Raiders

by William B. McCloskey

  “You’re not alone.”

  The foreman had left the door open. Craig Stevens of Fish and Game rapped on the frame. Hank knew the biologist from encounters and consultations; a bureaucrat to the bone, short hair, tie and all, but outdoors-man enough that his lean face had as much leather from sun and wind as any fisherman’s.

  “Have you people made up your mind?” growled Swede.

  “Every time we check, we see more boats gearing up. Give me a final boat count, and I’ll tell you how many days it’ll take to fish up three million pounds. That’s my quota.” He shrugged. “Fact is, it’ll probably be a full week.”

  Swede locked hands behind his head, a sign that he had relaxed. “You number crunchers. Why don’t you stay in your office and phone if you don’t have better answers than that?”

  The biologist remained serious. “I like to keep moving.”

  “Not surprised. Keeps you harder to shoot.”

  “Considering the threats I get, that’s not funny.”

  “Crawford here—you know each other?” Swede continued smoothly. Craig glanced at the glass in Hank’s hand. “The Japanese still treating you right, Hank?”

  “Not bad, Craig.” He didn’t like the tone.

  “Cushy deal, eh?”

  “Has its points.” Hank rose to leave and terminate the questions, but the biologist suddenly changed his tone.

  “Uncle Swede,” said Craig with a frown. “You’re close to all this with the Japanese. With black cod in the Gulf, why at the Council a couple weeks ago did they get so reasonable all of a sudden? Some say they’re going to lead us Americans into black cod and seem to cooperate to hell and gone. Then they’ll slash price, shut down the market, and let us go broke so they—the Japs, I mean—can fish it all again for themselves?”

  “Seems reasonable to me. That’s how I’d play it.”

  “I wasn’t joking, Swede.”

  “Nor was I.”

  The biologist left as stiffly as he had come. Hank began to look around for a reason to leave also. He had sipped the scotch for old times’ sake, but booze no longer sat well in the middle of the day.

  Swede, however, had cranked up and wanted to continue. “You’re getting closer with the Japanese all the time, Crawford, so you’d better keep alert. What they’re doing for you is definitely part of a plan.”

  “You know it. A damn game.”

  “So be realistic. These people have to maneuver. You yourself have helped squeeze them off more fishing grounds each year. For a while after we took over our two hundred miles, they panicked and paid well for other peoples’ catch. But they’ve wised up. They hold the trump since they buy more seafood than anybody else, and sometimes their warehouses haven’t emptied as fast as predicted. So they pay less, and the world price drops accordingly.” Swede slapped papers on the desk. “You’re right, it’s a game. I’ve called it the Great Game before. The loser is whoever blinks first. Join where you can or fall behind.”

  “Then is Craig right? Was that just a game I watched at the Council last month? When the Japanese announced they’d close their black cod fishery in Three-A and help Americans get a toehold?”

  “They know how to be graceful when they see they’re losing. It’ll probably let them keep more than otherwise, so call it survival strategy. Craig’s probably right, though he wouldn’t know why, and . . . I didn’t feel like helping him out today. I think he’d expected to cry on my shoulder if he’d found me alone, since those quota-setters take flak all the time. Sure, the Japanese hope to hell Americans try for black cod and fail. Then with everybody mollified that they cooperated, they’ll get back whatever quota they want. But in case that fails, they’re getting American quota from people like you and Tolly Smith. They won’t lose all the way in any case.”

  And I’m in their hands, thought Hank. It made him finger the shot glass and wish for another.

  Swede echoed his thought. “You’ve fallen into their hands whether you admit it or not. I’ve been there longer than you. Sometimes I feel they’ve cut my balls off. But cheer up. They’ll hold the rope loose as long as you deliver.”

  “What’s become of us, Swede?”

  Swede pulled open the drawer and thumped the bottle on the table. “We’ve crossed the ocean, Hank. That’s what.” He appeared older and tired as he poured a drink.

  Hank returned to the boat with heavy feet, but at the sight of deck activity he brightened. Adele’s friends had installed the new gear in the right places, if old memory served. Cramped indeed, all of it crowded onto a boat smaller than the old halibut schooners, but how good it all looked, prepared for action! He tapped the graceful curve of the chute that would guide the line overboard, now bolted where the seine skiff would have nosed. The metal gave back a satisfying bong.

  Piece by piece he remembered. Boards on deck had to be fitted to form bins—checkers, they called them—that would receive and hold the fish until they could be dressed and sent below to be iced. And the gurdy, secured to the starboard rail where the rollerman would stand to gaff aboard the fish. He gripped the vertical gurdy wheel and shook it to test its stability. Next, he ran a finger in the ridge around the wheel’s circumference where the line would be gripped, then patted the wheel and wiped a smudge on the shiny surface left by his hand. Neat piece of engineering.

  Behind the gurdy stood the arrangement of cylindrical rollers that would press the line tight to continue moving it and to knock off any fish not removed by the rollerman’s gaff. What had they used to call that thing? Hangman? Executioner? Chopper? “Oh, yeah, crucifier,” he muttered aloud. And then there were slanted boards placed below the crucifier to catch the fish and slide them into the checkers.

  But the biggest adjustment: the wheelhouses of the old schooners designed specifically to longline stood aft facing the work deck. This wheelhouse was located forward so that, to maneuver, he’d need constantly to look over his shoulder through the back door. He calculated his distribution of manpower. One man in the wheelhouse—himself or Seth. One at the roller, one or two to gut depending on volume, one below to ice, one or two to bait. They were six including Kodama, whose ability to pull his weight on deck was unknown. A seventh man would dilute the crew share, but if fish stormed in as rumored, the seventh would pay for himself.

  As if in answer to his thoughts, Oddmund appeared alongside the rail. At least Odds wasn’t wearing a suit. He’d come dressed for work.

  “Yo, man!” exclaimed Mo when he saw him.

  “You’re cornin’ with us?” exclaimed Terry. Both seemed happy with the idea.

  “Hello, Terry. Hello, Mo.” Odds’s voice, face, and manner were as sober as ever.

  Hank studied him. As crewman once, Odds had pulled his weight and gotten along, and he seemed still sturdy despite his new office career at the native corporation. They shook hands. “So, Odds. Had a good meeting?”

  “Our meetings are all good, Hank. Very important. But like I asked at the airport yesterday: Do you need an extra man this trip?”

  Hank decided that on a short, pressured trip, Odds and Kodama would have little chance to continue their gripe about cruel white men. “Get your gear. Come aboard soon as you can. One bunk left below. You’ll need to clear stuff off it.”

  “That’s nice, Hank. Thanks. I’ve got everything in the truck. Office work is very important, but I miss boats.”

  Mo and Terry quickly absorbed their former shipmate into the work, and introduced Ham who had replaced him. Terry gleefully pretended to boss him around like a greenhorn, at which Odds smiled without taking offense.

  When Kodama returned from shopping with Jody, he hovered between dignity and a new kid’s excitement. Poking from the top of one bag were the shiny rims of new rubber boots, and from another a pair of work gloves on top of new foul-weather gear. A yellow cap with the name of a marine engine company nestled into his hair, and he wore stiff new jeans and a denim shirt. A red bandanna encircled his neck. On his feet were soft leather
deck slippers of the kind the others wore.

  “Now that’s more like it!” exclaimed Adele. She had just cleaned her paintbrush and was preparing to leave. “No man on my boat should ever look anything but Amer—When you come to dinner tomorrow night, Yukihiro dear—you see, I’ve studied your name and already gotten it straight—I’ll just throw those ironlike new dungarees into the laundry and have them dry and limber before you leave. So bring them in a bag and wear other pants and shirt.”

  Kodama’s free hand touched the stiff denim ridge of a pocket possessively. “New pants are . . . ex’erent so thusly, madam.”

  “Yes, yes. Wear your clothes from the airplane, though, not those . . . army things. Now.” She turned to Hank. “Three plants have approached me to buy my fish. I’ve told them each—”

  “We’re delivering to Swede.”

  “You’ve certainly taken hold! He’s not one of the three.” She drew herself up, then relaxed. “Well, I suppose that saves confusion for a poor widowed . . . Mr. Scorden could take a lesson in politeness from the French, but so could have Daddy, rest his soul.” She pointed toward the bait storage box she had just painted. “Sunburst yellow. It certainly brightens things, don’t you agree? What do you think? Be honest.”

  Hank decided to take her at her word. “Adele, it doesn’t. We’d all hoped that was just an undercoat.”

  “Well now, no need to be that honest!” Her face with its aging folds drew down in what had become a pug-dog expression. “You men. Afraid of a little brightening up! Well.” She sighed, and her face returned to its authoritative set. “Just like Daddy. I suppose this is still his boat, however much I. . . Do what you want, Hank.”

  “Thanks, Adele.” When she had gone at last, Hank turned to his Japanese friend. “You’re lookin’ sharp, Kodama-san.”

  “Very American. And Madam Carford also bought new nagagutsu, what name here? Not thick rubber clothing but soft plastic, very strong.” Kodama grinned in spite of himself. “And not black. Yerro!”

  “Yellow, eh? Great. We call them oilskins, or just ‘skins.”

  Kodama started to protest that he saw no oil on the clothing. Hank escaped toward the tubs of coiled line and bundles of line still unopened, and beckoned him to follow.

  Seth called from the wheelhouse: “We still got miles of line to put hooks on, but make sure you know what you’re doing there.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” chirped Terry. He was cleaning his hands with a kerosene rag. When Hank passed he confided, “OF Seth’s been on a dance ever since you called us to go fish. Plain buzzed.” His face expanded with his grin to the ears. “Never seen him so buzzed. Everywhere! Sleep? We’d sleep, and there he’s still looking over the charts by flashlight. Seth’s been too long from real fishing. So don’t mind him.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  Hank started to introduce Kodama, but Terry’s hand was already wiped and extended. “Didn’t have a chance last night. I’m Terry Bricks, and you’re goin’ to be fine here.”

  Terry’s goodwill was so obvious that Kodama grasped his hand at once. “Yes, good. Thank you. Brick.”

  Hank explained the western use of first names. “So you’d call him Terry just as I’ve told you to call me Hank.” Kodama frowned and listened, as he had done at least twice before, and trailed to the bundles of line as he insisted: “Hai. But, saying name is Brick.”

  “Work it out later. Now, there’s all this line and all these hooks to attach. It might be different on big Japanese longliners. Do you see how it’s done?”

  Kodama frowned again. It seemed a struggle before he declared, “Of course.”

  “Then that’s a good thing for you to start on. Oh. Maybe here’s a new word for you. We call that monofilament string that separates the hook from the line a gangion.”

  Another pause, then, “Of course.”

  Seth had come up behind. “I’ll stand by at first to make sure you get it right,” he said with elaborate cordiality. “Can’t afford to screw it up.”

  Odds joined them. Since he had worked gangions before, he attached them correctly. Soon Kodama had learned the trick (or knew it already). It relieved Seth of his pleasure.

  But then, as Hank had feared, Kodama and Odds began to talk earnestly while their hands attached hooks on gangions to the main line. Starting already. Hank looked around to see Mo heading off for groceries with his sidekick, Ham. “Hey,” he called. “I need Ham for something here. Take Kodama-san with you instead.”

  Mo’s wide face dropped. He’d probably planned a quick beer with his buddy. Too bad. “It’ll let Kodama see another part of town, and an American supermarket.”

  When they returned, Kodama was carrying a box as heavy as Mo’s. Maybe he’d learned.

  Mo drew Hank aside. “You should have seen it, Boss. They had hot popcorn in the store, with lots of butter, you know? You’d never seen anything like the way ol’ Kodo plowed into it. Never seen popcorn before! So I got us a big box of popcorn to pop.”

  “That’s nice of you. But where’d you get that name Kodo?”

  “Seth, I guess. It’s easy to say.”

  “He may not like it. Japanese are pretty sensitive about some things.”

  “When I called him that he didn’t say nothing. Just kept hittin’ the popcorn.”

  Activity became progressively more hectic next day, the final one before departure. Fish and Game confirmed that the opening would run from Friday noon to the next Friday noon. The rules were clear: no gear permitted in the water before the starting noon signal, and all gear back on deck by the closing signal. Strictly enforced. (“Enforced over four, five hundred miles of ocean?” scoffed Seth as he listened to the announcement. “Good luck on that one.”)

  Adele Henry made her own terms clear that afternoon before she left to prepare dinner. “Six sharp, boys. We’re always informal, but you know the rules.”

  Adele’s dinner featured masses of steak flowing with juice. There were seconds for everyone, since, as she stated, “I believe in protein for a happy crew.” She served it all herself, insisting that even Jody stay seated, “since captains have better things to do,” while wearing an apron decorated with green rolling pins and yellow spoons and phrases in French. If the red wine, “à la français” as she called it, wasn’t as good as cold beers to anyone except Hank and Jody, it had everybody mellow following the household’s single-stiff-scotch-each before dinner. “I know you boys like your booze first, just like poor Daddy when he was alive,” Adele had declared earlier. “And we don’t stint on a single drink. But there’s a limit when French wine’s to follow.”

  Hank had raised his highball glass, and winked aside to Jody. “To Jones it is!

  With the wine, Adele herself lifted the first glass. “I want you boys to drink to our Captain Jody. I’m so proud of her and so should you be. This last summer, she’s done all womanhood proud.”

  “Give it a yo for Captain Jody,” seconded Terry. “That’s a lady who’s gotten to be some fish-killer out there.”

  Kodama turned to Hank. His eyes had widened in near horror. “Your wife is fishing captain?”

  “She’s that.”

  Kodama’s unconcealed shock unleashed gleeful shouts and further Jody-toasts around the table.

  “That ought to tell you something, Kodo,” said Seth with a thin smile.

  Jody raised her own glass. “Here’s to our new friend Kodama-san. We hope your stay with us will be just wonderful.” Her sharp look around the room brought up even Seth’s glass.

  Kodama’s hand went to his mouth. Then he pulled it away, to admit openly the pleasure he felt.

  Dessert was pecan pie with mounds of ice cream. Adele brought in also a bottle of orange liqueur and a tray of small glasses. “Now this is how the French do it, and I shouldn’t have to tell you how civilized they are in everything they do. Of course you just sip it for the flavor. And inhale it for the bouquet, as they say. It’s a lovely custom.”

  The cre
wmen murmured cautiously over how nice this was.

  Mo, usually bashful in company, had by now drunk enough to wave his little glass. He started to stand up, almost tipping his chair, thought better of it, and spoke from his seat. “Seth? Think we better drink to our new bet with the Hinda Bee guys?”

  Jody laughed. “You didn’t!”

  Seth gathered their attention and leaned back, enjoying it. All scowl had left his face so that, framed by the signature tumble of straw-blond hair, he looked like a friendly Viking. “Sure we did. Hinda Bees geared for long-line too. So Mo and me bet ’em three hundred each of us on biggest delivery this opening.”

  After general shouts, Ham said, “You ain’t the only ones. Terry, tell ’em about us.”

  Terry stood. “Well, after Ham and me ended in jail last time fighting over our own bets with Hinda Bee, and got to be buddies with them and all? There’s no way we didn’t put something down too, me and Ham. So, I guess, the only people don’t have bets riding on this trip are our skippers, and Odds, since he’d call it a sin or something, and Mr. Kodo here, who I guess nobody asked.”

  “And who asked me, I’d like to know!” exclaimed Adele. She stood with the apron just removed and hands on hips. “Heaven knows I’m no gambler, but I’m good for another three hundred, right at that Gustav Rosvic himself when I see him. Thank God for such tigers in my crew! Some bets might be a sin, I suppose, but not when it’s for our very honor.”

  Hank cleared his throat. “Well, a couple of hours ago Gus and I shook hands on a bet.”

  Jody’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”

  “Uh, what was our bet in Uganik, honey?”

  “Too much! What’s that have to do with it?”

  “We just said, same bet as before.”

  “You know we’ve got three children to send to college?” She glanced at the others at the table, and pulled herself together. “You boys had better fish your hearts out!”

  “We will!” said Ham earnestly, and Mo echoed it.

  Kodama watched it all, understanding some, confused by the rest, but somehow included and captured within the group’s energy. Was this something that Director Tsurifune expected him to report?