“It's a saying,” he said softly, doing his best not to let on that he found me exceedingly entertaining for all the wrong reasons in that moment.
“I . . . I know that,” I quipped, trying to recover from my academic faux pas.
“But that was highly educational. Thanks for the free lesson.” With that, a slight chuckle escaped him and I couldn't help but rosy with embarrassment, even as I smiled. There was something disarming about him, even as he rhythmically chopped vegetables beside me, and I couldn't quite place what it was. He had a softness that was surprising to find in a crab fisherman; most quickly lost that trait after their first year, if they'd ever possessed it in the first place. But beyond that, there was a tranquility to him—a sense of ease—that consistently inspired this quality in myself. The sensation was foreign yet intriguing.
When I realized I was staring at him, I quickly turned my attention back to the pot of water boiling before me and threw in the noodles. There was an awkward silence between us for a moment or two before he finally broke it.
“You did well,” he said, putting the knife down to focus his attention on me. I forced my gaze to meet his warm brown eyes.
“Sorry?”
“Hanging the bait. In the pot. You did it really well. I was impressed.”
“Oh, well . . . I know a thing or two about crab fishing,” I fumbled, uncertain how to take his compliment. It was unexpected, to say the least.
“I'm sure you do.”
“The good and bad,” I mumbled to myself, my resentment of the profession slowly bleeding through.
“What was that?” he asked, looking at me quizzically.
“Nothing. Sorry. Could you pass me that spoon please?”
He smiled and did as I asked before returning to his chopping; never did he appear to question my obvious evasion about what I'd said. For me, it was a kneejerk reaction to resent my father's profession. The family legacy. I shook my head and chuckled inwardly, thinking that it was beyond ironic that I had decided to join my father on the very vessel that had caused me nothing but stress as a child.
“I feel like I'm eavesdropping on a private conversation that you're having with yourself,” he said casually, pointing out my somewhat bizarre behavior.
“Sorry,” I apologized again. “It's been a long day. I think my mood is tanking because of it.”
“You don't really want to be here, do you?” His question sounded rhetorical, more an observation than a true inquiry. When I didn't reply immediately, he put his knife down thoughtfully and turned his attention to me. “Robbie said you have a thing against the Bering Sea.”
“Robbie talks too much,” I replied a bit curtly, before softening my tone. “But he's right. There is no love lost between her and me.”
He assessed my words, his eyes traveling up and to the right for a moment before he spoke.
“It's good to face the things that make you uneasy.”
“I'm not uneasy,” I protested lightly.
“Well, you don't seem at ease, so I think, by definition, you are uneasy.”
I opened my mouth to argue until I realized that he was not only right about his argument, but also about the initial observation: I didn't really want to be there. I'd made the decision to go because of a sense of obligation and a touch of guilt. Apparently, being at sea was putting me a bit on edge, and I hadn't fully realized it until Decker pointed it out. I wasn't a fan of weakness in character, but the truth was that the Bering Sea exposed mine, and he saw that quite clearly. I was uneasy. To have denied that would have been futile and foolish, and would only have painted me as such to the strangely intuitive man that stood beside me. For whatever reason, I couldn't stand the thought of him thinking less of me for even trying to debate that fact.
“Maybe you're right,” I said quietly. “I didn't really notice until you mentioned it.”
“I don't know what issues you have with being at sea, or what drove you to come in the first place, and I don't need to. That's your business. I just know that the more you fight against circumstances you can't change, the more they fight back. That never ends well. It's usually best to coexist with those circumstances until they can be reconfigured.”
It was my turn to search his expression for deeper meaning, but he was a study in placidity, his warm expression giving nothing away beyond the wisdom of his words. He spoke from experience; that much I knew. However, that conclusion left me wondering not only about what he had faced to make him so wise at such a young age, but also who he was in general. I'd known many a deckhand in my lifetime, and they were a varied bunch indeed. Some were degenerates. Others were legacies. A few were those that weren't cut out for a corporate life, even though their intelligence and potential might have dictated that they go to college and educate themselves further to do just that. The rest tended to be a mixed bag of average Joes just trying to make a living.
Decker didn't seem to fit into any of those categories.
He was undoubtedly smart, that much was obvious, but he lacked that aloofness the anti-college crowd often had. He was sharp and fully engaged. After watching him for the day, I knew he never did anything halfway. It was all or nothing with him. So whatever had occurred in his past to trap him must have been a mighty force indeed. His level of strength and determination would not have been easy to cage.
“Something I said?” he asked, eyeing me as my mind snapped back from its travels, trying to diagnose his past.
“No—it's just that you're right. Again.” I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice when I responded. Before he could retort, the others barreled down the stairs, every bit the starving seamen they were, and joined us in the kitchen.
“Food ready yet?” Robbie asked, tucking himself in behind the table.
“No, not yet. You guys should go clean up a bit. It'll be ready in about forty-five minutes.”
“What have you two been doing this whole time?” Damon asked, his voice sending chills up my spine. Though he hadn't given me any direct cause to think poorly of him, I knew he was bad news. “Hmmm?”
“Dinner prep, Damon,” Decker replied coolly. “You're welcome to take over the operation, if you would prefer.”
“That depends.”
“On what?” Decker asked for clarification, shielding me slightly from Damon's view.
The silence hung oppressively for a moment until Robbie broke it.
“Damon, get your ass in the shower. You're stinking the whole place up. You take the longest anyway. Stop being such a grump.”
Without a word, Damon made his way down the hall to the bathroom and did as he was told. Decker never moved until he heard the door shut and lock. Once he did, he silently turned his attention back to dinner, not making any further comment about what had just transpired. Not wanting to make more of the situation than was necessary, I did the same.
* * *
After dinner was eaten and things were cleaned up, the boys were granted a few hours’ rest before gear hauling was to begin. The first string of pots was almost always a prospect string to see if the boat was on the crab or not. Whether or not my father's hunches were correct, it was going to be a long day of either sorting crab and setting back in the same spot or pulling fruitless gear off the sea floor and stacking the pots back on deck only to sail off in search of more successful grounds.
Instead of following their lead and heading to bed myself, I went up to check on my father, who I presumed was still sorting through his charts and spreadsheets, both paper and digital, trying to plan his next move in the event that the grounds he'd picked were not as filled with king crab as he would like. He had a quota and a delivery date to meet; his margin for error was narrow at best. By the looks of him when I entered the wheelhouse, neither of those two concerns had escaped his mind.
“What's the plan?” I asked casually, looking over his shoulder at the wealth of data he had spread out before him.
“The plan is to find the crab as quickly as possi
ble. Same as always.”
His tone was firm and icy, practically repelling me from him.
“Okay, I'll go then,” I replied, turning to retreat down to my room. Perhaps my timing could have been a little better.
“Aesa,” he called after me. “Don't go. Please. I'm just tired, and the weather reports coming in are highly unfavorable. I don't want to worry you with the details, but we could be in for a bad one. I need some coffee and food. It might make sorting all of this out a little easier. Would you watch the boat while I go get some? The short walk would do me some good.”
“Um . . . sure.” My voice relayed every ounce of hesitation I felt. I had never sailed a ship before, let alone a massive crab boat. The seas were calm and the skies clear, but everything about taking the helm gave me pause. Knowing that weather ominous enough to rattle my father was headed our way only deterred me further.
“Sit down,” he said more gently that time. “I'll show you the basics. I should have done this years ago.”
With a deep breath, I did as he bade me, taking the captain's seat while he pointed out all the different controls, screens, and pertinent equipment. It was really quite fascinating. I listened intently, not wanting to miss even the minutest detail.
“I think that's all you need to know for now. If you panic, just shout for me. I'll come right back.”
I'll come right back . . .
My hardened walls started to re-erect themselves at his words as I remembered he had never followed through on them before. Not even when I'd cried for him on the docks as a child, begging him not to go. He’d always told me he'd come right back, but he lied.
“Aesa,” he started, seeing something in my reaction to his words. “I promise. If you need anything, I'll be here.” His gaze held a sadness that said more than his words ever could. In an effort to rise against the bitterness inside me, I tried to smile in acknowledgment of the effort he'd just made.
“Go get your coffee. I'll be fine,” I ordered from my throne at the head of the ship. “Captain's orders.”
He limped his way down the stairs, disappearing into the kitchen while I stared off at the endless black ahead, wondering if I would ever be able to leave the past behind and forgive my father for all he had done to my mother and me. Since my return, there was a subtle urgency in him that I had not seen before, as though he really seemed to understand that this was his final chance to make things right. A final shot at redemption before I cut bait and ran. He was well aware that I could be far more difficult to contain than his beloved crab. If I left him again, it would be for good, and he inherently knew it. Headstrong and independent, I was far more my father's daughter than I ever cared to admit.
He appeared to know that too.
6
“You look terrible,” I said to Robbie a few hours later, passing him in the narrow hall on my way to the bathroom. His sallow and dewy complexion did not bode well. “Come here.”
He rolled his eyes and backtracked to me, knowing that I was about to play doctor with him in front of the others while they prepared to go on deck and start pulling pots. Crabbers prided themselves on their strength and fortitude; looking weak was unacceptable. I was surprised that he even listened when I called him over.
I pressed the back of my hand to his forehead and was met with a near inferno. I felt a frown tighten my cheeks as I stared into his eyes. I intended to get my thermometer out to confirm it, but I knew his fever was dangerously high just by the feel of him. My chest tightened slightly, knowing that if he was as ill as I presumed he was and if his condition deteriorated more rapidly than I could manage, he would be stuck in the middle of nowhere with little aid. I needed to fully examine him quickly to know more precisely what he faced. If I misdiagnosed him, it could cost him his life, and I knew it.
“Come with me,” I demanded, grabbing his hand to drag him back down the hall to his quarters. Once there, I forced him onto the bed with the echoes of catcalls drifting into the room behind me, courtesy of the young greenhorn. I slammed the door to shut his calls out.
“It's just a cold, Aesa. I'm fine.”
“This cold of yours—” I started, sounding every bit as serious as I felt. “How long have you had it?”
“I don't know,” he replied, slowly leaning back against his pillows. The second he did, an unrelenting cough erupted from him, forcing him back up again. He doubled over, trying to breathe between outbursts. I left to get him a bottle of water and retrieved my medical duffel on the way back. His face was red from the force of his coughing and he was holding his ribs.
“Let me see those,” I demanded, trying to pry his hands away.
“It's nothing—just a couple hairline fractures I got horsing around in town before the season started. I didn't want to tell your dad. I was afraid he would sideline me for the trip.”
“Well, they're making it harder for you to clear out whatever it is you have.”
I attempted to prop him against the wall of his bunk so he could rest, but he winced at the pressure I placed along his spine. His broken ribs story was officially confirmed.
“Robbie, this is no ordinary cold you have,” I scolded, pulling out my stethoscope. “I don't need this thing to know that. You sound like an eighty-year-old smoker.”
“It's really not that bad, Ice.”
I shot him a stern look.
“Sorry,” he said, lifting his arms carefully in surrender. “It's really not that bad, Doctor Ice.”
“You guys are incorrigible,” I muttered under my breath while I lifted his shirt up gingerly, pressing the freezing cold end of my stethoscope to his chest. I hoped I wouldn't hear anything more than a little congestion when he inhaled deeply, but I knew that wasn't likely.
“You could have at least warmed—”
“Shhh!” I snapped as I moved the scope around to the various points of auscultation. Once I was satisfied that I'd collected the necessary information, I removed the stethoscope and placed it back in the bag, withdrawing the thermometer next.
“That just goes in my mouth, right?” he asked, eyeing me dubiously from his semi-reclined position.
“Keep it up and I'll put it somewhere else.”
He smiled weakly in response.
“Now is when you decide to get all freaky on me?” he joked. “I'm not really in the mood for it at this very moment.”
I placed the thermometer in his mouth with a frown.
“Robbie, I think you have pneumonia. It's hard to tell for sure—I can't exactly take a chest x-ray right now to confirm it—but even if you don't have that, you've got a really nasty bug. You need to rest and let me monitor you. If you don't, I'm afraid it's only going to get worse, and I don't exactly have a pharmacy on board. I can't do much other than monitor your condition and let Dad know if and when he needs to get the Coast Guard out here.”
“The Coast Guard?” he slurred, trying to talk with the thermometer still in place. “Aesa, don't be so dramatic. I need some food and a little sleep. I'll be fine tomorrow.” He stood up quickly to continue his protestations; the second he did, he wavered slightly, forcing me to catch some of his weight before he crashed to the floor. He was far weaker than I had thought. The expression on his face told me that he had grossly underestimated his condition as well. I couldn't figure out how he had managed to make it through a grueling thirty-hour shift without his body giving out. Fishermen truly were enigmas.
“Maybe you should just let me do my job, Robbie. You get to be the boss on deck. In the infirmary, I reign supreme.” He nodded once, leaning back delicately against the mound of pillows behind him. The thermometer beeped just as he settled in, and I quickly withdrew it from his mouth. “One hundred and three,” I mumbled to myself. “I'm going to find Dad. I'll be right back.”
Without waiting for argument, I quickly exited the room and rushed down the narrow hall to the kitchen, passing the boys as they inhaled their breakfasts, in my quest for the wheelhouse. I ran up the stairs as q
uickly as I could, wanting to let my father know how potentially serious the situation was with Robbie. He seemed a tad startled by my sudden entrance, quickly looking me over as if I'd been the one hurt. When he seemed satisfied with whatever he was looking for, he spoke.
“Aesa, is something wrong?”
“Yeah, Dad. It's Robbie. He's quite sick.”
“He's been fine this whole time—” he started, turning his attention back to the water.
“That doesn't matter, Dad. He's run-down and injured. I think his lungs have been compromised by the broken ribs he's been hiding from you and the rest of us. Something has settled into his lungs, and the speed with which the infection has taken over makes me wonder if he's going to reach a point soon that will require him to be shuttled back to Alaska for medical help.”
“Are you sure of this?” he asked plainly.
“As sure as I can be. His lungs don't sound clear, and his fever is pretty high, but neither is as bad as it could be. He could potentially turn around, but it would have to happen sooner rather than later.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I think he needs to stay below until his fever returns to a far less threatening temperature and his lungs clear out a bit. I believe he's at a make-or-break point. If he gets any worse over the next twenty-four hours, you'll need to call the Coast Guard.”
He turned to face me again, studying me as he pondered my words.
“Okay,” he relented with a stern nod. “If this is your professional opinion, I will heed it. He stays below until you clear him for duty or tell me to call the Coast Guard.”
The argument I had already started to prepare in my head caught in my mouth as I nearly let it escape. When I realized I didn't have to make it, it took me a moment to recover, stumbling on my words momentarily.
“Okay?” I asked, wondering if I'd somehow misunderstood him.
“Yes. You are a physician, Aesa. You know far more of these matters than I do. However, your recommendation puts the others at a disadvantage on deck. Do you think you're up to helping them as you have been? You will be needed more than before and will be pulling some longer hours yourself.”
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