The old man came over, raised his hand to pat Hank’s shoulder, and smiled up with a gleam of gold teeth. “You will be astonished, Mr. Crawford. Jasper Johns painting which I bought last May while we talked of fishery, I have just received offer paying ten thousand more. Ten thousand dollar, naturally.”
Hank grinned in spite of himself. “Did you take it, sir?”
“Ah, ha-ha, naturally not. Reason one, my private excitement this painting. Reason two, it will become valuable more and more.” Another pat on Hank’s shoulder, then Mr. T gestured abruptly toward the table and led the way.
Suddenly a familiar voice behind Hank declared, “Hey man, now I’m on the bandwagon too.” Hank wheeled to face Tolly Smith. Hank had never seen him in a suit before. He hardly seemed the same man with his hair trimmed, no beard, and a neat sandy mustache. Gold earring gone.
Hank wanted to yell with relief that he wasn’t alone, but also to mourn.
“You will sit there, please,” said Mike to the Americans, and pointed to the far end of the long table. The director took his place in the center, flanked by the two other seniors. Another American hurried in apologizing: an overweight lawyer named Rider whom Hank had met briefly at other times. A seat had been saved for him among the Japanese. Hank had never liked the man—he seemed arrogant—but he gave him a cool nod that was returned coolly.
For the next half hour, while hotel employees served, the entire conversation flowed in Japanese.
“So, you know the language. What are they saying?” Hank asked John Gains.
“Too fast for me, I admit.”
Hank turned his attention to Tolly. “How are you hooked into this?”
“Oh, man. It happened so fast after somebody in Uganik passed the word I was looking. I thought maybe it was you?” Hank shook his head. “Anyhow, they’re fitting me out with a limit seiner converted to long-line. I’ll own fifty-one percent. All I’ve got to do is deliver black cod to them.”
Hank felt a chill. “What security?”
“Nothing as important as having my own boat again, buddy. Life insurance policy. Little house down in Washington that Jennie inherited. Nothing I can’t buy back, the way they say black cod’s running and the price it gets.”
“Shh.” John Gains nudged him. Several of the Japanese were frowning in their direction.
The meeting in Japanese had turned energetic. Gruff Satoh’s face reddened and he pounded the table to emphasize whatever he said. Several around the table scribbled notes. Most of the food remained untouched.
Shoji Tsurifune began to speak, gripping the papers he held, in a voice that sounded even and reasonable. His father interrupted with a question, then waved him to continue. Satoh muttered and glared, then began to exclaim again.
“Something’s sure got ’em pissed,” muttered Tolly.
An interpreter had stayed close to the American lawyer’s ear, but when the discussion became heated his raised voice allowed Hank and the others to hear occasional phrases: “Japan market control . . . demand that they . . . force them . . . yes, possible . . . greedy . . .” Suddenly Director Tsurifune snapped something and talk stopped. Mike rose at once and ushered the remaining hotel employees from the room. Faces turned toward Hank, Tolly, and Gains. “But they should stay and hear,” said Mike in English.
“Stay and listen, hai,” said the director. “Go. Proceed.” The discussion resumed with audible translation in English.
Mr. Satoh glared toward Hank. The overhead gleam on his thick glasses blanked out his eyes. His voice was gruff, although the translator’s voice delivered the words at an incongruously high nervous pitch. “I will repeat what I have said. This sablefish—what you Americans call black cod. It is common knowledge that no American wishes to eat this fish and no American captures it. Exactly why, therefore—?”
Director Tsurifune interrupted calmly in Japanese.
Satoh’s tone modified. “I shall explain. Like in case, when my company first caught king crabs in Bering Sea and no American cared. Then all at once, Americans saw our success and expensive market for king crabs. Thus, Americans forced us to stop capture of king crab because they wish to take it all. Here is history. Then it was that my company, visiting Sitka after king crab was lost to us, have discovered great mass of sablefish in Gulf of Alaska that no American wishes to eat or capture. Therefore, at great cost, my company changes all vessels, good-bye king crab, welcome sablefish.”
Satoh’s face reddened again and his hands banged the table. “And now, Americans see our success with sablefish and are greedy to take it from us.” He sprang from his seat with a fist in the air. Several around the table rose also. The director frowned and snapped something that sent Satoh abruptly back down, followed by the others. Satoh continued in a milder voice. “I mean to say, it is time to announce: back off Americans! Stop being greedy. Only Japanese eat sablefish. Therefore should only Japanese capture them.” The director muttered something. “Yes, yes,” Satoh replied, as translated, “and few from South Korea who are merely pirates stealing from Japanese technology. We must this afternoon tell American Fishery Council that Japanese will not buy sablefish caught by Americans. And we further will not any more buy their salmon”—fist bang on each main word—”or roe, or groundfish, or crab.”
Several of those around the table murmured approval. It gave Satoh the confidence to draw himself up and declare, “Without Japanese yen purchase, American fisheries will clearly collapse.”
Shoji Tsurifune leaned forward and spoke in Japanese to Satoh, in a voice both deferential and urgent. The interpreter translated it for the lawyer, too softly for Hank to hear.
Rider, the American lawyer, held up his hand. When he spoke in English, the interpreter reversed to Japanese. “Please listen to Mike, uh, Mr. Shoji Tsurifune. It’s what I’ve tried to tell you. Let me be blunt. . . no . . .” To the interpreter, “Make that forthright—no, make it sincere.” He waited, a man calmly self-possessed. “I wish to tell you sincerely. Japan may be strong, but you are in a vulnerable position—a not strong position here. It would be bad public relations to Americans if you were to follow Mr. Satoh’s advice.” Satoh started to rise. “Even though I understand the pain and anger that Mr. Satoh feels.” Satoh harrumphed, mollified.
“To the American mind, Japan presents several problems.” The lawyer held up fingers one by one. “Point: Japanese whaling that America disapproves of—problem. Point: Japanese trade imbalance that affects American economy—problem. Point: long Japanese fishing lines in the water that tangle American fishing gear—problem. Point: the memory of Japanese catching too much fish off America—problem.” He hesitated. “And point—excuse me, but you pay me to be . . . sincere—unfortunately, older Americans still remember a very big problem: the not good events of wartime long ago.”
Satoh and some of the others muttered angrily when they heard the final translation. Hank could decipher the words Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The director, unsmiling, waved his colleagues to silence and gestured for Rider to continue. Whether Hank disliked the lawyer or not, he began to admire his diplomatic objectivity.
“Excuse my bluntness, but all this is a reality. Americans are your friends, basically. You need each other. They want to be friends and cooperate. However, Americans have no great concern that Japan loses fish on American fishing grounds because they have many problems of their own. And American fishermen must fish also to feed their families. This is only natural.”
After a pause, “My son and I understand,” said Director Tsurifune in English, “Your advisement, please.”
“Accept what you cannot change, sir. Plan for the inevitable future. Use strategy. I see the Japanese use strategy in other fisheries. For example, we both know that representatives for the Japanese are now talking to American congressmen and officials in Washington. They’re lobbying for large Bering Sea groundfish quotas for vessels that deliver to shore plants where the Japanese have investment, even while other Japanese here with us to
day insist that groundfish can only be processed successfully at sea with Japanese technology. This is wise strategy for what Americans would call ‘hedging your bets.’ To plan for all possibilities. In the same way, with sablefish in the Gulf of Alaska . . .”
Some of the men at the table had begun to look at each other and mutter in consternation. “This is not to speak of!” snapped the director. “Information you should not know!”
The lawyer seemed unperturbed. “You’re paying me to watch everything, sir, and to advise you.”
Tsurifune muttered in Japanese to his son. Mike hurried over to Hank and the other Americans. “We’d asked you in to hear our problems. Thanks for listening. But you don’t need to be bored with us anymore.”
Hank smiled. “I’m not bored.”
Mike returned the smile. “Father doesn’t wish you to be bored anymore.” He gestured toward the door. “Please.”
As they left, the lawyer was saying: “My advice, respectfully, is to sacrifice something here to keep American good will. Do it for what we call the long run.”
Outside in the hotel lobby, knots of people dressed for Council chatted or read papers. All seats were filled at an open-terrace restaurant. A boat crew just arrived called to Hank from one of the tables. Big men, they pressed against their chairs but assured Hank heartily that they’d make room. He waved no thanks, although that was where he wanted to be.
Tolly stretched beside him. “Was gettin’ antsy in there, all that blah blah in Jap. Nice chow. The rest was bullshit, what I could follow, but I know this—they’ve got no right to our fish unless I catch it for ’em. After a while I stopped listening.”
“Good thinking,” said John Gains. It wasn’t a compliment. To Hank he said, “They’d have let me stay if I’d been alone, you know.”
“Yup,” said Hank. Gains had changed again before his eyes. Once a game but incompetent young crewman, then a self-possessed office climber who seemed headed for the top with the Japanese, he was now an insecure cog in their machine. Danger. It could happen to Henry Crawford.
“Americans are never going to run successful factory ships,” Gains continued. “It’s not in our nature. Scut work at sea for three months at a time? We ought to be glad to cooperate and just deliver to the Japanese, now they’ve agreed to joint ventures with us. And now it’s sablefish. Good Lord, Americans don’t eat it and it’s a Japanese market, so what right have we to take it from them?”
“You’ve sure bought their line,” said Tolly bluntly.
“I see where the future lies, if that’s what you mean.”
Tolly shrugged in good humor. “Suit yourself.”
Nels Tormulsen and his crew from the halibut longliner Karmoy passed, and stopped to say hi to Hank and Tolly. They ignored John Gains, who looked away disinterested, or feigned it.
“Hey, fresh air,” exclaimed Tolly. “Nels, my man! I hear a beer calling! Follow me.”
“Council time, you horse,” said Nels Tormulsen in a voice as deep as his chest. He was lean, shaggy-haired, and muscular, in his mid-thirties, a man reserved although he wrapped a playful arm around Tolly’s neck and squeezed.
Tolly rabbit-punched lightly to free himself. “It’s just talk in there. You’d hear better after a couple brews.”
Nels regarded him seriously. “We tied up the boat to be here. And our hired gun costs a hundred-plus an hour. Name your booze if we win. But the vote in there now means banknotes.”
Tread lightly, Tolly, thought Hank. He knew the issue at Council and where it might lead. If Nels’s side succeeded in pushing what had come to be called ITQs, Individual Transferable Quotas, it would mean private rights to the halibut, favoring those like Nels who had longlined the big fish for decades. They could shut out the new competition that was crowding the water. And after that, Nels’s traditional halibut schooner guys were also the ones best able to take over sablefish/black cod from the Japanese, since they fished the same longline gear in waters they knew. He himself and Tolly would soon be their competition.
“And how’s your dad?” Hank asked to change the subject. “What does a famous old squarehead halibut skipper do when he retires?”
“Ohh . . . Arthritis. Bullheaded. Manages his apartment houses in Ballard. A good Norwegian puts his money in solid stuff. Keeps him busy, out of my mother’s hair. In my wife’s hair a little. He comes into our kitchen even when I’m off fishing. Tells her how I should be running his boat. Don’t matter I’ve bought it from him share by share, now owned it for five years.” Even when joking with a trace of a smile Nels sounded deliberate. Hank knew him of the steady Norwegian type that seldom laughed or even smiled despite his vigor and second-generation freedom from old-country ways. “Dad doesn’t understand us paying some lawyer to speak for us at Council. He thinks we could still shout the other fellows down. Or that we’ve had to get political. Well, I never thought political when I started baiting hooks on the old man’s boat. Back then a bottle on the table at the cannery was the politics, while you bargained price.”
And back then together we all hated the intruding overfishing Russians and Koreans. . . and Japs, thought Hank wistfully. No disputes back then between ourselves. “Yup. Now we’ve become the old-timers, I guess.”
Nels shrugged. “I’m probably old in ways you don’t know. We’re still so traditional on that boat that you wouldn’t recognize the fishing.”
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Hank laughed, savoring the memory. “After once aboard the Lincoln, when Igvar Rasmussen hired me as inbreaker?”
“Mr. Rasmussen? Old Igvar? The devil he did! I remember talk in the fleet, some inbreaker he’d hired off the dock not from the families. Broke his arm when a soaker banged it. Was that you?” Hank nodded. “Well, I remember Igvar said once in Dad’s living room, that was a good kid and he’d have kept him on, if it makes you feel any better.”
“It does. It does.” Should I tell him, Hank wondered, that I’m headed back out to longline, but now as a skipper and without any further experience? “I wouldn’t mind going back to face down those big halibuts. This time gut ’em without breaking my arm.” He hesitated. “And now black cod, too.”
“Any time, Hank. We’ve got an inbreaker opening you’d fill just right.” The rest of the crew shared the joke. Nels stretched and cracked his knuckles. “Well, Council time. Lucky the old man was smart enough to make me do U of Washington before I came with him full-time. It helps kick my way through some of this bullshit.” He glanced at John Gains. “Next round: we’ll boot the foreigners off the black cod. And take back the rest of what’s ours. The foreigners have raided us long enough.”
“If you want to argue foreign raiders,” said John evenly, “you might consider where your dad was born. Across another ocean, wasn’t it?” He drew himself up and jutted his chin. Hank remembered John’s past as a college varsity boxer. All this education in the circle around him, and all of it now directed at chasing fish!
Nels surveyed Gains without rancor. “Different. Norwegians aren’t Orientals.” He looked at his watch and started off. “Council time. Take care.”
“Narrow minds,” muttered Gains when Nels left. Hank said nothing.
Tolly pulled from habit on the ear that once bore his gold earring. “What’s this sound I hear? Why it’s brew calling. Cornin’, baby. Hank buddy, save me a seat in case I come back.” And he too was gone. Hank watched him stride with a bounce. Solid man at sea, but still light as a leaf on land while others changed. It made Hank wistful again. Tolly had been his first buddy in Alaska. Greenhorns together working the cannery lines and cannery girls. Then together grown into deckhands, finally skippers full of themselves. Now Tolly was in bed with the Japanese like himself. But still a breeze, unlike himself.
The Japanese, with their private meeting apparently over, now knotted to one side of the lobby around their American lawyer. Mike Tsurifune caught his eye. It would be the honest thing to join them, Hank realized. Instead he headed in the opposite directi
on toward a group he knew. They opened their circle to include him.
“Meet our visitors from Norway,” said Steve Bunt, a steady former fisherman who now headed a boat owners’ organization.
Hank shook hands and they exchanged pleasantries. The newcomers were dressed as conservatively as the Japanese—a different kind of Norwegian than Nels’s dad or even Nels. Their English was confident. Indeed, Hank thought dispassionately, when fishing money beckoned, people who probably never baited a hook came raiding from over the world.
When the Norwegians left for the meeting, Hank observed, “Thought I’d read in the Kodiak Mirror that your visitors came from Denmark.”
“That was last year.” Steve lowered his voice. “You don’t think only Japanese want a share of the pie? Only how they get it’s the difference. The Japs want quota for their ships and for the Alaska shore plants they mostly own. The Scandinavians expect to get their piece by providing the trawlers we’ll need to take the fish we now control.”
Hank absorbed the information reluctantly. Not what I committed for, he thought. All he’d wanted to do was have his boat and fish. But he needed to stay abreast, and to show it. “Didn’t I hear that some of you guys flew somewhere in Russia for talks? How did you manage that with the State Department?”
“Never heard it from me.” Steve slapped his shoulder and headed away. “But like I said. Everybody.”
When he phoned Jody in Kodiak, she answered with “Oh! The things to untangle after just a couple of weeks away! You men back from your boat never have that with wives at home. But I’m on a noon flight tomorrow. You just stay busy with your meetings. I haven’t been shopping in a city for ages. All of a sudden I’m looking forward to a few days of city life before I go back to the boat.” Her voice lowered to a throaty purr. “But save me dinner and every evening, mister.”
The prospect sent Hank back to the afternoon Council session with a lively step. The room was jammed to the doors and people stood along the sides. The fifteen Council members took places by name cards around long tables that formed a semisquare. Witnesses faced the Council from a chair and table. Within the audience the Japanese stayed in a bloc and listened solemnly to a translation through headphones.
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