Highiliners

by William B. McCloskey Jr.

  They pulled the skiff astern within sight again of the Billy II, fifteen minutes after they had left. Jones cruised the Rondelay to the opposite shore. In the cabin he counted out a roll of bills. Hank’s share was nearly a hundred dollars. Sven put the free roast in the oven, and they covered the two six-packs in one of the bunks for sometime at dock.

  “Is it that bad to sell to a cash buyer?” asked Hank of Steve as they drew in the purse lines of their next set.

  Steve stood straight and stared ahead as he said, “Skipper probably gets a bonus at the year-end that ain’t our business if he delivers exclusive to Swede, and he might lose it if Swede catches him selling outside. Any number of ways Swede might fuck him, use it against Jones next contract time, maybe not renew if there’s too many boats. Swede’s tender looks out for us over the season the way you couldn’t expect from a cash buyer, and he guarantees to take your fish. You’d know what that means when there’s good runs like last year and boats lined up waiting to sell before their fish goes bad, and canneries limited on how much they’ll buy to pack through their lines.”

  “Well, look, who do the cash buyers deliver to?”

  “Other canneries. You think Swede Scorden don’t run his own cash buyers to other bays? Sure, paying money he’d never give his regular boats, to steal fish from under somebody else’s nose.” Steve laughed easily. “Shit, there’s more to catching fish than hauling them in. You’ll never see me a skipper.”

  That weekend the Alaska Department of Fish & Game announced an unexpected opening in a bay across Shelikof Strait on the mainland. It was to last forty-two hours, from six Monday morning to midnight Tuesday. The bulletin came down to the boats tied at the cannery dock on Sunday morning, and the frenzies of departure started at once. Hank, carrying a heavy box of groceries, waited twice to reach the Rondelay as boats slipped under each other’s mooring lines to leave. The excitement caught him easily. He had seen the same spits and bluffs day after day, and now they were headed for the great snow-capped mountains that dominated the far horizon.

  Since a northwester was building and they would kick into it to cross the Shelikof, the boats traveled in convoys of two and three. The Rondelay teamed with the Linda J and the Olaf—no visible angers remained from the corking incident. They began to pitch a half mile before the mouth of the bay, with white-capped water visible beyond the bar. Hank helped the others tie fast everything in sight. They entered Shelikof Strait and the boat went wild. It leapt into the air, then pounded back into the water with a shuddering thud. Waves rolled toward them, then split over the bow with sheets of spray. Hank stayed on deck enjoying his first time in heavy seas. He had worried that he might not see any.

  “Come inside. We don’t have time to fish you back aboard,” called Steve, and made Hank join the others inside. Jones steered from the cabin wheel. When the bow plunged, bubbling seas shot over the window to obliterate their view. Ivan smoked his pipe as usual, and Jones had a cigar in his mouth. The smoke, the engine fumes, the motion —suddenly Hank rushed to the door and vomited as the others laughed. After a month aboard! He explained over and over how he’d felt sick since yesterday, until he himself began to believe it as nausea took over and he rushed for the door again.

  Sven tapped him on the shoulder and said sympathetically in his singsong Norwegian accent, “Here, Hank, I got a present to make you feel better.” He handed him a hideous piece of fat attached to a string. “You svallow it, den pull it back up easy and grease the tunnel.” Hank tossed it into the sea as the others roared.

  For a while the mountains ahead loomed white and spectacular. Then they gradually disappeared beneath closer mountains of gray rock. The nearer they came under the lee of the other side, the less the wind blew, until they entered the new bay in relative calm. There were grassy spits on either side. Hank, who had begun to think himself doomed to indefinite misery, recovered with an alacrity he could hardly believe. The farther they moved into the bay, the milkier green the water turned. “That’s what melts from the glaciers,” said Jones, and in fact they could see a blue-shadowed cliff of ice in the distance.

  There were at least seventy other boats crowded in the small bay, with more arriving all the time. Hank counted as they cruised among them: ones he knew and dozens he had never seen before, passing so close that he could converse in a speaking voice with other crews. They glided by the cash buyer, and he said hi to Jody. Boat to boat they were the oldest of friends. She was cook, and told him to come over for dinner some time. They circled the Olaf, and Tolly with his dark gypsy grin said, “Nice blister. Introduce me, buddy.” Hank’s returning grin was noncommittal. He had begun to wonder about his own chances with Jody.

  He barely noted the water-slaps around him until he saw others peering over the side. Salmon jumped everywhere—big chums. He started shouting, to Steve who stood nearby, to himself. Unbelievable! The water churned with their green-and-silver bodies. The others took it calmly. Except for Jones at the wheel, they were soon in their bunks asleep even though it was only afternoon. Hank sat alongside, chortling at the fish, as Jones steered a zigzag course in search of an area he might call his own while talking to other skippers and cursing the number of boats. “The State ought to license only boats owned and fished by Alaskans. More’n half these boats come from down in Puget Sound and Columbia River and that’s where they belong.”

  Hank found sleeping difficult that night at anchor. Salmon thumped against the boat a few inches from his head. What if they all had disappeared by morning? When he woke before five in the dark as the others moved around him, Sven had already made the coffee and was juggling pans of eggs, ham, and flapjacks. They ate heaping plates in silence, far more than on other mornings. When Hank asked only for his usual portion Sven shook his head, and Steve said, “Eat while you got it.”

  The morning was sluggish and gray, with a cold drizzle. A full fifteen minutes before six the men in all the boats stood in position, like an army at the ready. Jones and Ivan conferred on the maneuvering of the skiff, but there was very little sound except the steady slap of fish. On a Fish & Game boat a man raised a pistol and began to fire. The skiffs —more than a hundred now—churned into the fish with their seines.

  They roundhauled. Thus each encirclement took only a few minutes. Then they pursed with all their might. Sometimes it was not fast enough, and the dog salmon sounded out the bottom. Other times they had to brail, and the big dogs poured and slapped over them. As soon as they emptied each moneybag they set instantly again. Through the day, rain blowing, other decks close enough to shout back and forth (mostly warnings to stay clear), they set and hauled. Their first work-break came at three in the afternoon, when they lined up to unload on the Billy II, which had followed the fleet. Spitz signaled them alongside, forcing other boats not contracted to Swede Scorden to make way, and they lost so little time there was none for rest and barely enough to gobble some cold pork and beans from open cans.

  They only went to the tender when fish had filled the hold and were scattered so high on deck that they slipped and fell over them. The second delivery came after midnight and eighteen hours’ straight fishing. Hank’s hands, which he thought were toughened completely, had torn open in sores and cuts. He was shivering and groggy, and the hard touch of the net had become agony. As he emerged from the hold with gurry dripping even from his eyes, having just pitched over two thousand eight-pound fish by the tails, he asked Steve when they were going to rest.

  “This is our winter grubstake,” Steve said roughly.

  Hank’s hands emerged with fresh pain from the thick nubbled gloves he had worn to heave salmon. Some of the frayed skin had scabbed against the lining and then torn loose. He glanced up at the tender where Pete stood wearily, counting fish by pressing his gadget. For once Hank would have traded places.

  “Here,” said Steve, and set a bucket of fresh-drawn seawater to one side. “Soak your hands in this whenever you can.”

  Jones raced back to the
grounds and they set again at once. The loads were diminishing, and the fish no longer jumped in the water, but they still pulled more fish every few hours than in any previous week. Long before, they had eaten all their candy bars and apples and salted peanuts, and finished the cases of soft drinks. Sven ducked into the galley long enough to make coffee and to open more cans. When food came in any form they wolfed it down.

  The rain grew heavier at the start of the second morning. Hank occasionally cried from pain and fatigue, without shame, while continuing to work. Other than renewing his bucket of seawater, nobody acknowledged his misery. If he lagged, Steve or Jones told him to shake his ass. All their voices were hoarse. When their net snagged with that of the Linda J even Hank shouted vicious accusations across the water. By the time they delivered their fourth load, around noon, after thirty hours, Hank had entered a phase of numbness.

  “Okay,” said Jones, his face haggard, “I figure we’ve made our winter stake, and I see boats pulled over and given up. I ain’t pushing anybody further. It’s up to you boys whether we hang tough or get some sleep. Another twelve hours of opening, so we could mebbe snooze a couple hours, then go back to it.”

  “Nah,” said Sven, “ve lay down, nobody gets up. How many times you get fishing like this?”

  “Has to be everybody at this point,” said Jones.

  They glanced at Hank, who had his hands in the salt water. “We’d better hang tough,” said Hank.

  “Good,” said the others, and back they all went to the nets.

  CHAPTER 8

  Spitz the Prophet

  BY THE final count from the two-day opening, they had made their winter stakes and then some. As did most of the other boats, they delivered their final load, scrubbed the hold, anchored, and slept for an entire day.

  None of the Rondelay crew cared to scratch-fish any more back on Kodiak Island. Next day they found a cove out of sight of Fish & Game and Jones and Steve went hunting with Hank in tow. They walked through marshes and over rocks, saw the glacier, and watched bears from a distance. That night the smell of deer blood and carcass dominated the Rondelay deck. Hank marveled at the glinting knives the others handled so expertly. He had not thought of them as total out-doorsmen. As for shooting off season, Jones observed: “Those rules are for rich fellows who fly in with a guide. Were taking meat for the table, and if that ain’t why the Lord put it there, you tell me.”

  On the third morning, with Shelikof Strait calm and sun catching the ripples, they returned to the cannery. The atmosphere had changed. On the high pier, crews draped their seines to dry before stowing them. A skiffload of shouting men and duffle glided to a pontoon plane, and soon the plane roared across the water and lifted over the green mountains. On an inner float, several boats bobbed together like dead things, their skiffs battened to the bare deck where the seine had been and the cabin doors padlocked. Hank felt a pang to find the Linda J among them.

  The mood of departure caught them all. Jones noted a northeasterly breeze and declared the salmon would disappear anyhow until it stopped. “Let’s get to town and tie one on,” said Steve. “I’m ready for a three-day piece of ass.” Within the hour they were hosing the seine. Hank handled the web and corks lovingly. Unbelievable that a few days before he’d had his fill. While Jones completed paperwork at the office, Hank wandered the cannery to say farewells. Elsie had quit and gone home. Cutch the foreman grabbed his arm in passing. “Too bad you didn’t stay. I’d have you running your own machine by now.” On one of the boardwalks, Swede Scorden stopped long enough to growl, to Hank’s shock: “Tell your skipper I’ll overlook his selling to a cash buyer one time, but not again.” Audrey still stapled boxes. “They give your job back?” she asked. “That’s too bad. Maybe next year.”

  The Billy II was tied to the fuel pier. On the stern Spitz and Pete were reeling in small fish. “Guess you guys do get jealous of real fishermen,” said Hank expansively, “but can’t you do better than that?”

  Spitz for once was relaxed. “As for these, my fisherman friend— nations have risen and collapsed on herring, and wars have been fought. The rich afford salmon, but herring feeds whole populations. Come back when I’ve fixed some, and you’ll taste the fish of the ages.”

  “Not for me when there’s meat around,” said Pete. “I’m catching mine for crab bait.”

  Hank said he’d try herring any time, but they were leaving.

  “Hey, we’re headed for Kodiak ourselves,” said Pete. “Swede’s sending over the fish he can’t handle from the big opening. We’re just waiting for the captain.”

  “I’ll kiss the ground,” declared Spitz, “when I pay off from this so-called captain and his Cindy. Some men spend their lives around the water and know all the information, yet have no more sea sense than a horse behind a plow.”

  “Ah, Spitz, you’re pissed because they ride your cooking.”

  Spitz ignored Pete. He threw his herring into a. heavy tub that was half full and started away with it, obviously a stronger man than he appeared. “I’m going to brine these, Norwegian-style,” he said to Hank. “Incidentally, you can tell your skipper that according to my tabs he was one of our highliners for the season.”

  After Spitz had left, Pete said: “That guy’s a pain. Captain told me he put a boat on the rocks a few years ago and lost a man, and that’s what’s spooked him. It’s a fuckin’ circus. Spitz bitches to everybody else, but when they’re face to face the captain raises his voice and Spitz backs down.”

  “Yeah. You hear that, you slob? I’m a highliner.”

  On the way to tell his crewmates, he found his source and bought three bottles of black Demarrara, at a ten-dollar closeout price. They received the news and the rum with equal glee. Ivan immediately opened one bottle and passed it around, then rubbed his knuckles into Hank’s scalp. “Ha, you highliner kid, you a rich fisherman now, hah?”

  Sven was singing in Norwegian at the top of his voice. As soon as they reached Kodiak he would fly home to his wife.

  Jones looked at a red streak in the otherwise clear sky and predicted bad weather. “I’d had us going through Whale Pass on noontime slack tomorrow, but mebbe we ought to go all night to make early-morning slack, get through while we can.”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” said Steve expansively. They all swigged once more from the bottle, corked it, and started clearing the gear for storage.

  The Olaf came alongside. Hank secured the line that Tolly threw him. Tolly had obviously tapped his own source of booze. His eyes were red and half-lidded. “Grabbed all the fish, eh? And now you’re running home.”

  “Hope you guys did well on the mainland.”

  Tolly’s rough face was sullen. “We always do good when some son of a bitch don’t cork us.”

  Hank tried to alter the subject. “Ass-buster over there, wasn’t she?”

  “Ass-buster?” Tolly mocked. “When you’re a fuckin’ fish thief you better stop with big-fisherman talk.”

  “Get your fuckin’ story straight,” barked Hank. “Our skipper found those grounds, and you came like sharks when you saw us brailing. You couldn’t find your own fuckin’ fish in an ocean of jumpers!”

  Tolly leapt across the gunwales and grabbed. Hank swung. Like hitting a post, and a chest blow landed him on deck. He felt sick and dizzy as he gathered his legs and raced into another of Tolly’s fists. From deck again he saw a swirl of his own crewmates mixing with those from the Olaf. Steve swung on Tolly. Ivan and Chip Hansen roared into each other as if a rubber band pulled them, while Jones and Sven squared off on the others. But it was five from the Olaf and only four of his own without him. The extra man had joined Tolly’s defense against Steve. Hank wobbled to his feet, waited a moment to think it through, then ducked in beneath the prevailing fists to slam Tolly in the gut. In a moment he himself crashed to deck again with teeth through his lip, but Telly now sprawled alongside. They punched at each other automatically, like crabs in a mating dance, until Steve pulled them ap
art.

  The fight subsided as quickly as it had erupted. Hank and Tolly sat on the deck and spat blood as they counted their teeth, while others paced and cleared their heads. Ivan and Chip, both bleeding and still erect, continued insulting each other. By the time Swede Scorden appeared to order them off his float, another bottle of rum was open and passing the rounds of both crews.

  “Where’d you get that booze?” Swede looked accusingly at Hank. “Better not be from my people.”

  “Help yourself,” said Jones.

  Still scowling, Swede swigged from the bottle and handed it back. “If you’re through fishing, get back to Kodiak. Have a safe trip and I’ll see you next year.”

  Shortly they were underway, singing and joking about the fight as they dabbed antiseptic on each other’s cuts. They stopped at an abandoned saltery to hang their seine for the winter with many others, then ate as they continued out of the bay. By nightfall Steve, Ivan, and Sven were asleep. Jones had only nipped from the bottle. He stayed on the bridge under the clear night sky. Hank brought mugs of coffee and settled beside him.

  The mountain shapes slipped by. A harbor buoy flashed, and Jones altered course to steer close between two islands. The spruce smell drifted over them. Above the engine throb Hank could hear some creature squawking as they passed close to land.

  “Jones? Will you call me next year if your other guy doesn’t come back?”

  “Glad to.”

  Hank rocked back and forth, smiling to himself.

  They entered Shelikof Strait to a gentle roll. A large orange moon, nearly full, was rising, and its light pecked at the crest of the small swells. Other boats traveled with them. Jones chatted with a few over the radio-phone, easy bantering conversations about runs and gear and relative luck.