Raiders

by William B. McCloskey

  “The boats below,” Hank ventured. “Will they fish today?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s have a look before they go.”

  “Later. Here is provided the information.”

  “I’ll get important information by seeing how you build your boats and set your gear.”

  “Mr. Nagao has pictures of the vessels and equipment. I will ask.”

  “I mean the real boats, down there. And real fishermen.”

  “Of course. If time.”

  Both Japanese lit cigarettes and conversed in Japanese as the secretary brought a pot of green tea. Hank considered walking out and down to the boats, but decided to continue the game. A shrine mounted on the wall contained a paper boat and pieces of rope and net. A shelf below it held a vase, a dish, a doll, and a ceramic mask. He walked over to study them.

  “Mr. Carford, you must come sit for information.”

  “My name’s Crawford, and since you’re not speaking English, what the hell?”

  “Carford, hai, of course. Come sit I must asking.”

  Mr. Nagao slowly unrolled a chart and attached it to a screen pulled from the ceiling. He pointed like a lecturer to line by line of Japanese characters as Kodama translated. Forty seiners of four to fourteen tons fished a few miles from shore for iwashi and mackerel. The search through a dictionary the secretary brought concluded that iwashi were sardines. Annual catch 500, 1.3 million yen. Some iwashi were kept in cold storage for bait and shipped elsewhere, but most were salted.

  “So this is the fleet here? Let’s go have a look.”

  Neither Japanese acknowledged the interruption. The presentation went on to cover gill-net vessels that fished sixteen to thirty miles offshore around seamounts and along a two-hundred-meter depth curve. They caught rockfish (another dictionary search) as well as bream and cod. Then there were boats that directed strong lights in the water to attract squid and a fish they called saury in English. Then there was yellowtail, grown in ponds. Mr. Nagao read from a paper the quantity of each species caught for each of the past six years, and Kodama translated them one by one.

  To be polite Hank asked about yellowtail aquaculture. No aquaculture, replied Nagao, since hills on the peninsula went straight into the sea and thus no land existed for farming or aquaculture. “But you said yellowtail ponds . . . ?” Hank asked.

  “Please hear the further information, Mr. Carford. Therefore, Mr. Nagao informs, all here must be fishermen not farmer. Many many once fished far seas. But since America sent fishing ships from water where Japanese fishermen for long time caught fish Americans do not catch or eat—”

  “I get the point. Why don’t we see the boats?”

  “Important further information.”

  The secretary brought in two neat boxes of sushi and cold tempura wrapped in cellophane. Hank and Kodama lunched while Nagao lovingly rerolled the poster, then attached another to the screen. This one had rectangles connected by lines, like a family tree. It showed facilities.

  At last the three men entered a waiting car to drive around “for observation.” Mr. Nagao stopped first at several oil tanks, gestured at them from the car, and explained the capacity of each. Next they stopped at a long building to view two hundred sixty boxes in freezer storage awaiting shipment, and to see trays of squid in flash-freeze compartments that would soon be transferred to shipping containers. Mr. Nagao read them the writing stenciled on the boxes.

  They then reentered the car to drive the hundred yards to a portable machine for sucking sardines from a hold, then drove another short distance to a low building of water pens with stuffy brine and seaweed odors. Dark flatfish swam in the water. “It is here, you see, Mr. Carford, that yellowtail is grown. Not in farming ponds unfortunately impossible, you did not listen. Mr. Nagao now explains.”

  Shadows outside had begun to lengthen when they left the yellowtail building. “We must soon to the bus return Kanazawa, but first Mr. Nagao will show us fish-drying racks, fish filet line, and water cleaner. And most important, ice-making machinery. Please hurry, Mr. Carford.”

  Hank strode in a straight line toward the boats.

  “There is not time, Mr. Carford! Return to us immediately.”

  Clean wooden boats, the kind it would be a pleasure to work aboard. Fishermen stood mending seine. In universal fashion they passed the nets through raised blocks, so that tents of web were stretched along the quay. The men wore baggy sweat clothes stained only a little. Hank towered a head taller than most of them. A hearty “hi” drew only puzzled or impersonal glances. He noted that his own web-mending procedure was no different. A spare flat needle lay on the concrete. He picked it up and entered a group, but found no rip in the net free of a man mending it. Everyone watched, but no one offered him a place. “Howdy, konichi-wa. My language is English. This is net in English. Net. See? This needle. This web.” The men exchanged amused murmurs but only increased their concentration. He was dressed like a tourist, not one of them.

  The car pulled alongside. Nagao and Kodama took position, facing him silently. The car doors remained open and an automatic signal dinged relentlessly.

  “Kodama-san. Explain that I’m a fisherman too.”

  “We must go.”

  Hank considered, laid down the needle, followed to the car, and quietly endured the remaining lecture. Back in the office Nagao held out a guest book that contained page-long entries, some in English with sappy praise. “Nice facilities,” Hank scribbled, and walked away.

  “Mr. Nagao hopes you writing more of good impression.”

  Hank added, “In good repair.”

  Back on the main road he bowed cool acknowledgment when Mr. Nagao expressed ritual pleasure to have entertained such an important visitor, and pocketed a keepsake medallion with no more than a nod.

  “Mr. Nagao wishes to know your best impression.”

  “All very interesting.”

  “Mr. Nagao wishes to know, if you now understand? How his village is . . . ” Kodama consulted a paper from his pocket. “Self-sufficiency. To this and other villages nearby. Taking fish very careful, for market.”

  Hank forced himself to cool down. He bowed to Nagao, who now appeared sincere and dignified rather than a mere bore. “Impressive, sir. Thank you. Domo gozaimas. ” Suddenly he felt ashamed, regretted not having been more generous in the guest book. “That ice plant was amazing, please tell him. I’ve never seen anything more . . . efficient.”

  Mr. Nagao appeared pleased. And relieved. He and Kodama left Hank alone after that and conversed in Japanese for the fifteen minutes before the bus appeared on schedule and stopped at their hail.

  Hank glumly watched water and boats at work pass by the window. Yes, impressive. Had he acted like a brat? But when they treated him like a doll trophy in a case . . . Good old limp but flexible Hayashi. At length he ventured, “We’ll be back in time to go to that wharf and ask your friend to take me out with his crew tonight.”

  “Not on schedule. Important meetings tomorrow.”

  “Next day, then.”

  “Fishing machinery dangerous.”

  “I’m a goddamn fisherman! I know machinery. Didn’t anybody tell you:

  Kodama suddenly scowled. It was the first time Hank had seen anger among the careful Japanese. “You do not understand, Mr. Carford.”

  “Then explain it.”

  “Duty is not explain.”

  “Why didn’t you help when I tried to meet those fishermen?” “Common fisher folk. Mr. Nagao important, waiting.”

  “Start here, then. You let it drop last night that you’d been a fisherman yourself.” Hank grinned to break tension. “Nothing common about you.”

  “Fishing master. On high seas.”

  “Like a captain, right? Okay then, good for you, Captain. Me too, fishing captain. I like boats, all kinds. I like fishermen, all kinds, not just captains. Want to understand Japanese fishermen.” Kodama’s expression remained tight. “Tell me about yourself.” />
  “Busy fishing. Then pfft. Now office. My duty to give you information.” A pause. “Your duty, Mr. Carford, listen to information. Mr. Nagao giving important information to show self-reliance in village far from city.”

  “Well, it was good information. But understand. Part of my work is to see boats and fishermen. To understand.”

  “Fishermen in village are only innocent.”

  “Didn’t you yourself start as a fisherman, pulling nets or lines on deck?”

  “Fishing academy. Very high grades.”

  Heavy rain started again. It did not help that the hotel had kept a reservation for Hank alone—single bed in small room—so that, in the pouring dark, Kodama needed to search out a lesser room in town. Nor that Kodama’s umbrella, when he returned for dinner, disappeared from the common receptacle by the hotel door where patrons’ umbrellas were left as a matter of course. Hank would have cursed routinely, but Kodama’s explosive spat-out fury unbalanced the world.

  Although Kodama regained composure before grimly stalking into the rain, he did not join Hank for breakfast next morning and barely spoke when he collected him for meetings. Instead of hailing a taxi he strode the slick streets with Hank trailing. During introductions he glowered the Japanese courtesies. The meeting droned. Clearly, Hank decided, he’d never see a boat with Kodama.

  At lunchtime Hank phoned Hayashi in Tokyo. “We are in important meeting, Mr. Carford. You are happy your visit?”

  Hank declared that after today he’d attended all the meetings he’d stomach, and that there was a good fishing boat right in Kanazawa that could take him to sea for a while.

  He could hear Hayashi talking to others, then: “Oh, Mr. Crawford, this will not be necessary. Very dangerous. All information can be furnished to you in the offices, where those in charge will gladly to answer all questions. The fishermen are not educated. And besides, there is no time on the ske-jure.”

  “Then we’d better rewrite the schedule.”

  “But ske-jure is . . . ske-jure!”

  “Then ship me back home.”

  Silence. Hayashi excused himself, saying he would call back quickly. As they waited, Kodama sat with arms folded, scowling.

  The phone rang. It was John Gains in Seattle. “Jesus, Hank, it’s past midnight and I’ve got an early plane to D.C. Don’t you know the Japan games by now? What did you say to make them so upset?”

  “Just said I wanted to go out with fishermen. Tsurifune’s stuck me here killing time and they have me back in twenty-four hours of meetings.”

  “That’s how the Japanese do things.”

  “They promised me a boat. All this yes’ shit. Then when the time comes it’s a blank wall.”

  “Hank, don’t you ever listen? Last spring I briefed you. Asians don’t say no, especially Japanese. They think it’s offensive. So they say maybe to save everybody’s face. ‘Maybe’ or ‘perhaps’ both mean forget it. ‘Yes’ means only maybe. Drink some sake and roll with it.”

  “They’re wasting my time. I’ve got a wife I want to be near back home. And kids. At least I could be learning something about their boats.”

  “Don’t you have a life besides fishing boats? Look. Forget this boat crap. You’re their guest and they don’t want anything to happen to you. Roll with it. Don’t mess this up for me.”

  “You?”

  With the conversation over he did feel like a brat. Had asshole John put himself on the line? Sake toasts at lunch made him feel it more. They were nice people. (Nice when they weren’t torturing American prisoners during Jones Henry’s war. That’s where the Kodama scowl fitted.) He remained docile for the rest of the day. On impulse he found a secretary who spoke enough English to understand that he wanted to buy an umbrella. With a self-conscious giggle she undertook the job. The price shocked him. Japan was expensive; the purchase cleaned the major yen bills from his wallet. But when Kodama accepted the gift, he bowed to Hank for the first time, and the scowl softened to merely a frown.

  Next morning they ran together.

  After another day of meetings that Hank forced himself to accept with grace, Kodama declared abruptly: “You have kappa., Mr. Carford? Nagagutsu? I do not know words in English. Rubber clothing? Come. We must hurry.”

  It happened in a rush. Kodama snapped directions to a taxi driver and they sped through the dark streets. Rain and sun had been intermittent. Now it rained heavily. They reached the delivery pier around midnight. There stood Captain Maruyama, calling in rough good humor, from the wheelhouse of his Number Fifteen Long-Life Ship. Hank jumped aboard. He nearly fell on the slippery rail, dodging solicitous crewmen who blocked his way to steady him. No way but to land in their arms. “Konichi-wa, howdy,” he laughed, out of breath, and they laughed back.

  Kodama in his running clothes followed behind, stepped over the rail gingerly with new umbrella raised, and made for the wheelhouse. Hank called an amiable excuse when Kodama gestured him to follow. He donned oilskins and remained on deck while the men unmoored.

  A crewman with a calm face long as a horse’s pulled a fish from a side bin and presented it gleaming in the rain for inspection. “Beautiful!” said Hank, patting a black band on the skin, and elicited the name, ishidai. The man gestured toward the housing. Hank followed with barely a wave toward Kodama frowning from a wheelhouse window. He stooped to enter the cabin but still bumped his head. Inside he could barely stand erect without scraping back his cap. It made for pantomime joking. He peeled oilskins with the others and hung them on pegs in a sheltered passageway, cheerfully brushing elbows in the cramped space.

  The cabin centered around a charcoal stove. Beyond stretched a low space divided into rectangular pens. One of the men crawled barefoot into a pen, stretched full length, and pulled a sheet over his face. The other four crewmen invited Hank to a bench. The man with the fish knelt at a board to deftly skin and filet it, then sliced it into strips. Chopsticks were produced along with bowls, brown sauce, and chopped green horseradish, and the men passed strips of the fish. Hank knew to swirl the brown and green together, and had mastered chopsticks enough to grasp a strip of fish and dip it in the mix. The ishidai had firm red meat with a mild, sweet taste.

  Kodama appeared with grave demeanor. “Go now sleeping, Mr. Carford. Choice for you. Sleep up with captain who invites you very kind, or . . .” The voice took on an edge of disapproval. “Or sleep with workers.”

  “With workers be good,” said Hank firmly. “Thanks.” Kodama nodded and left.

  Although the men included him and cooperated with friendly sign language, they soon turned back to themselves. Hank considered visiting the wheelhouse for a quick check of charts and electronics, but decided that if Kodama was leaving him alone he’d better not push his luck. He’d check the skippering part later.

  At length the man with the horse face yawned. He tossed a ragged futon into an empty compartment and motioned Hank to use it, then settled with his remaining blanket. Hank thanked him in Japanese. The boards of the pen rose around him a foot high. The enclosure was little more than shoulder width, its length an inch or two short for western size. Cozy coffin. He crooked legs and rested knees on the sides, folded hands on chest, and lay enjoying the boat’s roll and musty fishing smells.

  A few hours later the engine slowed and he popped awake. The others were crawling from their compartments. Someone shook his foot. Rain pounded on the roof of the passageway as they pulled on foul-weather gear. His oilskins were stiff plastic, theirs rubber thick as inner tubing.

  On deck it was still dark. The rain fell straight. It dimmed the lights of other boats that swooped and bobbed, some close enough for voices to carry. Within minutes the skipper called down and the men heaved over the trawl bags on each side of the boat. They trailed out of sight, submerging in the water as the boat gunned ahead. Hank watched without helping so he could see their division of labor. Another call and the paravane doors splashed down. The rig was for side trawl, which raised the catch up over the ra
il instead of sliding it more safely up a ramp astern— gear that Hank had worked a dozen years before but that had now become obsolete on all but the smallest Alaskan draggers.

  Since the tow would last a couple of hours, the men returned to their compartments to sleep. Hank climbed at last to the wheelhouse.

  “You must leave all rubber clothing and feetwear outside,” commanded Kodama as Hank started to enter. In complying, Hank’s head bumped the overhang and a sudden wind gust sprayed him before he could enter.

  Kodama’s profile was etched by green electronic light. He stood with chin jutted and legs apart, gripping the wide spokes of an old-fashioned steering wheel as if he were a crewman. The shadow of the captain hovered over an array of dim lights and dials. Hank recognized conventional radar and loran. The depth sounder read 470 meters. Its signal appeared to be clearer than that on his own Jody Dawn—a sign of the latest equipment.

  “Rocky bottom? Mud bottom?”

  “Of course.”

  “Which?”

  “Mud on top. Rock under. You are now happy fishing, Mr. Carford?”

  “Very, thanks.” The overhead was an inch shorter than his height. He needed to slump on the rail or stand with head bowed or knees bent. “The guys below, the fishermen, they’ve been very kind.”

  “Of course.”

  Outside, early gray light showed choppy water and the outlines of other boats. “Regular fleet out there,” Hank said to make conversation.

  “Too many vessels. Fishermen who can no more on high seas, therefore crowding.”

  The captain spoke to Kodama, apparently about course and speed, then retired into a raised crawl space. He patted the edge and motioned Hank over. “Captain Maruyama says regret low ceiling and invites you.” Hank thanked him and went over. The space was fitted with bedding, and with comforts that included a small color television. He and the captain exchanged smiles and nods. A crewman delivered a bowl of steamed shrimp fresh from the sea, which they all peeled and ate with gusto.