morning before daybreak, Hank in thermals and oilskins took position at the rail. Scudding hills of dark water rose and fell ahead. The worst of weather that had turned his stomach coffee-sour in the stuffy, rolling wheel-house invigorated him now as in the old days. He braced with one hand while he gaffed with the other. Geysers of cold spray hit his face. Hooked black cod rose dripping on the line. He brought them in like so many potatoes, one every minute or so, enjoying the struggle to keep his balance.

  Ham faced him on the other side of the line, and knocked off any fish that Hank’s gaff failed to shake free at the pace they maintained. To judge from the drip down Ham’s face and sleeves, the pitch of the wind wetted him even more. Hank hoped that the sweat pushing from under his own wool cap would pass for spray. He’d been too long in the wheelhouse without real exercise.

  Behind them, under Kodama’s hearty push, the coiling, baiting, and gutting continued in the low, chilly gear alley. “Captain! Must gaffing fast
er, faster, ha-ha,” called Kodama.

  Hank joked back.

  “Hey, Boss,” yelled Terry suddenly from above. “Come quick. Jody on radio says it’s urgent.”

  Jody’s voice was brisk even through static. “Hank. Bad news. Your mother just called. Your dad’s had a heart attack. Serious. She thinks you should come.” A pause. “I do too.”

  Hank’s voice caught in his throat. He controlled himself. “Get me flight schedules. Still that Anchorage overnight direct to Chicago, or do I lose time through Seattle?”

  “Seattle. I’ve checked.”

  “Reserve me tonight.”

  “Can you make it in time?”

  “Reserve me. I’ll try.”

  He called below for Kodama and Terry, pulled the chart for Seward, the nearest port, and started to plot course, keeping his anguish in check with action. Make lost fishing time up to his crew somehow, later. “Cut the line we’re working and buoy it. I have to get ashore.” He quickly explained why. “Terry! Going to run the engine full.”

  “You got it, Boss. Sony for your dad.”

  “Captain! Must not abandon fishery without permission.” Kodama said it sternly.

  “Doing it this time, Kodama-san. Go. Go.”

  “Irregular, Captain! What will Director Tsurifune say?”

  “Ten minutes, Mr. Kodama, or I’ll come down and chop the damn line myself.”

  Gus Rosvic’s voice came on the radio. “Hank, we heard. Listen. We’re pulling our last string, and we’re loaded to deliver. Take you to Seward if you need a ride.”

  “Really appreciate it, Gus. But I’m trying to make a flight tonight. Aboard here I can do it.”

  “Well now, don’t underestimate a boat built for weather or a skipper who might have once rum-run a little before you was born. If somebody meets you at the Seward dock with a car, we’ll get you to that overnight Seattle plane with time to spare. All we got to do is figure how to get you from your big rust bucket to a boat the right size for catching fish.”

  Hank turned to Terry. “Do you feel right to handle the ship without me? I know you’re ready.”

  1 can.

  “Irregular, Captain!”

  Under a sky dimly gray just before daybreak, in water too rough for Gus’s boat to come alongside without risking damage, Hank balanced on his own deck and zipped up his survival suit. Across the water, the Hinda Bees lights swooped crazily. She took seas harder than his large PualeBay, but she righted at once when a sea struck her. He tugged once more at the clamps and body strap that secured him to the heavy line passed between the vessels.

  Do it! With arms around chest he took a breath and jumped. Water sucked over his head. Frigid shock hit to his teeth even though the watertight coverall sealed all but his face from feet to forehead. At last the suit’s buoyancy shot him back to the air spitting bitter salt.

  The sea kicked him about like a doll. A cold trickle entered beneath the chin strap and penciled a chill down his chest. Water pressed against his stomach and legs through the insulating rubber. He tried to swim and speed the passage, but the heavy material encased him as if he were in a bag. He was helpless, in the hands of others. From surface level, waves rose to hide the drunkenly bouncing Hinda Bee toward which he was being pulled, then revealed glimpses of yellow oilskinned arms at her rail. The Hinda seemed more frail than when seen from a deck. He twisted to see through salt-slapped vision his friends on the receding Puale Bay. Friends! All of them. Suddenly he’d have hugged them each. There they stood, securely braced on a ship that rose and fell sturdily, while water batted his head toward the sky, then nosed him under.

  It had happened before, he told himself, subduing panic. He’d made it back from overboard once in the raw cold without support and with death staring truly. But facing the great force alone hit fresh each time. Jody, he thought, I love you, want to be . . . He controlled himself. Needed to stay passive, breathe between blows of water in his face, and trust the pull of those yellow-clothed arms.

  The hull of the Hinda Bee seemed to thrash even more as he was pulled close. He looked up. The bow towered like a fortress, then plummeted, pushing spray.

  It ended quickly. The Hinda’s rail descended into a trough, and with a yell and heave those on board drew him in. Hank clapped his hands clumsily encased in rubber against the rail. Their hands clutched his arms. As the boat swooped upward his body followed in the grip of others, over the rail like a sack, onto the deck.

  “Thanks, guys,” he muttered as they helped him to stand.

  A whistle tooted. It was answered across the water by the Puale Bay, where his men waved. He watched them toss over his seabag wrapped in plastic. It bounced toward the Hinda Bee on the end of the line that had steadied him. He waved back, then duck-walked across the slippery deck into the cabin.

  The welcome heat changed the numbness on his face to sweat even before he could unzip the survival suit. Water dripped from the suit to puddle around its floppy orange feet. “Never mind that, Cap,” said a voice. “Coffee black or cream?” Braced against livelier sea motion than on the vessel he’d left, he peeled out of the suit arm by arm and then leg by leg, and slumped gladly onto the bench around the galley table. A steaming mug came down in front of him on the table’s matting. Someone dropped his seabag beside him. He acknowledged each, but kept eyes fixed on the coffee’s sway with the boat. The drag through water had left him shaky in spite of himself.

  Hank steadied his hands around the cup and looked up. It was the same crew that last year had landed in jail with his men, the same ones with their endless bets. “Nice pull, guys. After you washed my face a few times.”

  “Sorry about that, Cap,” said broad-shouldered Alec heartily.

  “My man Ham,” said Bud with the broken nose in a voice deep as his saunter. “He behavin’ himself?”

  “Finest. Said to tell you he’s ready to beat your ass at hoops whenever you’re in town together.”

  “That’ll be the day, tell him.”

  Alec laughed. “How do you tell who’s won, by the blood? You two bang on each other like it’s football.” He turned to Hank. “Sorry about your dad, Captain. Skipper says take the upper bunk in his cabin any time, but if you go up to the wheelhouse he’ll tell you some fish stories. Or he’ll be down after we finish on deck and somebody relieves him.”

  “Thanks. I’m on my way.”

  Gus Rosvic slouched comfortably in his captain’s chair. The signature black cap pulled close to his eyes accentuated his shaggy white sideburns. “Settle in, Hank. Long trip ahead. Incidentally, we got a radio call from that Jody of yours. Somebody’s meeting you in Seward. There’s a lady gets things done. My boys show you a bunk?”

  “Took care finest, Gus. Thanks.” Hank’s eye quickly scanned the wheel-house. Gus’s radar model was at least five years from the newest; depth sounder in black and white, no color; loran-C but no latest SatNav. Duct tape patched his skipper’s padded chair. But bits of polished brass shone in the dull light along with woodwork rubbed and mellow, everything in place. All of it right, even to smells of old coffee and damp wool. The kind of boat he liked best. Ahead the bow rose and plunged. The deck rolled degrees more than that of the larger vessel he’d left, and with a snap rather than a lurch. Don’t get seasick, never live it down.

  The wheelhouse radio sputtered. It was Terry from the Puale Bay. His voice, confident and easy, dispelled any doubt in Hank that he could handle the boat. With questions answered Terry became his usual light self. “Boss! You dried out yet? Ham and me want you to know, you got a new name with us here. After the way you hit the water when you jumped? We call you ‘Splash’ now. ‘Splash Gordon’ like that guy in the funnies.”

  Hank enjoyed the name. “‘Splash’ it is then.” But back with Gus he paced and his stomach tightened for the days ahead.

  “How old’s your dad, Hank?”

  “Sixty-three, I think.”

  “Oh, then he’ll pull through fine.” Gus’s deliberate vo
ice had the honeyed ease of age comfortable with itself. “Look at me, near ten years older and still pissing. He a vet?”

  “World War II Navy. Off on South Pacific duty when I was born in forty-four.”

  “Well, that’s interesting. So was I. And now his kid’s in my hair with his crew and their bets trying to send us broke. And his kid’s lady rocking the fleet because she runs a seiner and don’t mess up. That’s what’s hard to take. She don’t mess up.”

  Hank smiled. “Wish I could help you there, Gus.”

  “Well, boy, you could stop kissing Jap ass.” The easy voice didn’t change. “But never mind that now. Don’t worry. Your dad’ll make it fine and we’ll get you there.”

  Hank started, then pretended he hadn’t heard. I’m only making my way like everybody else, he told himself. Saving my boat. Family’s daily bread.

  The sun had risen. It shone briefly at the horizon, then disappeared into the sky’s low cover. Hank studied the water. Wind blew laps of scud atop green crests and rippled the glassy surface beneath. In troughs the hue turned black and beckoned downward. Watch me, it said. Come along. Let me take you in.

  Someday, he thought, my kids will wait at my hospital door. Or throw a wreath on that water I’m watching. What will be their summation? What’s mine now for my dad? He suddenly felt too weary to brace against the boat’s motion. “Maybe I’ll shut my eyes for a minute, below.”

  “You do that, Hank. Be my guest. We’ll wake you for chow.”

  The day had cleared by the time they entered Resurrection Bay, passing among the high guardian rocks. Wings of small birds from nearby bluffs filled the air. A late sun pinked snow on the surrounding peaks, and flashed golden on surfaces of ice within the mountain snow. The boat’s motion turned steady enough that her wake cut a clean-frothed triangle astern. Hank had slept all he could and eaten more than he’d wanted under their hospitality. When he bantered they bantered back, but they respected his silences. Gus had also napped, but now steered again to dodge floats of crusty bay ice. He’d said no more about the Japanese.