Tales from Stool 17; Finding Port St. Joe: The Nigel Logan Stories (Vol. 1) (Volume 1)

by Kirk Jockell

  K.C. said, “I was only in for about two and a half years. I was given a general discharge a few months back on a drug charge. Pot.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “I’ve seen pot ruin many good Navy careers. There’s no room in the fleet for that stuff.”

  “Oh, I agree.”

  “Well, if you agree, why were you getting high?”

  “I wasn’t. That’s the thing. I never have. I think I was set up, intentionally fed brownies laced with something. Pot I guess, since that’s what they say was in my system.”

  He went on to tell me about how he didn’t get along with the others in his shop, how they constantly picked on and took advantage of him. All he wanted was to fit in, so when they asked him to a party off base, he immediately accepted. He said, “I should have known something was up. They were acting so friendly the entire week.”

  “So you think it was the guys in your shop?”

  “That’s all I can figure. The party was at somebody’s house I didn’t know. I had a few beers, but that’s about it. Then the brownies came out of the oven. They smelled too good to resist.”

  “Did the guys from your shop eat the brownies too?”

  “I can’t remember.” K.C. thought it over for a few moments and finally said, “You know ... I don’t think so. As a matter of fact, I don’t even remember seeing them around at that point. The only thing I remember is sitting in a big chair afraid to get up. Everybody was looking and talking about me. Or at least, it seemed that way.”

  “How did you get back to the base?”

  “A cab. Somebody called it for me I guess. I don’t remember much after that. The next morning I was called to the Master at Arms shack and given a cup to piss in. The rest is history.”

  I believed him, every word. I’ve seen the Navy environment he described, but not to that extreme. It is common for the new guy to take some lumps on their way to fitting in, just like on a shrimp boat. It isn’t really hazing, more of a trial by fire, an indoctrination into the Navy. It can be unforgiving and tough. To make it, you have to learn how to take it. In learning to take it, you learn how to give it back too. Unfortunately, K.C. never picked up on the last lesson.

  I didn’t want to dwell on the subject, so I ended the conversation by asking, “K.C., your Chief, the one from your old shop. What’s his name?

  He told me.

  Phil stepped out of the cabin door and hollered, “You girls want to get off your ass and do some work. K.C., get the doors ready, dammit. We’ll be making our first run soon.”

  K.C. explained that the doors, which ... well ... look like two big wooden front doors, are hoisted out to the end of the outriggers. There are two of them per side.

  K.C. said, “Once the doors are in place we hoist the nets out to them. The nets are sort of rectangular in shape at the mouth and funnel back to a round catch tube. Skip calls that the money catcher. The doors work like weighted fins. They sink and fan the net’s mouth wide open across the bottom.”

  I was enjoying this. I got the impression that, for once, K.C. liked having a greenhorn shrimper aboard and was getting to play the role of mentor, showing off his knowledge and understanding of the boat. This kid was alright.

  I looked over at the cabin and saw Phil leaning up against the doorway. He was going out of his way to be worthless and doing an excellent job. I called out, “Hey Phil, you might want to come over here. This kid is great, you might learn something.”

  Phil grunted and rolled his eyes as he disappeared into the cabin. I looked at K.C. He was grinning and said, “You ought not talk to Phil that way. He’ll get mad.”

  “He can get mad all he wants,” I replied. “I don’t give a shit.”

  K.C. said nothing.

  “Listen ... Life at sea isn’t easy. It doesn’t matter if you are in the Navy, the merchant marines, or working a commercial fishing vessel like the Miss Cecelia here, if you are going to make it, you have to grow some thicker skin.”

  K.C. said nothing.

  “Sure, the new guy always has to take their lumps in the beginning. It’s the way it is. But if you work hard, prove your salt, and establish yourself as reliable, you won’t have to take a bunch of crap from anyone. As a matter of fact, you better learn to dish it back out as much as the next guy.”

  He smiled at the thought of that.

  “For right now, to hell with Phil. He obviously isn’t interested in showing me how this operation rolls, or helping for that matter, so it’s up to you. What do we do next?”

  We went over to the nets, two huge jokers, port and starboard. The ends of the catch tubes were open. “This is where the money dumps out,” he said with a smile as he closed the first one using a multiple series of looping half hitches.

  “Is that secure enough?” I asked. “It doesn’t seem very strong.”

  “Oh, it’s strong enough. But the cool thing is, once we get the catch on board and hoisted over the deck, we yank on this bitter end of line and it comes untied, easy like. Shrimp and everything else spilling out on the deck. You’ll see.”

  K.C. inspected my work as I tied up the other net. As we turned around, Phil was standing there. He looked over my handiwork and then to me. “That trip line better be secure.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “K.C., get me another cup of coffee.”

  K.C. didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Phil’s empty cup and headed towards the galley. I watched him leave and duck through the cabin door. As soon as he was gone I turned to Phil and asked, “I’m curious. Is there a particular reason you are being such an ass? Or, am I lucky and catching you on a good day? I would have thought you’d appreciate having another willing hand on board.”

  “Screw you. I don’t like you.”

  “You dickhead. You don’t even know me. I’m a guy here to help.”

  “I’ll say it again. Screw you! And yeah, I do know who you are, and if you weren’t friends with Skip, I’d...” He let his words fall off realizing he had probably already said too much.

  “Really? You’d do what?” With my arms spread out and my palms up, I said, “Don’t let Skip stop you.”

  He glared at me, turned away and left. What is this guy’s deal? I stood my ground letting him brush by as he said, “Just stay out of my way.”

  I turned to watch him leave and said, “Don’t worry. I will. As soon as I actually see you do something.”

  K.C. came out on deck, oblivious to the exchange Phil and I just had but could tell something wasn’t right by the awkward look on Phil’s face. Phil grabbed his coffee and walked away without even a word of thanks. K.C. walked up. “Is he always a jerk like this?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. Some of the older guys that have been here for a long time say he’s been this way since his wife left him. Today seems to be worse than others though.”

  “It’s me,” I said. “For some reason, he’s got a stiff one for me.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea and really don’t care.”

  We were interrupted by the boat’s horn, two long blasts. I looked at K.C. and he smiled. “That’s our signal,” he said. “Skip wants the nets out. Time for our first run.”

  With the doors and the mouth of the net hoisted out to the outriggers, we fed the net overboard, port and starboard. With everything in place, K.C. began to lower the doors into the water. As the doors began to fight against water and the trolling speed of the boat, they began to spread the net wide open and sink, maximizing them to their fullest catch potential.

  The mouth of the net is rectangular in shape and outfitted with floats along the top edge to provide buoyancy while the bottom edge is weighted. The doors and the bottom of the net work together to keep the net open wide and the bottom edge of the net against the bottom where the money swims. Just forward of the net is a trip chain that runs the entire length of the net’s mouth. It skims the sea floor making the shrimp jump up off the bottom and right into the oncoming net and into the catch tube.
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br />   We finished our first drag and hauled in the nets. The doors were winched back up to the outriggers and the nets lifted high over the deck of the boat. It was in incredible sight. The first net was packed, but it wasn’t until K.C. jerked on the bag line, spilling the contents on the deck that I could appreciate the load.

  Everything caught in the net scattered about on deck. There was blue crabs, catfish, a variety of small fish, a few flounder, sting rays, and of course, shrimp, lots and lots of shrimp. K.C. looked over at me and hollered, “Cha Ching,” as he pantomimed pulling a lever on an old cash register. At his young age, I wondered if he had ever seen one, an old cash register that is. Did he really understand what that arm motion meant, or was it something he picked over the years, mimicking the acts of others? I was willing to bet the latter.

  It was time to cull through the catch, sort through what needed to be kept and what needed to be returned to the sea. I looked at K.C. and said, “Where do we start?”

  He said, “You worry with the bycatch, the trash fish. And I’ll start to gather the shrimp. Keep the big crabs. Put them in a basket. At least five inches wide, tip to tip. We’ll collect and take ‘em to market too.”

  It was slow going at first, I’ve never had to catch a sting ray off the deck of a boat before and I’ve never had the pleasure of being tagged by one. I wanted to keep it that way.

  I must have thrown back every type of fish and creature that swims the Gulf of Mexico. With both catch bags emptied on deck and the bigger fish back in the water I started to help K.C. pick the shrimp from the smaller trash fish on deck. I grabbed an empty basket and got after it. As we were clearing the catch, the doors and nets were lowered again to start another run.

  I looked up. Phil was leaned up against the big winch, arms crossed, watching. The catch was huge. There was still plenty of shrimp on deck and Phil didn’t raise a finger except to bark, “Logan. Get those baskets in the hold and ice down those shrimp.”

  I did as I was told. I didn’t mind. That’s what I was there for, but to see us do all the work while he stood there was more than a little annoying. I hurried back to help K.C. with the rest of the catch. I asked K.C., “Does he ever help cull through the catch?”

  “Only when it’s just me and him,” he said. “And even then he doesn’t help much. I usually end up doing most of it. Let me tell you. Those make for some long days.”

  “I bet they do.”

  I looked up at Phil as I worked and said, “Dude, you should get your ass over here and help.” K.C. shot me a, what are you doing look, but I continued. “This is a bunch of damn shrimp. The three of us could make quick work of it all. Give us a hand.”

  Phil took a few steps towards us and applauded, clapping his hands together, deliberate and slow. With a big smile on his face, Phil said, “You guys are doing great. Keep up the good work.” Then he leaned back against the big winch.

  With the last of the first catch picked through, I was icing down the shrimp while K.C. washed the deck down with the hose. Phil called out, “K.C. ... Get me another cup of coffee.”

  I looked over at K.C. He shut off the hose and started towards the galley. I stopped him.

  “K.C.,” I shouted, “That’s Okay. Go back and finish up what you were doing. I’ll get the coffee. I wouldn’t mind a cup myself.”

  Phil smiled and nodded as I walked by asking, “No cream. No sugar. Right?”

  I returned a few minutes later and handed him a fresh cup, ebony black. I took a step or two back and watched as I took a sip from my own cup. Phil blew on the hot steaming coffee and took a big sip. He drew the hot liquid into the back of his mouth with a big slurp. I watched with a smile as his facial features pulled in towards his nose. He bent over shaking his head and spewed coffee all over the deck.

  “Goddammit! What the hell was that?”

  “You said no cream or sugar, right? What is it? You don’t take salt either?” I looked over at K.C., smiled and winked. “K.C., you take salt in your coffee don’t you?”

  K.C. replied with a slight smile and reluctant nod.

  “That’s what I thought. Everybody puts a little salt in their Joe. I’m sorry Mike only has cheap ass table salt. I prefer sea salt.”

  Phil did not find anything funny about my joke, but he wasn’t supposed to. He slung the coffee on the deck and threw the cup at me. He was shaking with anger. He wanted to escalate the confrontation, but didn’t.

  “You son of a bitch. Now clean that up.”

  My smile was gone now. I picked up his cup off the deck. Phil could tell I too had had about enough. I walked up to him, handed him his cup and said, “Sure. I’ll clean it up. Not a problem. But, if you don’t like the way I fix your coffee, I suggest you fix your own damn cup.”

  We locked eyes and I never blinked. Phil turned away in a huff and ducked back into the cabin slamming the door. K.C. walked up to me and said, “You’re really pressing his buttons, Chief.”

  I turned towards K.C. and put a finger to my lips. Shhhhhh.

  From the pilot house we could hear Mike holler down, “What in hell is going on down there?”

  “That smart-ass son of a bitch you brought on board put salt in my coffee, Skip,” Phil shouted back.

  We could hear Skip laugh out loud and say, “Well, next time, maybe you need to pour your own.”

  Moments later we heard Phil explode. “Goddammit! You mother... you ... Son! Of! A! Bitch!”

  “What now, dammit?” asked Mike.

  “Skip, the bastard put salt in the pot too!”

  Both K.C. and I could hear the smile in Skip’s voice. “I don’t know what to tell ya, Phil. You best make do. He’s only here for the day.”

  I looked over at K.C. and said, “Shipmate, don’t ever fetch him another cup of coffee. You make him get his own. You understand me?”

  K.C. nodded with a grin.

  K.C. and I culled through two more huge drags.

  Red’s Ride

  I’m an early morning guy. I love the sound of quiet and the smell of fresh coastal air. I embrace the feeling that amongst all other humans on the Forgotten Coast, I would be one of the few alert enough to enjoy the beginning of each new day. The Navy taught me the benefits of getting up early and getting busy. I get up at 0400 regardless of what might have occurred the night before; it’s my running time. If I run low on sleep, I won’t pass up an opportunity for a quick midday nap, a little nooner as we called it at sea. A sailor has to get his rest when he can and get the job done all at the same time. A squid at sea doesn’t work your typical corporate nine to five, so a nooner is the perfect remedy.

  One morning, I decided to break my own rules. I would sleep in, test another lifestyle. I had been running hard. The night before I returned from a three-day photo shoot at a regatta in St. Petersburg. Between staying out on the water all day, working the evening regatta parties, and the preliminary post-production work on the pictures, there was little time for rest. A refreshing nooner couldn’t be pressed into the busy schedule.

  I rolled into my driveway around midnight. I unloaded my gear and had a generous pour of bourbon to settle my weary body and engaged mind. It was around one in the morning before I decided to crash. I reached for my alarm. While my internal clock would open my eyes automatically, I always use an alarm as that subtle reminder to get my ass out of bed. I was about to set the alarm when something inside said, just let it go. It felt awkward, but I did. I was asleep before my head settled into my pillow.

  Like clockwork my eyes opened at four and I swung my legs out of bed and my feet hit the floor. A creature of habit. After relieving a full bladder, another early morning ritual, I crawled back in bed. Guilt overtook me, but only for a minute or two as I surrendered to what my body was telling me. Sleep.

  When I went to bed the sky was crystal clear, full of more stars than most get to see in a lifetime. The darkness of a small coastal town does that. There wasn’t any rain in the forecast so my subconscious found it odd wh
en it absorbed the faint rumble of thunder. I tried to ignore it, but the sound grew and grew until the distant thunder turned to a continuous roar, a roar that seemed to be coming from the middle of my living room. I was startled out of bed.

  Disoriented and a bit confused I threw on my jeans, as the sound fluctuated: Rumble, Rumble, Rumble … Rumble, Rumble, Rumble. “Son of a bitch! What the fuck is going on!” I yelled.

  I opened the door to my room and dashed into my living room, lights were flooding the room through my front door glass. I ran over and flung the door open to find the last thing I could have imagined at that time of the morning. It was right there before me, but I still couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  There, on my front porch, with its front wheel practically up against the door, was a motorcycle, a Harley Davidson. The rider was vigorously revving the engine, turning the front wheel from one side to another, panning the headlight back and forth. He wore no helmet, only a black skull cap and a smile on his face. The roar of the engine hurt my head and ears. Finally, the rider let the bike go to idle. Then he shut it down.

  At that moment I could think of only two words. “DAMN, RED!”

  In his signature chuckle, Red said, “Morning, sunshine.”

  My heart was still pounding with excitement and aggravation. “Son of a bitch. Have you lost the keys to your mind? What in the hell do you think you are doing?”

  I turned and walked back into the living room, flopped down on the couch and put my face in my hands. I rubbed my eyes to bring some sense of normalcy back to my life. Red followed me in and grabbed a chair. Then he said, “I wanted to come by and see you. I want to talk about…” Then he paused. He realized something was different, out of place. Then he continued, “Hell. Did I just wake you up? You never sleep this late.”

  I pulled my fingers down my face as I gazed up at the ceiling in disbelief. Then I looked at him. I didn’t say anything.