“Boss, you better get up here,” called Mo.
A rubber-sided skiff headed toward them. The Korean ship had stopped not far from the Jody Dawn, and the cutter lay-to close by. Mo reported, amazed with admiration, that the Coast Guard had fired a flare and then a shot. “And that gook boat, when it shut down, it made a backwash that threw three more of their fish on our deck. Boss, you should have been here. Seth sure told ‘em. He okay?”
“Finest. Terry and Odds, go catch that Zodiac’s line.”
The Coast Guard officer in the Zodiac jumped aboard to examine the jettisoned black cod. The fish had clear hook marks in their mouths, and one had a tom side. The exposed meat was bright red, a dramatic contrast to the shining black skin. “Pretty fish,” said the officer. “Bad eating except smoked they say. Asians eat anything.” The officer invited Hank to witness the boarding and give his statement to Fisheries firsthand.
“Don’t let ‘em poison you, Boss,” called Seth lustily, now back to himself, as Hank rode away in the Zodiac. “Don’t let them gooks feed you black fish.”
Hank sat in the rubber-sided skiff, but stood when he saw that the coxswain, crewman, and officer all remained upright facing slaps of cold spray. It was more fun. Water beaded on the fabric of their orange waterproof coveralls and cascaded down his oilskins. He licked salt from his lips. Cleansing, to ride over water and bring an enemy to justice.
The high Korean hull, deadly minutes before, loomed as a wall of layered brown and yellow rust. The coxswain dodged a bolus of sludge that popped from a scupper. Hank looked up sternly into flat anxious faces at the rail. Sweat it, boys, he thought with satisfaction. Water surged at the Jacob’s ladder. He waited until the Zodiac rode a crest, jumped to the rungs, and scampered up before the next surge crested. Even the ladder was slimy. A Korean at the rail leaned down to help him with a pull under the arm. Hank shook it off and easily finished the climb. The Korean, in a hard hat, bowed and attempted a smile. Hank nodded curtly.
Orange Coast Guard figures moved over the deck and above on the bridge. Hank followed the officer through mottled green passageways that smelled sourly of cabbage, garlic, and old fish. His wool cap brushed the overhead and he ducked to go through a doorway. The fish stink deepened two decks below in a wide, dark space with a ceiling so low he needed to bend. Chilly wind and laps of spray blew through an open bay, probably the bay he’d seen drawing in the longline laden with fish. A half dozen Koreans near a bin of line and hooks bobbed with tentative smiles. Fish chunks clung to their thick mbber clothing.
“Caught them dumping a tub of bait through the scuppers,” said a young American with a sandy mustache, whom the officer introduced as a Fisheries inspector. “Look at the fresh scraps on those hooks. We got ‘em redhanded and they know it.” It was the metallic crumminess of the place that impressed Hank. He kicked pieces of fish with his boot. Expect rust, but didn’t they ever scrub and hose? The inspector lowered the flaps of his fur cap, pulled on thick gloves, and squeezed through a hatch onto a frosty ladder. The sound of thumps came from below him. Hank peered down at orange figures throwing stiff frozen fish like cordwood from a stack. The inspector grinned. “I’m here for hours. Not just black cod. Halibut, the poor stupes. Fishing a closed zone for stuff otherwise legal, but packing illegal fish besides. Got their ass this time.”
Hank followed the officer up decks through a dim galley (Koreans at tables glanced anxiously—sour cabbage smell especially here), to the wheelhouse. Stifling wheelhouse heat: at least forty degrees hotter than the passageways. The Americans had shed their float coveralls. An older inspector in civvies leaned over the chart table copying data from logbooks. An officer in khaki with lieutenant’s bars on his collar stood questioning the captain, a round Korean of middle age with a large purple birthmark on his face. Both were polite. The Korean smiled often, once even giggled. He answered in English so slurred and broken, in such a low voice, that the lieutenant needed to ask often for repeats.
Hank wrote his report, glancing occasionally through the window at his new crabber and Tolly’s equally fine boat rolling alongside. Seas rose as it grew dark. Time to return to their own business. The black cod these people poached were handsome fish, a kind satisfying to catch. Had anybody tried to eat them fresh before declaring them too oily for Americans? He’d seen and eaten stranger stuff in Vietnam, some of it laughable in the later telling, but some not bad. Maybe there was no need to give these quotas to foreigners.
Suddenly the Korean captain thumped to his knees. He bowed his head, clutched the lieutenant’s legs, and began to cry. “Prease, no report, no arrest. In home Pusan I will prison.” He struck his fist against his kidneys and then toward his teeth. “Will beating. Prease prease.”
The lieutenant, a man in his late twenties, backed away. “It’s done, fellow. Pull it together.”
“Prease prease!” The purple birthmark, a swatch from temple to check, turned almost black.
The lieutenant’s face flushed. He turned to Hank and the inspector. “I can’t do anything. Somebody tell this guy.”
As quickly as he had kneeled, the Korean rose and continued the interview, but with eerie calm. Hank watched, stunned. When the lieutenant thanked him for reporting the poacher he avoided the Korean’s eyes, and quickly accepted a ride back to the Jody Dawn. Cold salt washed his face on the way, but he shivered not from the chill. Beaten for stealing fish that should be God’s bounty? The man had known his risk of course. He shrugged off Seth’s glee, and parried Tolly’s queries on the CB except to say: “They were fishing all right.” He remembered wary peasant eyes peering from comers of thatch when his Mekong River patrol beached at a Vietnamese village for questions. He was the intruder with his men—a scared but cool young ensign in power and sharpened for ambush. Obeying the rules of war, knowing he endangered such villagers if the Viet Cong took control, but under duty. Hapless people who might still be paying for their hospitality to the Americans who frightened them. He welcomed rough weather as they beat toward Kodiak. It kept him focused on the immediate.
7
CRAB HEAVEN
KODIAK, SEPTEMBER 1978
Sun shone on the green of Pillar Mountain as they steamed into Kodiak harbor. It was a rare blue-sky morning in early September. Steam poured from the fish plants along the Narrows where once, fourteen years before, he and Jones had survived the earthquake and tidal wave that had swept them like toys. He and Tolly tooted gaily when they entered the breakwater. Hank had reached Peggy Dyson, the Kodiak fisherman’s wife committed to daily weather broadcasts, during her evening roundup the night before to tell Jody of their arrival. He searched the small group at the slip through binoculars, anticipation rising. His own dad and mother held the children’s hands; nice, they’d made it! Jones but no Adele. Jennifer, Tolly’s squeeze. They looked grave. Where was Jody? He nearly banged the pier in mooring, called for Seth to shut the engine, and leaped down. “Jody?” Henny climbed over him and Dawn clutched his leg. His mother in tears hugged him, “Go with Mr. Henry,” she said, and collected the children. His father trailed up the ramp, patting Hank’s shoulder.
Jody had started labor. Adele was with her. The men had no further details. “Nice boat,” said Jones. “Too big for me.”
“Is she having trouble?”
“Count on women to pull long faces.”
His father started telling him about their long flight from Baltimore. Hank barely listened. As the car climbed the hill at Rezanof he blankly watched the blue-domed Russian church and the canneries and water below. Dust swirled. What could life be without her?
He ran from the car to the hospital door, and interrupted a Native couple at the desk to demand: “Mrs. Crawford, where?”
“You’re behaving like Mr. Crawford,” said the nurse calmly. “You’ve got papers to sign.”
He grabbed them, fearing to see the word Death. All he saw was Maternity. “How is she? Where?”
“You fishermen daddies are so alike. Nev
er there on time, then so agitated.” She smiled. “It’s a boy, Mr. Crawford. Congratulations. Now wait your turn.”
“IS MY WIFE OKAY?”
“Tired, I should think.”
At last he stood by her bed and choked as he bent to hug her. She lay with lidded eyes, her hair sweat-tangled on the pillow. Adele bustled beside him, crying also.
“For Christ’s sake, you two,” muttered Jody. “I did all the work.” She laughed weakly. It sounded hoarse. “Now Dawn and I have to put up with another penis in the house.”
A girl would have pleased him too, but a son was so good! He hugged the warm, fretting bundle, carefully brushed a cheek against the precious small head to avoid scratching with his beard, and fingered fists that had the sturdy delicacy of paper clips. He and Jody had discussed names for boy or girl: now they’d escaped the diplomatic tangle over hints to name a girl after his mother or Adele. “Does Peter still sound good to you, honey? After your dad?”
“As long as that’s Peter the Final.” She fell asleep.
Hank danced with his bundle. “Hey Pete, Petey fella, Mr. Pete, Mr. Pete, Mr. Pete.” He hid tears as best he could from Adele at the window and the men peeking by the door.
“I’ll have that back,” said a nurse. “Now all of you clear out.” Hank relinquished his son after a hug, then kissed Jody gently.
Two days later when Jody came home and he could act unchallenged by nurses, he unwrapped the bundle, enjoying its soft skin, and tucked the infant inside his shirt against his bare chest. The warm creature snuggled, animal to animal.
“Hank dear, what on earth are you doing to that child?” said his mother, amused.
“Little critters like warmth. He’s my little critter.”
“Don’t you let him slide,” warned Adele.
A droobling sound. Hank grimaced, but kept the baby in place long enough to show it didn’t matter. Adele noticed, and whispered the news to his mother and to Jody in bed. The women watched while talking with pointed nonchalance. “Well,” said Hank after five minutes, “That’s enough for now, Pete.” He bent over the crib. “Down you go, Mr. Honey.”
Jody laughed her throaty laugh. “Not so fast, Big Daddy. It happened on your watch. Change your critter.” Caught, he did. The three women enjoyed the sight, and joined together in making unflattering comments on his diaper technique around kicking little legs.
Tolly and Seth had winked, waving bottles, but the presence of his parents kept Hank from going on a fisherman’s bash for new son and boat. At home he shared cigars and bourbon with his dad while his mother took her fill of the children. (Henny and Dawn found her a novelty easier to manipulate than even Adele.) The senior Henry Crawford soon shed his tweed jacket and silk tie for a red-and-black checked wool shirt, but he remained a studied East Coast version of roughing it. The effort endeared him to Hank, as did the rural scarf with which his mom garnished her tailored suit, all protected by a bright flowered apron when she pitched in to nurse or clean. Better than emulating Adele’s lime green slacks, Hank thought.
But Jody Dawn did have to be christened. With Tolly’s Star Wars Two tied alongside they made it a double affair. Tolly had groused since arriving over the need to hurry westward and stake out grounds, but with his girlfriend’s attentions, and the glory of the captured Korean longliner brought to the Coast Guard base drawing reporters even from the Wall Street Journal, he lingered. Jody recovered with amazing speed. Three days after leaving the hospital she sat on the Jody Dawn’s main deck, sipping only a diluted Scotch since she was nursing, while the party whirled around her. Hank had brought a padded chair from Jones’s house in the pickup truck, then with Mo cross-hand carried her aboard to general cheers. Adele and Mother Crawford both stayed home, so she had no need to worry about her children until time to nurse again.
Many toasts hailed the capture of the Korean longliner. Jones declared over and over, his arms around Hank and Tolly, that it took good American fishermen to track down the foreign buggers. Tolly expounded on the capture to anyone who asked. Jennifer, snuggled against his side, enjoyed the focus as much as he. Mo, and Tolly’s crewman Ham, now buddies ashore after their July 4th boxing match, formed another chest-puffing center of attention, surrounded by more females than their own girlfriends of the moment. Hank avoided the subject and gave only curt answers. Reporters in town had found him equally taciturn.
On deck, the senior Crawford insisted that water would be fine with his bourbon, but gladly used the soda that Hank, when he thought of it, dispatched Terry to buy. Hank was pleased that his dad, while losing no poise, conversed with fishermen as if he cared about and enjoyed them. They in turn relaxed with him. Jones—after silently inspecting the boat’s every compartment (as did Tolly)—challenged Crawford senior on the deficiencies of President Carter, assuming that anybody from the East endorsed the fellow and his wishy-wash. But the two agreed, the one with salty denunciation and the other in resigned humor. The fact that Alaskan decks and East Coast offices were worlds apart had never bothered Hank; their common ground surprised him. He might be more of a piece than he’d imagined. On an impulse he strode to his dad and hugged him. The older man lightly hugged him back, not comfortable, but with eyes warmly affection-
No one at the party except the new crewman Odds turned aggressively drunk in the old way of Ivan. Hank watched quietly. Was it the half-Aleut blood, proof that Natives couldn’t hold liquor? Ivan, rest his dogged noble soul, also shared that mix, but Steve had been there to intercept. Maybe, while avoiding another asshole deckhand like John, he’d made a different mistake.
By seven, Jody’s eyes had lost vitality. She declared fatigue but insisted he stay. Seth and Mo, solemn in their mission, carried her over the gangway to the truck. Hank’s father frowned at him for staying (but then there had been parental disapproval all around for bringing her down), and followed to drive while the crewmen rode in back. Tolly and his men noisily returned to their boat, shooed off remaining revelers, and a half hour later left their slip with whistles and shouts, bound for the Bering Sea.
Hank told Odds to get home to his wife and refused him more drink. Odds, normally quiet and obedient, picked up a hammer scowling. Before he could advance, Terry darted to snatch it. Odds turned on him fiercely, then grunted and lumbered off the boat. It quashed the party. Soon even Jones had left with his crew.
Hank leaned against the stack of crab pots, not drunk but not sober. Should he sack Odds and hire someone less known so close to departure? Terry brought coffee, and quipped happily that it had been some party. He shrugged off the incident with Odds. “He works good and hard. Don’t worry. I’ll look out for him.” Hank studied the short, husky youth and nodded. That strength and cheer might do it.
Late light streaked the sky and burned orange on masts and hillside houses. No vessel of the Jody Dawn’s size remained in the harbor: all gone westward where he should be, to waters rough and lonely a hundred miles from land. One of the old wooden halibut schooners, then another, glided into harbor past the breakwater. End of a halibut opening. Young men stood on the schooner decks in seasoned oilskins, bearded but not seasoned in face like the gloomy old Norwegians of his own apprenticeship who grew scarcer with the passage of time. All of that history. He’d participated in its course. Now he charted history of his own. The thought made him weary.
Across on the next pier Jones and his men, now in coveralls, thumped around their limit seiner. Machinery whined on other boats of the salmon fleet, and men called out as they removed power blocks and installed pot haulers for king crab season. Soon they’d all steam a mere few hours down the island to grounds within sight of the mountains and a quick run into lovely, sheltered bays. Home every week or so. Why hadn’t he stayed like that? Now he’d invested too heavily to remain small. And was leaving Jody behind.
“Can’t wait to get back out there,” said Terry. “Put those big pots to work, you know? Slingin’ them big ol’ keepers.”
“Finest.” A pause
. “You never speak of your wife, Terry.”
“Oh. Well, we’re like separated. You know what it is when you go fishing. Sometimes a woman—not yours, you lucky—they don’t understand. When you fish you never think of them all the time. You just can’t ‘cause you’re not there, you got to worry about the boat. They don’t understand.”
“Yes, well, you’re right, Jody does understand. She fished herself before the kids came along.”
“You see? Now my old lady, my ex I guess, you’d think in Tillamook where she grew up—both of us grew up there right on the coast of Oregon—you’d think like with the boats and all the men fishing, she’d know.”
At home that night Hank was markedly affectionate. With kids asleep and parents gone to the inn, he lay holding her in bed. They kissed and snuggled. No toughness or banter. “I’m so glad you’re my wife.”
“I’m glad too.”
Don’t ever leave me, he thought, but dared not put it into words. What had he done, to commit to a monster boat that would keep them apart even more than before?
His dad echoed that thought next day in private as Hank packed his sea bag. “This doesn’t seem a good time for you to go fishing, son.” Hank explained that when the king crab season opened on September 10 it was grabs during only the limit of the opening. This was the money to pay off Jody Dawn, money at a level unmatched during the year, the money on which the banks predicated their big boat loans. Not just to him. All would be there fighting. A day missed could cost thousands. The harder you fished, the more boat you owned when the season closed. That simple. “I see,” said his father, and he did.
His mother wondered more openly as she burped little Pete and the two children competed for Hank’s legs and attention. “Really, Hank, your duty’s with your family right now. It was bad enough to have you gone when Jody delivered. You might have planned that better although it’s not for me to say.” She walked over and patted his arm. Her hands were developing big brown discolorations. “Time with your family’s so precious. It goes so fast. Take your boat out some other time, dear.” Both Jody and Adele laughed, and explained, but she shook her head. Hank listened gloomily, grateful for Jody’s support. He left the room as soon as he could.
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