Raiders

by William B. McCloskey

  “Hoosh!” hissed both father and son.

  Captain Bart took Hank’s arm and pulled him back. “Now you done enough for the day, you jest watch. See how Tom slides in arster easy off the shovel? Don’t push ’em down? Leaves lots of air? We get paid by the bucket, Hank, not by weight.”

  “Oh, boy. I haven’t learned much today, have I?”

  Father and son together squeezed out forty-two bucketfuls of oysters. Captain Bart had saved aside a few. He handed one to Hank along with a shucking knife, then began to open another himself. Hank slid the blunt tip of the knife along the tight-closed edges of the shell but found no opening. The blade slipped and nicked his hand.

  “Good thing you live in Alaska where’s nary arster!”

  Hank sucked his wound. “Guess that’s another thing I didn’t learn today.” Captain Bart showed him how to ease in the knife at the bivalve’s muscle. Hank followed clumsily. He parted the two halves of the shell with such a jolt that the juice spilled over his hands. “At least I can handle what’s inside,” he joked, and slurped down the oyster. It tasted more briny, and sweeter, than most he’d eaten in restaurants.

  When they parted Hank felt a surge of affection. Both Tom and his dad knew heavy work on the water and savored it. Someday such a pairing might be his luck with Henny or Pete, even Dawn. He grasped their big, water-puffed hands in turn and thanked them for their hospitality, resisting the urge to hug them as he might have done in another place and culture.

  Captain Bart produced a plastic bag. “Some arster I saved for you to take home. Tell ’em home it’s reason there’s mud over your suit. If you’re sure you ain’t going to bleed to death opening them.”

  “At least I’ll keep a bandage handy.”

  Tom became quiet. “You can say hello for me to those big fish and crabs in Alaska. Not likely I’ll do it myself.”

  “Never a need to, boy.” Captain Bart patted his son’s shoulder. “Never a need.”

  Nothing was left but to throw off their lines from the pier. Hank watched the letters Aggie on the stern recede above the wake of the darkening brown-green water.

  As soon as the boat left, Captain Bart turned away and busied himself. Tom watched Hank until the boat rounded a spit and disappeared.

  20

  Honor

  BALTIMORE, DECEMBER 1983

  Hank considered his next day’s soreness laughable for an Alaska fisherman once hardened to thousand-pound king crab pots. He hurt from pelvis to neck. But he allowed no trace of the pain to show in his stance or walk.

  During the days of his stay in Baltimore, Christmas decorations had sprung up everywhere. “It’s so close, dear,” said his mother. “Call Jody and the children to come join us.”

  “Their plane fare would be our pleasure,” said his father.

  “We’ll decorate a tree again like old times. And the Hutzler’s Santa! Maybe Danielle and Henry have outgrown it, but little Pete would love him.”

  It troubled Hank to say no. The Christmas trip east two years before had been lovely despite the hassle with three squirming kids. But so many reasons. He tried to explain. His boat required him back. And their Christmas Day open house had already been committed. Not mentioned was Jody’s decision that the children’s school plays and their own social life took precedence for the next few Christmases; the holiday was one of the few periods when fishermen all came home and families could count on being together.

  John Gains had called while he was out oystering. Hank returned the call reluctantly—the man had nothing to nag about that couldn’t wait until his return—and was glad that John had left for the day. Growing in Hank was the need to face up to Tsurifune, whichever one, over their meddling with his command.

  Meanwhile, he took his father’s suggestion and drove to Washington for the congressional hearing. He’d not been there for nearly a decade, since testifying before the same Senate subcommittee during the fight to control the nation’s two hundred miles of seafloor. Awesome, he realized, how that eventual law, since it had gone into effect in 1977, had so dictated the turns of his career. Without it he’d still be fighting without recourse for a place on his own waters against Japanese and Russian factory ships—unless they’d fished it out for everyone by now—and the foreigners would still be looking down from high decks to thumb noses and toss rotten fish at little American boats below. Nor would the Japanese now have the need or interest to fund an American to catch Alaskan fish for their markets.

  Parking in Washington was the first problem. Even though there were vacant spaces, every street around the complex of Capitol Hill bore signs requiring a permit. He cruised the roads in a widening circle beyond the grandiose official buildings, past brownstone rowhouses at one end and museums at the other. Restrictions everywhere. How did these people manage? No wonder he’d moved his life from this part of the world! At last in exasperation he backed into a gap along a permit street across from one of the long white congressional buildings. Let them goddamn ticket him and he’d appeal it. Citizen’s right to see his government in action.

  The Senate committee hearing room was as large and ornate as he’d remembered. To reach it he traversed strangely empty marble corridors, and entered through high doors of heavy polished wood. A single senator, whose name Hank recognized from his nameplate (he came from somewhere in the Midwest), sat at the center of the dais flanked on either side by a half dozen empty chairs and corresponding nameplates. Behind him a busy woman handled papers. A man at a witness table faced the dais, and read from a document in a voice that droned with little inflection. Nine people sat scattered throughout the wide audience portion of the room. They all followed the talk from identical sheaves of papers. When the witness turned a page, the others turned one also to a collective rustle.

  Hank’s brown tweed jacket from the closet of his old room, and his once-favorite red wool tie with ducks in flight, contrasted with the uniform dark blue suits and tight-patterned silk ties of all the other men. The women’s dresses were equally dark and businesslike. He shrugged off the difference as he went up to receive a copy of the statement from the staff person, but he chose an isolated seat in a back corner.

  When he himself had testified before the same subcommittee in the same room, senators filled the entire dais and listened gravely, an audience had packed the place clear to standing along the walls, the list of witnesses filled two sheets, and stacks of printed statements cluttered several tables.

  Heady times! Everyone had felt the fate of the oceans to be at stake. Fishermen like himself had come from ports on both coasts to tell of foreign depredations on their gear within sight of their own towns. Bolstering the case were biologists who confirmed that several Atlantic and Pacific stocks had been overfished to depletion. A National Marine Fisheries inspector testified that by his direct observation the Soviet fleet fished three times the mackerel it reported. Nobody was neutral. But if you were an American fisherman you knew exactly where you stood. In the waiting rooms of influential congressmen, American lawyers hired by Japan and other countries waited their turn alongside stony-faced fishermen. Wise congressmen received constituent fishermen first, whatever else influenced their final vote.

  Only a few years before that time, it had seemed a bold step when the nation legislated control over sea resources within twelve miles of the coasts. Now two hundred-mile occupied the table, and only the Ford administration itself had dragged its feet. At hearings, others had stirred with resentment (and uneasy doubt) when State Department spokesmen warned against declaring two hundred-mile control because this would compromise high seas freedom elsewhere for the nation’s ships. Well, that warning hadn’t come to pass, Hank told himself. We were right.

  For fishermen it had been a time of bonding. Among those who came in groups to testify, Hank remembered late-night drinks and tales with men from Maine, New Bedford and Gloucester, from one of the Carolinas, from Eureka and Tillamook on the west coast, and plenty from Seattle. When his own de
legation of three from Alaska told of their boats crowded out by Japanese, Soviets, Koreans, Taiwanese, and even Poles, those from other regions grunted support.

  That Alaska three. How they’d strutted through the halls in a conscious costume of wool shirts and jeans, to the amusement of their sponsoring senator, Ted Stevens, and Alaska’s single representative, Don Young. It was exhilarating the way private office doors opened to them and reporters copied their words. Their indignation had been pure: a fight with a clear goal. He could hear Jones Henry still, seeing him off on the plane east, “Tell it, Hank! How the foreign fuckers rape our fish . . . don’t be afraid to say rape because it’s a fact!”

  “I will, Jones. I will.”

  And Hank remembered the little delegations of foreigners, especially, in retrospect, the anxious Japanese who stayed close to their lawyers. They were common enemy along with the remote State Department types. No shades of gray back then. The issues had been clear and clean.

  And now an audience of nine? With one senator of only junior authority and not even from a coast, listening with hand on chin, maybe asleep. And how was he himself honoring the great work of his time, or the legacy of Jones Henry? By creeping into the pocket of the very people they’d fought to remove from the fishing grounds!

  The hearing concerned amendments to the two hundred-mile law and to the 1980 Fisheries Promotion Act that had grown logically from it. Hank scanned through the pages of the statement being read. Nothing in it appeared relevant to him until, twenty pages further on, it recommended continuing foreign fishing quotas based on each nation’s cooperation with U.S. tariff laws. He still ached from his day on the water, a comfortable ache warmed by a good feeling for salty Captain Bart and restless Tom, so able with the shafts. They worked the water—not his version of it, but how they worked. He closed his eyes to wait for the reader to advance a few more pages.

  The staff woman shook him awake. “I think they want to lock the doors now.” The place was empty except for the two of them. He started to cover his embarrassment. “Don’t apologize. It’s all pretty boring without the full committee. This hearing was just to get some statements on the record before the year closes.”

  “With only one member listening?”

  “You don’t come here often, do you? We’ve been in recess since before Thanksgiving.” She gave him copies of some other statements that had been submitted for the record. Soon he was back wandering the empty corridors.

  Two hours after he had parked, he returned to his car for the drive home. The vehicle had been ticketed for illegal parking, and a steel boot locked one of the wheels. It took him another hour and a half to find the appropriate authority, take a taxi to the local police station to pay the fine, and wait for the boot to be removed. His outrage, over a citizen’s lost right to park close to his government in action, might as well have been voiced to the bare tree branches as to the cops who handled his case.

  He left his nation’s capital in a dark mood. Suddenly, he thought, how dared Tsurifune replace Terry, put in charge of the Puale Bay by the captain himself! And they had tried to shunt him to poor fishing grounds. By the time he reached home his anger was steaming in all directions.

  “You broke the rules and got caught,” said his father calmly during their evening drink. “Grow up, son. Parking over there would be a free-for-all without restrictions. I should have told you to take the train.”

  Hank calmed down and felt foolish. This East Coast wasn’t his place anymore, and the matters he needed to face waited elsewhere. After another few sips of highball, he felt detached enough to think out loud. “Question, Dad. You fought Japanese in the Pacific. How do you feel about them now?”

  “I’m realistic about it after all this time. I’ve done business with them when I needed to. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. We took in Tokyo on our world cruise year before last. Everybody was polite enough. You couldn’t guess behind those friendly faces what they’d pulled on us forty years ago. You’ve become pretty friendly with them, I judge.”

  “They make it easy with their hospitality. And I have to be realistic too. They just about own the fish trade, since fish is their food. You can bet they know it, though, how what they pay for fish dictates price clear to Alaska. So you don’t mind doing business with them?”

  “No. That war of my time’s history. Your generation thinks of Vietnam, and there was Korea in between, so still being a prisoner of my Jap-German war would just brand me. I have the choice of being history, or living as it comes.”

  The light had grown dim but neither moved to turn on the lamps. The senior Crawford cleared his throat. “Son, you know that when your mother phones her grandchildren she and Jody talk. Do the Japanese have you in their pocket?”

  Hank was glad for the dark. He swirled the ice in his glass, drank the last, and wished for more. “Maybe a little.”

  “For how much?”

  “Including my own boat, Jody Dawn, and my piece of the new longliner . . .” He decided to minimize. “Vicinity of a million.”

  “My Lord, son. I couldn’t help you make more than a dent in that, and still make sure your mother’s secure.”

  “I didn’t ask you to, Dad.”

  “But I think I woke one day in the hospital to hear you on the phone asking somebody in Alaska for money.”

  “Seth and I’ve fished together for fifteen years, Dad. It’s different. King crab once made that kind of money.”

  In the silence the ice clinked in his father’s glass. “At least you kept your other equities out of whatever you’ve signed. Your house.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “You fool!”

  It came like a blow. Hank could have been a boy again. His mouth went dry, but he tried to keep his voice even. “Nobody asked your help. We’ll manage. I’ve never asked for help.”

  The sudden change in mood was so abrupt it halted them both. At length his father said, “Go freshen our drinks, son.”

  Hank felt back in charge of himself. “The doctor said one a day, Dad.”

  “That was at the damn hospital.”

  “The bottle’s in the kitchen with Mom there. She guards the house.”

  “Get it anyway.”

  Hank complied. His mother stayed busy at the stove. She spoke only routine pleasantries, in a voice unusually careful, and made no objection when he poured. Had she been listening?

  His father reached out in the dark and their hands brushed before he located the glass. “Thanks.” Hank wanted to run, but he resumed his seat.

  “What about your children’s education?”

  “Alaska has a good public school system, Dad. It’s my time to take chances.”

  “Not with your family’s future.”

  “My life’s different from the one you made.”

  “I left nothing to chance for my one kid growing up, and you have three. My bride, of course, is now my first responsibility. I’ve made sure your mother will live in this house or anywhere else without financial worry. We’ve started a little trust fund for our grandchildren, but I didn’t think I’d need to worry about their future all the way.”

  “You don’t! Know that I can take care of myself.”

  “With a million in debt including your house? Working for yourself? We’ve just seen with me how close things can come. But, if I die tomorrow, my responsibilities are covered. You’ve nearly drowned twice that I know of, and what haven’t you told us? What kind of insurance do you have?”

  “Enough!” But he knew it wasn’t so; he had more insurance on the boat than for the family. Jody had taken the initiative on that issue, to save money, declaring that she’d always worked and would never need a damn widow’s pension. “Enough.”

  “I hope you’re right. My work’s had no physical danger. And it’s been with a company, for salary, earned up the ladder and saved step by step. Not always doing what I wanted, incidentally. I’ve never been in debt except for the mortgage on this house, with even
those payments carefully calculated. You’re swinging on a limb.”

  “My boat’s worth a million and a half. I have equity.”

  “Worth that since crab collapsed? With my son in the fish business, you know I keep up with the situation through my newsletters. Sure you’re not kidding yourself?”

  “I’m not.” Hank firmed his voice to mask unease. “That fish out there has a future.”

  “A hell of a gamble from where I sit.”

  “My business is a gamble beyond anything you know, Dad.” Hank snapped it, surprised at his own asperity. “It’s part of the life when your nets can come up full or empty. Jody and I are okay with that life. We chose it. There’s money in it when the time’s right. But the people who understand that gamble now are foreign, not Americans. The market for the things I catch is Japan. Sometimes it might get to be survival of the fittest, but I’m on top of things.”

  “Now I’ll be blunt again. We’ve had some notion of your problem with Jones Henry when you signed with the Japanese. Remember that, since our visits to Kodiak, your mother and Adele Henry phone each other now and then. What we don’t know is whether we should admire your independence, or worry for what it might do to you. Whatever your gamble, don’t forget you’re part of a community. Maybe I’m being conservative. But I’d caution you—don’t sell out your community. I don’t think you want to go it alone.”

  “Most people up there understand. They all have to adjust or go under. I was in danger of losing my boat. I just had to be realistic.” Hank felt the need to continue his point. “We’re all right, Jody and me. And the kids.” Saying the words dispelled his own doubt. But he realized that now he’d never be able, in pride, to ask his father for help, whatever happened.

  The clank of pots in the kitchen gave a normalcy that, at last, helped by the bourbon, calmed them both. Hank’s father apologized for his outburst and asked Hank to explain more about his relationship with the Japanese.