With no work required of him, Odds quietly disappeared into the Native community. Ever since his volunteer work on the little Orthodox church, doors in the village had opened to him and he had become, in fact, an unofficial courier between this congregation and the one in Kodiak.
Mo and Terry had energy to squander. Now closer friends since the punching incident, they took work together on the crab butchering line. They competed during the entire twelve-hour shift to see who was faster at pulling apart the big crustaceans. They needed to press the carapaces between a rigid apron each wore and a chest-high iron wedge, then grip the legs (avoiding the slow but vicelike claws) and snap out hands in opposite directions. The execution was messy but quick. Crab offal covered their faces, more than the other workers who knew that the job paid the same hourly wage whatever their speed. (The workers in any case lacked the stamina and spirit of men who enjoyed hefting heavy gear on a pitching deck.) The foreman soon realized he had a bargain. He assigned them their own bin when the others complained of the flying mess. But: “Hose your faces now and then,” he warned. “That shit can give you rash.”
As soon as the morning plane from Anchorage returned Hank from his costly stay, he headed for the cannery office with papers to release his boat. The route led past the butchering bins. Waving aside a bright “Yo!” from Mo and Terry, with a frown at purple-red rashes that covered their faces and arms, he told them to get the others wherever they were and prepare to sail. They called after him to watch something but he waved it aside and hurried on. The route took him between the steaming cookers that emitted odors of hot crab and ammonia, then through the shaker lines where rock music dinned around setfaced men and women who banged crab legs to extract the meat. He averted his eyes. The sight of his harvest creatures dismembered gave him no pleasure.
At the office while waiting for the marshal he burst through Swede’s door to vent himself. Swede must have seen him coming, and held out a shot of whiskey. Hank remained standing, started to gulp it, pushed it aside. “Did you hear what they did to me? That State Department bastard prolonged it up there on purpose.”
“The 6 A.M. flight cleared your head I see.”
“And that asshole John, sucking along with them. You might have pulled rank and told him to get lost.”
“Sit, Crawford. I mean it. Your boat can wait another ten minutes.” Swede walked over and locked his door. He had grown heavier over the years, no longer lean and darting. “Start with this and stick it in your craw. Your former deck ape John Gains is now my boss. The Japs take him regularly to Tokyo and they gave him corporate standing over there. He knows the game as if he’d invented it. Took courses in the language, all that, so in the top office they jabber along in Jap and leave me behind. Continue with this. He saved your Seth’s ass from jail.” Back at his desk he drank his own shotful, then Hank’s besides, and returned the bottle to the drawer. “The man’s not my friend. But he cashed in credits on this one. We had management around the table with State’s lawyer and the Jap embassy man, and our own Jap brass. Everybody who counted—I didn’t—wanted a crucifixion but Gains. You don’t shoot at Jap fishermen these days. Should have done it to Koreans, nobody jumps for them. You say Gains sucked? Damn hard he did, Jap ass, federal ass, to save your boy. The man’s a politician. Knows how to kiss. This time he did it for you.”
Hank slowly took a seat.
“You think our peanut farmer in the White House wants an international showdown over a few fish? Two months to election, with hostages in Teheran and Russians in Afghanistan to explain? Happy Japs, happy trade, that’s the State Department’s mission here, not some Alaskan yokel’s crab pots in the Bering Sea. You bet they slapped you. They meant to make your Jody Dawn the example to the fleet in case anybody else tried to be a hero. They’d planned double that fine, your boat impounded for the entire season, and jail for Seth, before your asshole John got sucking.”
Hank fingered his beard, sorry he’d given up the shot. “I’m stupider than I’d realized.”
“That’s news. You’re cannon fodder, Crawford. You’re nothing but Rosenkrantz and Guildenstem, to put it your educated way.” Swede produced the bottle again, and held it out with a raised eyebrow. He looked tired. Hank accepted. “If you haven’t been reading National Fisherman or listening to Jones—who’s prejudiced but has it clear—shall I tell you what’s happening?”
“Yeah. See if you can make me love it, to lose gear to Jap factory machines. To watch American boats scrape bags of shitfish to sell to Koreans.”
“Our famous two-hundred-mile law three years ago? It gave Americans all the fish and crab they could catch within the limits of sustaining healthy stocks.”
“Save your kindergarten. Don’t forget I went to Washington and helped lobby for that. I know all of it. And I know too fucking well how we gave in to State Department garks so they could give away the leftovers that we can’t catch. But to dodge foreigners on my own grounds the way I had to before the law? And now with no recourse! We’ve lost half of what we fought for.”
“Well, you do pay attention. You just don’t understand. King crab? Americans like you already controlled it, and you’ve siphoned more and more tanner crab each year to reduce the surplus there that foreigners might take. But the pollack! Those mighty schools of pollack out there we call groundfish, that crab-spoiled Americans like you think you’re too good to catch? They’re now the big poker chips. Diplomats trade ‘em for favors. Have you been so busy with new boat and babies and crabs that you find that news?”
“Just say your piece, Swede.”
“Well now, the ones who get front choice for the surplus groundfish are the ones who once made the biggest investment to rape us in the first place, since they also happen to be the most strategic. Russia in some waters, but around here especially Japan, as Jones Henry who fought at Guadalcanal will tell you five times a day. Korea and Taiwan are nothing but little brothers, we just throw them leftovers. That’s why Koreans play this joint venture business. They don’t have enough pollack quota themselves to keep their rusty factory ships pumping. They have to buy from American boats. There’s where joint ventures are good and you should be out there. You can make your mistakes in a new fishery at their expense.”
“The JV Americans I’ve talked to out there scrape dirt. They’re the ones losing, not the Koreans.”
“But the product’s there and it won’t always be loss. You seem ignorant of the stakes. They’re high. Fish by the million-ton. It’s true, pioneers up here sometimes make the first moves and lose out. Twenty years ago I did that as you know, but going broke didn’t kill me.” Swede poured two more shots, drank his, poured another, then put away the bottle. “The best pioneers with balls survive to run the new show.” He gulped the second shot, and added sourly: “Or the ones with luck. You have luck.”
Hank gripped his shot without drinking it, and looked toward the door. The place smelled of ammonia from the crab vats below. Time to be on the water. Did Swede routinely drink this much before noon? There had been talk of his wife leaving him or at least living a separate life in Seattle. The lines in Swede’s face, once leathery and sharp, had begun to puff. But his voice was focused as ever.
“JVs are the writing on the wall for foreigners. I’ll repeat. They’re the way for Americans to gear up and learn to handle groundfish without waiting for a domestic market that doesn’t exist. Pollack in factory quantities makes fish paste, not an American product.” Swede tapped his glass on the desk. “But it’s money, Crawford, money in Asia. Start watching our Japanese brothers. They play a busy game. I’d say they’re winning. To start, they have enough fish quota from Jimmy’s State Department to fill their motherships, so they have nothing to do with joint ventures. Why help Americans learn to catch more of the fish they think they own, when they have the quota from us to catch it themselves? The more Americans find ways to catch, the more the Japs lose. Is that news to you?”
“I’ve been putting it to
gether a different way.”
“There’s a game in progress. Russia’s invested in JVs, but since they invaded Afghanistan, Carter’s trying to freeze any fish quotas they’ve counted on from us. It’s easy politics. Very popular. Forget that, from what I hear, the Russians have dealt honorably with American boats delivering to them off Oregon and Washington. The Koreans up here don’t have the same good reputation. Some say they’re trying to make their JVs fail, after which they might capture more quota. Bet on it, they and our Jap brothers are licking their lips at the prospect of that quota that Russia might lose, because somebody else will get it and they’re the likely somebody.
“And the game continues. Our own company, the Jap-owned company I work for that used to be American, which indirectly you can thank for that drink you’re holding, wallows in yen and plots to set up a groundfish plant here in Dutch Harbor in case Americans like you finally decide to gear for groundfish and push them off the grounds. You see how they’ve already bought into the king crabs they no longer catch here because Americans can take them all? They buy them from you and make the larger profit on the processing. We Japs—I’m one of ‘em now—we’re smart enough to cover ourselves however it blows. You going to drink that shot or not? Here, I’ll take it.”
Hank gulped the whiskey to avoid handing it over, and rose.
“To be fair, pollack die of old age like everything else. They might as well be caught for somebody’s food. It’s up to Americans to cash in. Some are interested. There’s money from places besides Asia, like Christiana Bank in Oslo, to encourage building so-called American factory ships. The great international game here is no longer crab. Remember I warned you to get ready for groundfish?”
“Okay, okay, I took your advice and put extra power on Jody Dawn. But my guys hate the idea.”
Swede held up his hand. “Since when does your crew jerk you around? Spare me excuses. Go. Get out. It’s crab time. Boats are coming in plugged. Go catch your share.”
Walking in a chilly dream, Hank took time to buy a bottle of the best Scotch ($115 at Dutch Harbor prices) and called on John Gains. The man now lodged in an office guarded by a secretary, reached through a private entrance and removed from the processing noise and smells. The secretary announced him, then pointed to a chair. Fifteen minutes later, biting back resentment, Hank had begun to write a note when John came from his office with an impersonal “Yes, uh, Hank?” Everything about him was in place from shined shoes to narrow tie knotted close to the neck.
“I understand Seth and I have reason to thank you.”
Faintest of smiles. “Call it shipmates.” He refused the bottle. “Thanks, but that’s unnecessary. Excuse me, a meeting’s in progress. Wish I could talk. Try another time. An appointment’s best. Hope your luck improves.” At the door he turned. “Incidentally, the Kashima Maru has moved its fleet to another area. They don’t want gear conflicts any more than you do.”
Hank left, unsatisfied and tense. He passed back through the plant. Mo and Terry still worked the butchering line. “Didn’t I tell you we’re going?” he exploded.
“Easy Boss,” said Terry. “We sent the word to Odds and Seth. But we got to wait for the nurse back from lunch to give us enough salve for a week out there. This crab shit’s bad for the skin.”
“And now, Boss,” declared Mo, “we want you to just watch for a minute. It’s a bet we got riding. Which of us you think tears apart a crab cleanest? Just watch.”
“That’s no business of mine!” Hank shouted as he strode away. “Get to the boat if you want to crew for me.”
“Ahh Boss, we’ll be there,” called Terry. “Little surprise waiting for you.”
When Hank reached the Jody Dawn, indeed, his load of pots filled the deck three tiers high, more than he thought they still owned.
Seth, alone on the Jody Dawn, had heard a thump on deck a week before. He looked out to see a crewman from the Midnight Sun securing his boat alongside. As Seth watched, the Sun’s crane began to swing crab pots over, and its crew quietly lashed them to those on the Jody Dawn’s deck.
Amie Larsen worked the controls from his bridge. “Hey,” called Seth, “you think we’re a barge or something?”
“Get your ass on deck and give a hand. Then maybe we take you for target practice so you get one or two in the head next time instead of a fuckin’ arm and hose, eh?” A Norwegian “har-har” followed. The Midnight Sun donated seventeen pots.
Tolly’s boat followed. “Give me the fuckin’ slip, would you?” he called gaily. “Well, we didn’t know you was going to a Jap shootout or we’d have followed harder. You are some fucker, man. We love you.” He donated fifteen pots, and announced: “We got a secret receiver in one of ‘em. Gives us your position wherever you go. You figure out which. But first we got to six-pack you, man.”
Seth shook his head. It turned out, in fact, that Seth had become the hero of the fleet. Others came down to urge him ashore for toasts. He refused them all.
Four other boats had donated an approximate dozen pots each. The Jody Dawn needed only to change markings on the buoys. Seth had spent his time doing it.
Meanwhile, at the Elbow Room, the landmark drinking hole (“too near the church, really bad,” observed Odds, who looked away whenever he passed the busy door), a box appeared on the bar labeled “Jody Dawn.” It did not collect quarters like most donation boxes, but fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. By the time Hank put to sea again, a fifth of his fine had been collected.
10
NIGHTRIDE
BERING SEA AND ANCHORAGE, NOVEMBER 1980
Hank had barely found the crab again before Terry’s gurry rash crept into his eyes and Mo’s rash began to suppurate over his face. It was necessary to take them back to Dutch Harbor—sheepish and apologetic but frightened—for medevac to Anchorage.
Hank hired replacements from a dozen hopefuls living in tents and shacks who, once radio word had traveled, waited to catch his lines at the pier. The two newcomers needed breaking in despite their enthusiasm. They tried doggedly to keep up with Seth and Odds, but lacked the stamina. Meanwhile, Seth’s splintered finger slowed him for jobs like coiling. Hank tensely controlled his need to push. Stupid injuries on board would affect insurance and rob them further of time on the grounds. They fished more slowly and delivered less crab.
Mo and Terry had returned from the hospital in time for the eight-inch season around Egg Island. The greenhorns were toughened by then, but they still ran continually weary under Hank’s drive. Yet with experience gained they could now barter a berth on an easier boat, and they seemed relieved to go. Hank’s team was intact again. They fished to their endurance limit. With half the king crab season lost or compromised, season’s highliner was a gone dream, merely catching up the reality.
They had fished three days around Egg Island with no more than four hours’ sleep a night, and Hank himself, ever plotting to outwit the crabs, had slept only one hour in the past thirty. Suddenly both the VHF and the sideband channels paged him urgently, Swede on one and John Gains on the other. Gains made contact first. “Come to port immediately, prepared for flight to Anchorage.” And from Swede moments later: “Hank, your kid’s in the Anchorage hospital. I’ll have a car dockside. They’ll hold the afternoon flight as long as they can.”
“Which one? Which one? How serious?”
“Don’t know any of this. Sorry. Sorry.”
It was two-year-old Pete.
With enough rooms in the new house finished and Hank’s income diminished, Jody had moved there a month before to save money rather than renew the lease on the rented place in town. It made mornings hectic. Three children needed to be readied for nursery school or daycare before starting the long drive to town over roads that were unpaved in places. An hour’s commute in dry weather, it became twice that if rain slicked the potholes and flooded the creeks. Often she was late to work, eventually with more a scowl than an apology. Her co-worker Marge, divorced from a fisherman but hanging o
n in Kodiak rather than returning to Omaha, understood, stayed ready (eager!) to commiserate although Jody seldom complained openly, and privately wondered how long before Jody said to hell with it and left the boat-kissing jerk. By now Adele and Jones Henry had moved south for the winter, so that no eager Aunt Adele waited to take the children.
On Fridays Jody gathered the children with grim relief, bought them all hamburgers and ice cream for dinner—it had become a scheduled treat—then drove the potholed distance from town and shut herself in for the weekend. She now declined weekend commitments, whether parties or council affairs beyond official duty. The logistics of moving the entourage had become too great. On the other hand, the new place had a great peace about it, even beauty. The children were developing personalities she could enjoy, and they roamed without danger as long as they stayed away from the water. Five-year-old Henny’s first challenge to her authority in that direction was announced by Dawn’s shrill call. Jody found him waist-deep in the water looking for a special rock. The resultant walloping turned so severe that even Dawn, who had begun watching the punishment with complacent satisfaction, started crying in sympathy. Although a year younger than her brother, she grabbed any chance to take charge.
So when, at the end of a November Friday with the day rainy and already dark, Pete seemed listless and pushed away half of his hamburger, Jody paid less attention than she would have with her first child. The dark had glummed them all. During the long drive home through the rain, Dawn started a fight with Henny over whether a book cover was more red or orange, and then over who missed Auntie Adele most. Since Dawn had already learned to write simple words better than her brother she had the upper hand. By the back light in the wagon she crayoned in big letters “book to red” (she’d originally chosen that color for argument because she hadn’t learned to spell orange), and regarding Adele: “I me do,” then announced: “There, see, that proves I’m right.” Henny responded defensively, annoyed that letters still refused to form words for him. Jody, who had a headache, snapped, “Each in your comer and quiet” Her tone settled the matter and they retreated to opposite sides.
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