Raiders

by William B. McCloskey

  Hank studied his large clasped hands, with the stub of a lost finger on his left hand from a wild crab pot more than a decade ago. One knuckle had a red, healing scab, and another a scar that had required stitches. He had debated with himself during the long plane trip, before he’d thought of his new propositions, whether to challenge their honesty if he had the chance. He decided to do it. “I have more to say.”

  The lawyer had already risen. He snorted in exasperation. Only Hank and the director faced each other across the table.

  “You will say then, please, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Somebody’s told me the American Coast Guard boarded a Japanese longline vessel last year and found that it was keeping double logbooks. Not proven yet, but it seemed to show that the captain was cheating. Fishing maybe three times the amount of sablefish he reported against his quota. This vessel was not from Tsurifune, they said. But I want to warn you, sir. In two ways. First, my own honor is important to me, and therefore—”

  The director held up his hand, and spoke to his son urgently in Japanese. Hank waited to continue.

  Mike took over with cool precision. “My father wishes to thank you for the warning, Hank. Such rumor we’ve heard. Please understand that some Japanese companies are in . . . desperation, at loss of American fishing grounds and nowhere else to go. We take your warning as proof of friendship, but do not wish to discuss this further. I’ll persuade Father, all right, forget about Scientific Committee tomorrow. Please go happily to see your family, then quickly join your vessel and continue to produce. Father is now tired and says good night.” Slight smile. “I too am suddenly tired. So, therefore, good night.”

  Now they’re giving me the bum’s rush, thought Hank, and wondered if they indeed had something to hide. He tightened the clasp of his hands. “More.”

  The director hadn’t moved, as if he expected further discussion. He nodded, hardly tired. Interested, even.

  Hank spoke quickly before it stuck in his throat. “I want you to apply all my earned credit to my crabber-trawler, Jody Dawn, not part to the big longliner Puale Bay, and immediately give me back full ownership of Jody Dawn.”

  “Ah, Hank,” said Mike easily. “Not possible. You understand, we still have great investment there.”

  “Read your contract, sir,” growled the lawyer.

  Hank kept his eyes on the Director, who seemed to be studying him. He made himself speak slowly to avoid needing a translation through Mike. “Sir, also the lien . . .” He needed to pause to lick his lips, which had gone dry.

  “Hank, Hank,” began Mike smoothly.

  “And also cancel the liens you’ve put on my house to cover both Jody Dawn and Puale Bay. Within three years, probably much sooner, I’ll pay back the rest owed on Jody Dawn with . . .” He had prepared to say seven and go higher, but suddenly decided to take a chance. “. . . four percent interest, honor agreement. I know that’s less than the going rate, but for this . . . goodwill, I’ll continue with goodwill to provide an American presence aboard the longliner, Puale Bay.”

  The lawyer almost laughed. “Contract, contract, sir.”

  Hank continued to watch Mr. Tsurifune as he said to the lawyer, “Not talking to you. Stay out of it.”

  “Interesting idea, Hank,” said Mike. “But not practical. And besides, you’re already providing American presence, under contract as Mr. Rider reminds.”

  “I’m talking about how I do it.”

  The gaze between Hank and Director Tsurifune remained steady, and the room became silent. Hank remembered watching the old man on a Tokyo-New York call when he’d bought one of his paintings. The same sense of energy now emanated from all Tsurifune’s person, although the wrinkled face stayed composed. One scornful laugh from this man and his own cards would tumble, Hank realized. At least a minute passed.

  “Seven. Interest seven percent, Mr. Crawford.”

  Hank felt relief wildly, but tightened his hands against each other and in spite of himself said without thinking: “Five and a half, sir.” After he’d said it—Why? He was getting caught up himself in games. He prepared to accept seven, and hoped he hadn’t blown it, but kept his expression firm. More seconds passed.

  Suddenly, “Hai. Five and half. Honor! Okay.”

  Director Tsurifune held out his hand. Hank grasped it. The older man’s handshake was sturdy, not the weak-fish Japanese kind. They ended pumping as both exploded in spontaneous grins.

  At once the lawyer advised against the agreement. The director waved him aside. Mike made no further objection. “Since Father wishes, Mr. Rider will draw up new contract.” He added, “When time permits.”

  Hank controlled a growing excitement as he drew back his chair, sat again, and forced his hands to reclasp. The others, all standing, frowned. He coughed to regain moisture in his throat gone dry and said, “Sorry. More business.”

  “What now?” exclaimed the lawyer. “Penthouse in Seattle?”

  Hank felt able at last to ignore him. And it wasn’t difficult, now, to look at the old man with warmth and ease and to address him informally. “I have a new idea, Mr. T. Good idea, maybe.”

  “Ah?” The warmth was returned. The director resumed his seat.

  “I’m told that the Japanese once, until the nineteen-sixties, fished roe pollack in Shelikof Strait. I hear it was a pretty rich time.”

  “Rich. Hai.” Mr. T nodded, then exclaimed, “Rich rich!”

  “Rich while it lasted.” Hank didn’t mention the eventual rapine greed of the Japanese, nor the anger of fishermen like Jones Henry who watched from small boats crowded aside until the Alaska governor forced the issue.

  “Much lost,” agreed Mr. T. “Very sad time.”

  “You pretend to know your history, Crawford,” said Rider, who had now reluctantly resumed his seat. “Do you know that Governor Eagen of this state acted in contempt of the law? Typical of the cowboy assumptions up here. No responsible court, under laws at the time, would have upheld Alaskan jurisdiction over that whole thirty-mile strait. Except for the three miles from each shore, it was international waters that Alaska usurped. Eagen got away with it because the Japanese are peaceful people, and they accepted the outrageous act.”

  Hank checked himself from saying: accepted because they were smart enough to see that it was an outrage they’d better soft-pedal to retain the rest of the fishing loot off Alaska. “I only brought up the past,” he said aloud, “to talk of the present, now that I’ll have back my Jody Dawn. Roe pollack in Shelikof Strait has become a rich fishery again. But now, as you know, only for American trawlers like mine. I could catch the fish and deliver them to a Japanese processing ship in a joint venture.”

  Hank noted that Mike now also paid attention. He didn’t bother to look at the lawyer. “In Kushiro,” he continued, “I saw at least one Tsurifune vessel, idle because of your lost Alaska fish, that I think you could quickly make ready to process roe. Didn’t I, Mike? If you want to bring this vessel over, my Jody Dawn will fish roe pollack and deliver to you. And . . . I’ll need tonight to go back upstairs to the bar and confirm this . . . two other boats, good friends, will deliver to you if they have my trust and I have yours. On your part, you must promise me the honest, highest price, plus a bonus settlement at the end of the season if your profit in Japan is good. I will guarantee a joint-venture partnership for two seasons. Then we’ll renegotiate.” He still held the attention of father and son. Go all the way. “And manager of the joint venture ashore will be Mr. Swede Scorden.”

  “I hadn’t gauged you after all,” said the lawyer quietly.

  Mike Tsurifune spoke to his father in Japanese. The old man listened without changing expression. Then suddenly his lips opened over gold teeth. He threw back his head and laughed like a young man. “Hai!”

  PART IV

  The Cold World

  JANUARY-SEPTEMBER 1984

  KODIAK, ALASKA

  22

  SHELIKOF

  SHELIKOF STRAIT, LATE JANUARY
1984

  A month after Christmas, a panel of wooden Santas still hung by the gangway leading to the Kodiak floats. Pete, on Hank’s shoulders, grabbed at them when he passed, but his mittens slipped over the wet board. Kodama, who followed behind, reached up and playfully gripped the child’s fingers. Henny and Dawn competed around Hank’s legs to be closest to their father. He braced carefully on the center strips of the gangway to leave them room on both sides.

  It had turned into a procession down the hill, after a big sendoff lunch at Adele’s house. A wet snow left puddles in their tracks and whitened the harbor masts, hulls, and boardwalks below them.

  Tom Harris, who had arrived from Chesapeake Bay via Baltimore just that morning, picked his way with a bulging seabag on his shoulder. He was so busy looking right and left at the sights that, with his limp, he nearly lost footing on the slippery treads.

  Seth trailed with Jody. He hunched in his thick wool coat with hands in pockets, but he still towered over her. Snow laced his tangle of brown-blond hair. “You’d like her, Jody.”

  “I’m sure I would.”

  Seth straightened, puffed out his chest, and grinned when he caught Hank’s eye. His face, beginning to line around the mouth and eyes where his scowls usually tightened, had a bright expression not common to him for years. “Her divorce papers still got some months to go.”

  “You turkey,” piped Terry gaily behind them. “Expect us to believe she called you?”

  Seth’s husky voice became even deeper. “That’s right.”

  “Come on. When you heard she was free again? After how you’ve banged our ears forever about your lost Marion?” In answer Seth turned to tousle Terry’s cap from his head.

  Adele, bringing up the rear of the procession along with Ham and Mo, called out: “I do hope that poor woman knows what’s she’s getting into, marrying a fisherman after steady life with an accountant.”

  Seth took it in good humor. “If my Marion liked it with an accountant, ma’am, she’d still be with him.”

  “Chook chook,” clucked Kodama, persisting with Pete on Hank’s shoulders. The child regarded him cautiously, pleased with the attention but uncertain of the face. Hank had found the money to fly Kodama back to his family in Japan during the Puale Bays brief seasonal layup, and had been puzzled by his uneasy refusal to go. “Must see more of American culture,” was his excuse. He slept aboard the otherwise-deserted Puale Bay, and indeed spent his days walking the few streets of Kodiak. His face became familiar to the clerks at the supermarket and the hardware stores (who finally accepted that he wasn’t there to shoplift), where he wandered the aisles frowning over objects and prices without ever touching anything except for the basic groceries that he bought. Once someone reported finding him all the way out at Spruce Cape, miles from town, gazing at the rocks and open water despite an icy rain. He had politely refused a ride and had returned on foot. Whenever Jody had him to dinner, his wistful, gentle concentration on their children made them wonder even more at his decision not to visit home. Jody insisted on his coming along to their seasonal parties, where he remained bashfully quiet although he watched intently. The news that Seth would now captain the Puale Bay for a while had seemed to upset him, but only briefly. Now he seemed ready again for sea and the struggle to keep American fishermen in line for Japanese product standards.

  The procession reached the floats to join a stream of other crewmen carrying boxes of groceries and bags of gear. The press of their collective feet swayed the floating boards under them. Hank led to the Jody Dawn, then waited for Tom to come alongside. He waved toward the bows pressing in from each side of the walk, and explained, “The new season’s taking off. Boats ninety to about a hundred and ten feet like my Jody Dawn., built to crab with pots, are now geared, you see, for trawl, headed like us around the island to JV for roe pollack until late March or April. Then probably on to cod in the Bering or scratch in the Aleutians for what crab’s left. Smaller boats, like those limit seiners over there with max length of fifty-eight feet—”

  “Nor single one of those boats ain’t big sized,” said Tom. “I never seen so many big-sized boats all for fishing.”

  “Well anyhow, the limit seiners that go for salmon in summer, you see they’re now installing longline for black cod out in the Gulf of Alaska. Then see all the way down the line where bigger boats are moored at the cross-pier, that’s the hundred-thirty-foot Puale Bay I own . . . mostly. She’s built specifically to longline in the Gulf and freeze onboard. Seth’s going to take her over for the time. And Kodama here as fishing master. They’ll probably leave tomorrow.”

  Tom gazed around. “Lot of boats and people to keep straight all at once.” Now that he had put down his seabag his big hands dangled uncomfortably.

  “A shame lousy weather held you up in Anchorage for two days, Tom. Jody and I had planned to show you around before we took off. I haven’t even had a chance to ask about Cap’n Bart.”

  Tom reassured him that the old man was fine and sent greetings. It brought a spark to his lean face. “Daddy might even be half relieved to put up for the rest of the season, for all he complained how I’d deserted him, since it’s stayed ice back there and oysters scarce anyhow.” Tom touched the bow of the Jody Dawn, then patted it. “Your boat? Huh. And the other one up there too! We’d thought you was kidding us.”

  Jody entered the conversation warmly. “I’m sure he lied all over the place, Tom. But we’re glad you’re here. And we’ll be sure to show you around before you go home.”

  “Go home. Sure.”

  From the way Tom said it, Hank wondered if his invitation to crew for a limited two-month fishery might have opened larger ideas. The man, having served in Vietnam, had probably seen enough of the world to be restless on a small open boat in Chesapeake Bay losing its oysters.

  Adele strode in and took charge. “Now we’ll open the champagne, boys. Who’s going to do it? Seth! You need to start learning a little finesse for courting a lady.”

  Hank watched Adele with fond detachment. Inches of red slacks stretched from the ends of her long coat to high galoshes trimmed with fur. Well, that was her style. Had Jones Henry ever appreciated his wife’s ability to get things done?

  Adele poured from the fizzing bottle while declaring, “Paper cups will have to do. My crystal flutes bought in Paris France are certainly not coming to the dock.” She turned to Kodama who stood awkwardly apart. “Mr. Kodama, what do you make of all this?”

  The sudden attention flustered Kodama. “Very nice, madam. I liking very nice.”

  “Then drink, my dear sir!”

  Holding their cups of champagne, Seth and Kodama faced each other. Hank had talked to each firmly on the previous day, setting forth their separate jurisdictions on the ship. He had even made them shake hands.

  “Okay then, man,” ventured Seth, and tipped Kodama’s cup with his own.

  “So,” said Kodama, and poured a drop of his drink into Seth’s. “Gam-pai!”

  Seth looked startled, then shrugged and returned the gesture. “Gampai yourself, man.”

  Hank told Ham to rouse the new crewman on the Jody Dawn to join them. Ham leapt aboard, pounded on the hatch with a hearty yell, then went inside the cabin and returned. “Jace, he’s all passed out, Boss. I don’t think he needs no more booze today.”

  “To safe trips for all of us,” said Adele, and raised her cup. “Safe trips, fish, and riches to us all.”

  Terry, Ham, and Tom clambered over the rail of the Jody Dawn. Hank hugged his family each in turn, then even Adele, and once more, Jody. As he stepped aboard his boat Henny ran up and in his deepest voice announced, “I’ll toss the lines, Dad.” Hank’s look at Seth and Mo told them not to interfere.

  In the Jody Dawns wheelhouse Hank breathed the familiar odors of polish, electronics, and lingering fish, started the engine, and enjoyed his boat’s throb of power. He watched his young son scamper to throw off fore and aft lines and then the springline, solemnly tossing each
to a man on deck.

  “Killer wing there, man,” declared Terry. “Give it a couple more years and you’ll be goin’ with us.” Henny puffed his chest and grinned.

  “And so will I be going,” called Dawn.

  “Sure, honey, you too.”

  Hank looked down at his two older children. Sturdy and eager, both. In two more summers, Henny at ten could come aboard and pitch fish or cut bait. And later Dawn, only a year or so younger. It would all come out right. Jody blew him a kiss and he blew it back, then did the same for Dawn who imitated her mother. Other boats were pulling from their slips. Hank waited his turn in the traffic. Mo, destined for the longliner with Seth, called joking instructions to his buddy Ham as water separated them. Everyone waved. The boat passed through the breakwater and Hank tooted his whistle a last time. Snow soon dimmed the sight of those left behind. Clanks on deck and boot thumps overhead told him his guys were battening gear. The boat started an easy rock. It lifted one by one the pressures he’d felt ashore.

  Two hours later, the low mounds and markers of Whale Passage sped by as the boat rode with the current. Hank kept the Jody Dawn close to the rock bluffs of the northern face where eddies of flood tide kicked least against the bow. Snow showers laid a gauze over the hills of trees ashore. It may have been territory he’d negotiated times by the hundreds, but this afternoon the passage exploded around him fresh and new. Otter heads popped from sheltered pools. White wings glided against the sky. Racing water splashed against a red buoy and pushed it to a slant. The frosty wind blew a life of its own to whine against shrouds, bend an antenna, and kick small waves across the channel. He stretched and did knee bends in the warm wheelhouse without taking his eyes from the water and land. Good to be again on the boat of his design, and headed for action!

  Hank checked when he heard a noise on deck. It was Ham, bundled in thick coveralls and a wool cap pulled virtually to the cheeks, jumping with exuberance. He felt it too!