Hank felt relieved to sketch out the Tsurifune bargain to a third party with no stake in fish. He decided to be fair about it, not color the facts with his new anger. “I’m with a family company, not one of the big impersonal ones like Taiyo or Mitsubishi. Boats and fish, nothing else. The company goes back a generation, to the present director’s father in 1917, they told me. From what I can gather, about two hundred employees, though there were nearly twice that before we declared two hundred mile. The old man runs it, the son’s next in line. We get along. They have a reputation for being honorable.” He stopped. Had the Tsurifunes been waiting for the chance to switch to a Japanese captain? he wondered for the hundredth time.
“They sound like solid people. Have your fellow fishermen made deals too?”
“Some. Tolly has.”
“That’s one. Does that mean you’re mostly going it alone?”
“If they’ve singled me out it’s because they know I can deliver.” The statement jolted. He’d made it sound too rosy even to himself. “Don’t worry. I’m working to get out from under them. They are overbearing as hell.” He checked himself from blurting that they goddamn owned and had now humiliated him. Too ashamed to admit it. “I’m working to get out in any way I can.”
“Are you bending laws that could turn around and bite you?”
“No!”
“Does that mean you’ve checked?”
“Sure.” But Hank shifted uneasily.
“And now a very hard question. I don’t like to remind you of this. But you’re pushing forty, son. In most men’s lives I’ve seen that’s the time to consolidate, or it’s their last practical chance to change and still have space to make something of it. I have to ask. Are you certain you’re on your own right track?”
“I’m on my track, Dad.” Hank gulped from his glass and hoped the conversation would lead elsewhere.
“I sit here kind of helpless,” his father continued. “I’ve accumulated years of business knowledge, and I have a single child to share it with. A son who carries my name. But my knowledge is tied into structure and you’re venturing outside of the structures I know. You work harder than most, and in more danger and chance than most, so if that’s the life you choose, my hat’s off to you. It’s an honest and ancient occupation. I’ll correct that. You’ve made it a profession.”
“Thanks.”
“You say that you think the Japanese are honorable. Good for them if that’s so. Then I hope you’ll find your way honorably too, whether they’re true to it or not. When you look back, far-fetched as it may seem, that’ll mean something to you.”
It took a while for Hank to find his voice. “Yes, Dad. I’ll try . . . I will.”
Two days later Hank’s father was able to stand in the living room to see him off, and their hug lingered. His mother’s hug lasted even longer. His cousins drove him back to the airport. Alice talked gaily of the fortieth birthday party Bobby was going to have in a couple of weeks. “Then he’ll be so old!” When they parted at the flight ramp Bobby found the chance to mutter, “Man, but you lead the life!” Hank boarded the plane slowly, and looked back to wave. Then as the plane circled he watched the city skyline, and a final spur of Chesapeake Bay. Only when the terrain below became impersonal fields did he relax, buy a beer, and settle in for the long connections to Kodiak through Denver, Seattle, and Anchorage.
Forty indeed, he thought. He himself, in just a few months—old by Alice’s definition. With luck, Jody would let it pass without drawing attention to it. Over wine with the airline meal his thoughts began to settle on details of family and boat. His father’s challenge of honor kept returning. Pull it all together at forty lest it be lost. Later, as he sipped a scotch, honor seemed tangible, a shared value among all men of goodwill. A plan grew in his mind. He began to outline it. At least one Tsurifune would be at the fishery council in Anchorage. The more that he detailed the proposal he’d make, scratching figures on a pad, the more it seemed right. Not only clear, but practical.
Hours later, when he reached Seattle for the final connection, his plan, come to fruition in his mind, had him feeling expansive. He scanned the people waiting for the flight to Anchorage. Since the December meeting of the Council started the next day, it was no surprise that he knew at least a third of them. There were voting members from Washington and Oregon, fishing organization reps (always good for a free drink), and editors of National Fisherman, Alaska Fishermans Journal, Pacific Fishing, and others, many from each group former fishermen themselves. He kept his rucksack on his shoulder and passed from one to another with hi’s and handshakes, heading for Nels Tormulsen’s halibut crew where he could talk fishing instead of fish politics.
“Well, Hank! At last!” John Gains appeared behind Hank with the overweight Seattle lawyer for the Japanese (what was his name?). No way to avoid them. Every time Hank saw Gains he looked more sober in his dark suits. His former crewman’s strong handshake showed that John remained athletic, even though he’d otherwise become an office creature. “Too bad we didn’t connect,” Hank said pleasantly to take the initiative.
“Why didn’t you return my calls? Shoji’s still upset at the way you took off from your ship. I can tell it from his voice. By the way, hope your dad’s all right?” Hank nodded. “Well, my purpose was to get you back in time for Council, and here you are. You’ll be useful there for the next few days.”
“I want to see Tsurifune tonight. But then I’m headed for Kodiak first flight tomorrow, John.”
“Not wise. The fights over sablefish harvest levels and allocations are coming to a head. They don’t tell me everything, but I know the Tsurifunes took a beating last month on the tariffs conference, so this fight means even more to them than usual. Incidentally, Hank, you should know: Shoji—Mike—is taking over more and more; keep that in your blender. Shoji’s got vision.”
The lawyer joined them, and offered a limp Asian-style handshake worthy of his employers. “We’ll brief you later after I decide how you can be useful.” The puffy hand squished sweat.
“Write down our seat assignments,” added Gains. “Go change yours to join us. Now, I guess changing your flight to Kodiak from tomorrow to late Friday has to be done in Anchorage. Actually, Hank, it would be better if you skipped Kodiak altogether and went straight to your ship from Seward after Council. Certainly Shoji would take that as good faith.”
“Kodiak tomorrow morning, John.”
The lawyer watched him with appraising eyes, but said nothing.
“Hank!” continued Gains. “You should realize that Shoji’s concerned. A Japanese relief captain in charge for too long might compromise your boat’s American status on the grounds.”
“Then he should have left my American Terry in charge!”
“I don’t know Shoji’s thinking. Not yours to say.”
“See you at baggage in Anchorage,” said Hank firmly, and continued toward the halibut men. Gains called after him but he ignored it.
Dr. Lester Kronman, one of the Council members from the lower forty-eight, stopped him when he passed. “Henry Crawford, isn’t it? You’re fishing sablefish, correct? I have questions.” Kronman was bald, and large at the middle, but tall enough to be imposing.
Hank forced himself to cool down and listen. He’d always known Kronman to be legitimately concerned for the fisheries, and friendly enough, although pompous as befitted a Ph.D. among the lesser educated.
“What’s it look like out there, eh, Henry? Useful to know when we vote on yield.” Kronman raised bushy eyebrows to look through the middle lens of his glasses, and stretched his mouth in the best he probably could do for a smile. “Plenty for everybody, I’d assume you’ll say? Eh?”
“Well, Doctor. Abundant enough in spots.” Hank chewed his lip in a show of considering the question. “Plenty” would have been his answer had it not been for Swede’s caution that Americans wanted to hold down quota to an amount they might take entirely. Loyalty where? “Who can say in a big oc
ean? We’ve done pretty well ourselves.”
“So I gather. And size?”
“Oh, big, big.”
“Exclusively?”
Hank alerted to the emphasis. What was the experts’ wisdom about size? Dr. Kronman’s appointment to the Council, if Hank remembered, hinged on his involvement in marine science. But was Kronman independent, or did he answer to some company? And if so, was it to processors or catchers, and to American or foreign? “Not all big, no,” he hedged.
“Size matters, you know. Exclusively large could mean no healthy year class coming along to take their place.”
“Not exclusive at all. Just a lot of good size.”
“Well, I hope you’re right. Now, gear. You’re fishing longline I believe? People tell me that pots and trawls laid for sablefish interfere with longline sets. Your comment?”
“They do. They do.” It was a question Hank could answer as he felt since both sides of his own conflict used longline. “Our hooks snag on pot straps, and pull up all kinds of net torn loose from trawls. I wish the Council could declare separate grounds.”
“Interesting. At least you’re not trying to eliminate competing gear the way some of you folks are. Now, you have another boat too, don’t you? A former crabber now trawler?”
Hank smiled. “You know a lot about me.”
“Homework, Henry. I take my appointment seriously.”
Hank endured a few more questions, each edging closer to his personal business, and finally managed to excuse himself. He headed straight for the halibut men.
Nels Tormulsen and his crew had a raw, scrubbed, outsider look that promised relief from the suits and businesslike drivers, even though the plaid shirts that stretched over their muscles had become as much a uniform at Council as others’ silk ties. Their circle opened to include him. “Here he is,” said Nels easily. “To join us or spy on us, I wonder?”
The tone was unchallenging enough that Hank could reply in kind, “Here to spy, count on it. Why else would I go out of my way for company like this?”
“Maybe for fresh air.”
“Fresh air?” Hank relaxed and waved a hand in front of his nose. “You guys? Didn’t you wash before you left your boat?”
“No room for soap,” laughed Kaare, a compact, first-generation Norwegian cousin within Nels’s family. “De black cods take up all our deck and into de bunks. Too bad for you udder guys out dere, Hank.”
“Funny. I’m catching so many blacks I assumed you’d forgotten how to bait and they were slipping off your hooks.”
“Naah. You catch de vuns ve t’row avay.”
Nels faced Hank suddenly. “Thursday at Council. We’re going for it all. Last year we screwed up and didn’t meet the black cod quota we said we could. Not anymore. Your Japs are going to be out.”
Hank kept his manner steady. “I wish you luck.”
The announced boarding for the flight to Anchorage saved further comment. Hank was grateful that his seat placed him beside a stranger and several rows away from all but two other Council members whom he barely knew. How had he allowed himself to be twisted away from the boats and people he called his own?
Fog and then darkness obscured the rest of the trip. He faced his reflection in the window, leaving no easy escape. He tried to think of things free of guilt or commitment. Back to the shaft tongers on Chesapeake Bay. What would become of them if oysters and crabs continued to fail? His own options were vast compared to theirs. That’s what he’d achieved by changing coasts. His reflection continued to face him. Achieved only by splitting his loyalties. He pulled down the blind and reached for an airline magazine. An article on dogsledding occupied him for the rest of the flight.
At the Anchorage baggage pickup he tried to stay distant, but John Gains strode over from a public phone and spoke abruptly. “We’ve booked you at the Captain Cook along with the rest of us. Shoji’s already arrived. Dinner’s top floor at seven thirty. You can share our car to town.” Hank started to say that he planned to stay at an airport hotel for the earliest morning flight to Kodiak, and was only heading for town to find Tsurifune for a talk. Instead he nodded. Gains was actually helping make Tsurifune available.
The driver who picked them up was Swede Scorden. Hank started for the passenger seat, but the lawyer stopped him, saying, “Hurts my back to crawl over seats.” Indeed, the man struggled and huffed to crowd in his nearly three hundred pounds. Swede, after a cursory question about Hank’s dad, said nothing further and stayed hunched over the wheel. The lawyer and Gains began to discuss the lawyer’s testimony next day before the Scientific Committee.
“You’ll need to hammer home, Justin,” said Gains, “the hardship to the Japanese back home. I’ve written out some examples for you.”
“Save ’em. Nobody here cares what happens to people in Japan. I’ve lined up better hardship.”
Justin Rider, thought Hank, that’s his name. He remembered now why the man turned him off. Rider had invited him to dinner once, lectured him, then pumped him for information, then left the bill on the table until they split it, cheap asshole.
“The better hardship case is this,” continued Rider. “There’s a nice little native co-op for herring up north. They deliver to some of the same Japanese fleet that first pays its way by hitting sablefish in the gulf. If our people lose their TALFF sablefish quota, the owners can’t justify sending ships from Japan just to pick up that herring. We’ll use that, since when you say ‘native rights,’ everybody jumps to cross himself. I’ve lined up some Aleuts to testify in full council.”
“I learn from you every day, Justin,” said Gains admiringly.
The lawyer turned his bulk with a grunt to face Hank. “We’re talking as family here, Crawford, you understand.”
“I’d assumed that, Rider.”
“Frankly, I hadn’t realized how useful you could be until I saw you working Dr. Kronman back there. And then working the longline people. You’re a valuable resource. I assume you knew enough to tell the good doctor there’s more sablefish in the gulf than anyone can catch. He’s pivotal on the Scientific Committee, and tomorrow they’ve got to recommend either raising Domestic Allowable Harvest or sustaining Japan’s Total Allowable within the old Optimum Yield to keep us in business. And the fishermen. Did you learn their strategy, Crawford?”
“Only their determination, Rider.”
“I hope you told them they’ll fall on their faces again this year. You could save them embarrassment. They’re being unrealistic as usual. We should be able to manage getting Japan a TALFF every year for years to come, before those locals get their act together, if they ever do.”
Hank watched Swede to see if he would react. Nothing, even when the lawyer told him to drive faster since they didn’t have all night.
The hotel lobby was crowded with the usual Council-time collection of lawyers and industry reps. It was all becoming predictable.
Hank followed Swede. “Busy time,” he observed lamely to start them talking.
“Seems so, Crawford. But I see you’re getting the hang of it.” And Swede walked off.
“Seven thirty, top floor, Hank,” said John Gains. “Don’t be late.” As an afterthought, he turned to add, “Please.”
21
SPLASH
ANCHORAGE, MID-DECEMBER 1983
A phone call to Kodiak left Hank restless and yearning. The kids had spoken one by one. Dawn told of a horse she loved especially that they passed every day on the way to town. “And, Daddy, I’m drawing him with sleigh bells just for Christmas to hang on the tree.” Henny gravely declared that he was building a model in school. “It looks like your boat, Dad. I’m trying to make it look like your boat.” (Jody’s voice in the background said “Weren’t you saving that for a surprise?” and Henny muttered, “Oh, I forgot.”) And Pete the playful, still shy with words, “I have three . . . five . . . seven keys, Daddy. Bet that’s more than you have. But five’s my best number because I’m that old.”
&
nbsp; “There’s a new restaurant out by the Flats,” said Jody. “They say it looks over a stream. I thought we’d eat lunch there tomorrow after I pick you up.”
“Great. Great. Then let’s leave time back home before we pick up the kids. I miss you!”
“I miss you too. More than you think.”
Be firm tonight, he told himself. First flight out tomorrow. Maybe fly back in two days for Council if it really matters.
As Hank left his hotel room for the restaurant, Oddmund Nikolai and another man emerged from a door farther down the corridor. They all waited by the elevator together. Odds introduced Joe Ketchinoff, a man with the lean cheekbones of an Aleut.
“Joe here,” said Odds, “he fishes from Dillingham summers for the reds and kings, but he and his people are doing good now with herring they deliver to the Japanese. He’s here to testify on that, so’s Council don’t cut off the Japanese longliners that need to come buy the herring.”
“I guess you know that lawyer, then,” said Hank. “Justin Rider? Fat man?”
“Oh, is he fat all right. Sure. Mr. Rider. Very important man. He gives us good advice.”
Swede had mentioned that Odds now helped control native claims money. “They say your corporation’s making out with timberland. Congratulations. Anything with fish?”
“Especially, Hank. Especially. There’s money we need to invest. We’re close to buying a plant in Kodiak for groundfish. But a manager—we need to find an experienced manager. There’s a lot of things we’re doing.”
They entered the elevator. It stopped two floors up to admit Nels Tormulsen and his crew along with the organization rep for the halibut longliners. The rep, a lean, short young man, was talking when they entered. He stopped in midsentence at the sight of Hank and the two natives. The fishermen’s bulk crowded the tight space. Nels pushed against Hank playfully. “Get in your own corner, man.”
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