The Sinking of the Angie Piper

by Chris Riley

  Danny stepped up and tapped the current victor on the shoulder. “Hey,” he said, in a voice both innocent and non-threatening. “Can I have a turn now?”

  The man’s name was Brandon and I knew him. He was a middle-aged fisherman with a barrel chest. His forearms looked like sacks stuffed with rocks. He laughed in Danny’s face, laughed real hard, from the gut, and then said, “What … you?” That’s when I put my money down. Next to mine came Loni’s, the captain’s, and then, to my great astonishment, Dave’s.

  Two minutes later, Brandon stared in disbelief, rubbing the pain out of his elbow, cursing his luck. Danny had dethroned the current lord of the booth.

  Howling with delight, Loni jumped up and down, spilt his beer and shouted obscenities at the whole bar. “Danny-boy kicked your fucking asses!” It’s a good thing Loni was so well-known and well-liked here in Kodiak. That boisterous attitude of his could have easily been the death of him.

  There was nothing I could do at this point but continue to place bets, sit back, and watch. I knew how strong Danny was. I figured there was a chance he’d win every arm wrestling match the bar could serve up. For the first hour, that’s exactly what happened. Danny wrestled four times in that hour, making the two of us over five hundred dollars apiece.

  “You see that, Captain?” shouted Loni. “Danny gonna take the bar!”

  The mood had changed. Those lingering, scowling fishermen turned serious when they realized that Danny was the real deal. Or perhaps in their minds, he was the real “something.” They stood around, scratching their heads, pondering my friend. They questioned his slanted eyes, his enormous grin with those exposed, crooked teeth, his slurred speech and innocent demeanor. They even began to call him names, such as, “The Alaskan Monster,” “The Kodiak Troll,” and, “Danny the Bear.” Just like in high school, yet in good humor for once. And by Danny’s third victory, many of those fishermen had been placing bets on him. By his third victory, those same fishermen were cheering him on, slapping him high fives, bringing him 7UP and peanuts, and nearly pissing themselves from the fun of it all. Even Dave seemed impressed, judging by the look that crossed his face every time Danny won a match.

  “What’d I tell you, Captain?” I said, grinning, after Danny defeated two more challengers.

  Fred raised his beer in response. “Well, shit, Ed. You know I never doubted your boy.”

  Sleet Wellens lingered around the booth. I could tell he had been studying my friend. His brown face, native to the wild lands of Alaska—a true Athabaskan, Eyak, Tlingit, or full-blooded Aleut, perhaps—looked on with a perplexed yet admiring fixation. Was he going to pass on wrestling for the night, dumbfounded as he might have been over the current “creature in the booth”? I didn’t think so. He was just going to wait awhile, let Danny tire out, if that were ever possible. And Sleet got in another hour of waiting before the whole bar began to call his name.

  It was well into the evening, close to midnight. The sun had long since dipped below the blue horizon of Alaska. In less than seven hours the next day would be here, with its promise of a killer tanner season. But nobody, nobody at all, was leaving McCrawley’s. After winning eight consecutive wrestling matches, Danny Wilson was due to square off with Sleet Wellens. I had made over a thousand dollars on my friend, and I bet all of it on this match, the last match. Beside me, Loni was a train wreck of excitement, drunk but functional, screaming profanities at Sleet, throwing money onto the table. Our captain was now over by Salazar and Dave, drinking, talking, laughing. Even Dave seemed happy, smiling and joking with the others, which left me in the dark, wondering.

  Amid a great cheer from the patrons of the bar, Sleet shouldered his way to the booth. He took a position opposite Danny, looking like a bear himself. With a grim smile, he shook Danny’s hand. I guess Sleet had much more than money to lose that night.

  They grasped hands and got ready. Sleet was twice the size of Danny, his arms like solid branches of oak after years of hauling pots, or pulling nets, or cutting trees, or whatever that man did to earn a living. He stared at Danny’s face, his eyes deadly serious now. Danny stared at the ground and chewed on a peanut. Ready, set, go.

  They grunted. They strained. Sleet cursed. Danny sniffed and blew air through tight lips, making a whistling sound, as the two of them fought for the crown. Men huddled silently around the table, as silent as a gathering of drunks could be during a legendary arm-wrestling match. And then, just like that, to everybody’s jubilation or heartache, it was over.

  The longest, most anticipated battle that night ended after two grueling minutes of muscular tension between two men: a trueborn, proud native, tough-as-nails state arm-wrestling champion and a freak of nature who had not once looked up as he tore his opponent down.

  As soon as Danny defeated Sleet Wellens, he reached for his glass of 7UP and sipped delicately through the straw, like a child savoring his first root beer float. I almost died from laughter. After all, Danny had broken a sweat and needed his refreshment.

  “Just who the hell are you, kid?” asked an exhausted Sleet.

  Loni ended that night with a triumphant howl, “He’s our fucking greenhorn, that’s who!”

  Chapter 2

  Alaska is a bitch. She is rotten and spoiled, vindictive, harsh in every sense of the word, and quite eager to prove her ruthlessness as often as she can. She is a spiteful bitch, who regards human life as mere fodder for her insatiable hunger, and a meager and temporary sustenance at that. The rest of the world knows her as “The Last Frontier.” Yet every person who breathes, walks, and works within this bounteous expanse of land and sea will agree that such a nickname is misleading. A “frontier” by definition can be conquered. The belief that one day this ferocious beast of unrelenting wilderness and grim seas will become a slave to the will of man is absolute folly.

  Every year, hundreds of people die in Alaska, in ways the Lower 48 couldn’t begin to understand. This land’s vast and lonely topography, teeming with frigid glaciers, yawning lakes, and lush blankets of green forests, has a morbid taste for airplanes, considering the astounding number that have vanished over the last hundred years. And untold adventure seekers and hunters have gone into the backwoods of Alaska, never to be seen or heard from again. We even have a term for this phenomenon: “Gone Missing.”

  “Yo, Henry! Whatever happened to that fish processor out of Naknek?”

  “You mean Sam? Gone missing.”

  No one knows this cruel reality of disappearing forever into the Last Frontier more concretely than I do—that is, myself and every fisherman who works the seas of this miserable bitch.

  Days before we left our home in Anchorage, I reminded my friend Danny Wilson about the risk of losing his life. As always, he had nothing to say on the matter, expressing a casual complacency in the form of silence. Danny was rather simple in nature, so his inner thoughts—for as long as I had known him—were “sparse” to begin with. I figured this uncomplicated aspect of Danny’s character had to do with the way he was born. An average person might have reminded me that it was my idea to get him a job on board the crabbing vessel where I worked. Not Danny. Danny just kept his mouth shut. And when it was time to leave, he simply picked up his backpack and stared at me with those narrow eyes and goofy smile.

  In just over an hour, our small plane had touched down on the tarmac of Kodiak Municipal Airport. The weather was calm, yet a warm gust of wind blew in from the south. Although it was the last week of October—and the tanner crab season (along with Alaska’s nasty winter) loomed on the horizon—that morning was nothing but bright and beautiful. Coming in from the north, just before we landed, I pointed out to Danny some of the island’s features that made it such an unforgettable place to visit. Tall stands of dark green Sitka spruce intermingled with the city and shrouded the lowlands like a forest veil. Mountain alder were scattered along hillsides, their leaves now faded to a rusty brown. Pacific red elder, fireweed, wild geranium—they all variegated the land,
adding a fine aroma and color to a late fall. And cold alpine lakes, those divine destinations for countless anglers, peered up at us like deep blue eyes staring into the heavens.

  My crewmate, Sean Salazar, had been waiting for us when we arrived. Built like a scarecrow, a forever-thin man, Salazar could eat as much as he wanted yet never gain an ounce. His demeanor was also perpetually stoic. He kept his thinning dark hair hidden under a ball cap every waking minute. He always wore the same dull outfit—denim jeans, a black t-shirt, a brown Carhartt jacket always in dire need of a good washing, and wrinkled leather boots. In social circles everywhere, Salazar was the forgettable person hovering in the background, or standing in some corner of the room, hiding behind a mug of ale. And even though he spoke tactfully on those rare occasions when he did say more than three words, his quiet personality kept a person wondering what the hell he was thinking.

  Not surprisingly, Salazar didn’t say much when I introduced him to Danny. He only nodded his head, asked if our flight was good, then turned and headed for the parking lot. I couldn’t help myself; I wondered what he was thinking just then. Danny was about to become a “first” in the world of crabbing. I knew from the very beginning when I proposed my idea to our captain, Fred Mooney, that Danny and I would get grief from a whole lot of people. At the very least, there would be weird looks, whispers behind our backs, and probably some boisterous taunts from a few drunken fishermen. I had also known that each of these incidents would serve as a cruel reminder of Danny’s childhood, and mine, growing up in Anchorage.

  But I had high hopes. First, that my co-workers would accept Danny from the get-go. And if not right away, then once they saw how relentless a worker Danny could be, or how strong he was, or how easy it was to get along with him. I figured they’d all turn the corner eventually.

  At that moment, our first hour in Kodiak, Salazar wasn’t giving any clues as to how he felt about having Danny as our greenhorn on board the Angie Piper. We followed him out to the truck—the captain’s battered, 1980 Ford F-150. After throwing our duffel bags in the bed, Danny and I squeezed into the cab. Feeling a surge of familiarity, I was reminded of the continuous battle that played out between us and her—the wicked witch of the west known as Alaska. Our captain’s F-150 always looked like it had just rolled out of a junkyard. But when Salazar started that engine, it roared as if it had just been tuned up—as it undoubtedly had. I chuckled under my breath, thinking about that battle and how this wild frontier of Alaska has worked, seemingly without effort, to impose her will onto humanity.

  My first lesson was shortly after my eighteenth birthday. I had gotten a job as a salmon processor during the summer months at a plant near the isolated town of Naknek. The place reminded me of the movie, The Road Warrior. Each of the vehicles the locals drove across muddy roads or rocky beaches penciled along the vast stretches of tundra was customized against the weather and terrain. And then there were the fishing vessels: massive tenders trudging through murky waters, an assortment of blemished colors masking their hulls, the effects of salt and sea ever present upon every corroded surface. Kodiak was no different than Naknek, with its continuous struggle and upkeep against Mother Nature. You could see the same vehicles, the same fishing vessels. And you could see the effects throughout the city, along the broken pavements and the tired, dull buildings. You could see it in the eyes of the locals. The entire landscape of human endeavor was pockmarked from its battle against the elements.

  Salazar drove us southwest along Mill Bay Road, and I took in the mid-morning sights, smells, and sounds of the streets before we reached the docks. He told us where our boat was moored but stayed in the truck while Danny and I grabbed our gear. Apparently he still had more errands to run for the captain, which came as no surprise. I had learned from working on a commercial crabbing vessel for the last four years that even during those months when there were no crabs to deal with, there was always something needing to get done. Always something to fix, clean, mend, paint, oil, pick up in town. And the list of chores seemed to grow longer with each task we completed. Danny and I had our own list of errands to run that morning, but first I wanted to introduce him to the captain, and to our boat.

  When we found the Angie Piper, she was looking as good as ever. One hundred and ten feet long, a black hull with a blue superstructure, she had a white trim that reminded me of eyeliner. Her wheelhouse was located in the bow, followed by a long wooden deck that could accommodate one hundred and eighty crab pots. Built in the late seventies, she had been a reliable vessel for more than twenty years. Fred lived in Seattle, and he kept the boat anchored at the Ballard Locks in those few months of the year when we weren’t fishing. During that time, I was usually down there with him, working on the Angie Piper to repair her wounds from the previous season or getting her ready for the upcoming one.

  Danny and I crossed over onto the deck and headed straight for the wheelhouse. I thought I’d seen Fred’s shaggy white head through the window when we came up from the dock. But apparently we had just missed him, and he’d headed back down into the engine room. So I showed Danny to our staterooms. It was his first time inside a commercial vessel. I could see the excitement animating his face.

  “So, Danny, this is where we’ll get nothing but a few hours of sleep in the coming months,” I told him, as I pointed to the claustrophobic space, with its confining bunk beds known simply as “racks.”

  Danny and I stowed our gear in the stateroom, then I gave him the tour of the rest of the boat. It was during this time that his eyes widened, big and bright, like spotlights. I wasn’t surprised one bit. In fact, I expected it. Ever since we were teenagers, Danny had been fascinated by those elite warriors, the Navy SEALs. He had never been on a boat the size of the Angie Piper, and I’d suspected that stepping on board would evoke those wild dreams he had harbored for all those years, since we were kids, of becoming a Navy SEAL.

  I led him through the galley, which was the crew’s hideout from the murderous conditions on deck. The galley had a four-range burner, oven, microwave, small refrigerator, and a green-cushioned booth surrounding a square table. A television with a built-in VHS player hung on the opposite side of the booth—an unreliable piece of equipment at best. The player ate more tapes than it played.

  The galley served as both the dining and recreation room when we were at sea. But after working more than thirty straight hours hauling gear, those of us who were too tired to peel off our rain suits and make it down the hall to one of the racks often made that room our sleeping quarters as well.

  “So, what’s the rubber for?” Danny asked, slapping the tabletop, though it emerged as “S’was rubbah for?” Most of the time, Danny’s speech was comprehensible, but whenever he got excited—as he was at this moment—he tended to slur his words or even chunk his sentences down into enigmatic fragments. I’d grown up with Danny, so I could usually figure out what he was saying.

  “The rubber helps to keep things from sliding onto the floor,” I replied. Danny gave me a smiling nod, but I could see it on his face—he was perplexed. “Don’t worry, buddy. You’ll get it all figured out soon enough.”

  Everything on the boat could be strapped down, in one fashion or another, to accommodate rough seas. The rubber mats on the table and counter space in the galley worked great at keeping plates, cups, and utensils from sliding onto the floor during normal sailing conditions. When things got particularly rough, we could lock all the dinnerware tight inside the cabinets.

  Thinking about rough weather reminded me of a particular worry: would Danny be prone to seasickness? Most fishermen get sick as dogs out there on the ocean at one time or another. But some of them get so bad, they can’t do anything but lie in a rack for days. I wondered how Danny would cope, particularly when things got rough. I’d have my answer soon enough. Crabbing in the Gulf of Alaska during the dead of winter would test the constitution of the most seasoned deckhand.

  “All right, buddy,” I said, walking out towa
rd the deck, “you’ll get the hang of this room soon enough.”

  On our way outside, we passed the ready-room—the hall where we stored our raingear and suited up for working on deck.

  “This is where our pre-game huddles take place,” I said, pointing to the hooks on the wall, the various electrical switches, cubbies housing miscellaneous tools, and the narrow hallway leading out to the deck. “When the captain gives us the cue, we have about five minutes to dress up and get out there. It gets real tight in here, as you can see.”

  Danny nodded, still beaming with excitement. I wondered again if inviting him to work for us had been a mistake. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that I’d exercised poor judgment on Danny’s behalf. It seemed my past youthful blunders would never fail to eclipse my present good intentions. Would the blistering cold and horribly rough seas wear a hole right through my friend? Would the incessant drudgery of working in the Gulf of Alaska for hours, days, and weeks at a time eventually grind Danny down? I didn’t think so, yet I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. What I did know—or figure, at least—was that the romance and excitement Danny had been experiencing at that moment would soon get washed right off the deck. Working as a crabber is a miserable nightmare for just about everyone.

  “It usually takes a few days to get your sea legs,” I said, as we walked out onto the deck. “Just be wary when you come out here for the first couple of times. When the boat is pitching from side to side, you could easily stumble right over into the sea if you’re not careful.” I pointed to the portside railing, opposite the pot launcher. “And quit smiling, Danny. It’s been known to happen.”