Breakers

by William B. McCIoskey Jr.

  “You standing in my way?”

  “I’m telling you!”

  Others intervened. Voices called for the vote on fifty cents. Sam at the lectern tried to state his case further, but finally acceded. Someone called the men milling outside. Shoulders of damp wool and slicker rubbed closer as others crowded in.

  A familiar grating voice cut through the noise. “Throw those men out. They’re spies!” It was Jones Henry, just entered, his arm pointing at Hank like a shot. The noise quieted. Eyes turned toward Hank. Jones’s face worked. “Don’t you check members at the door? Those men are spies for the Jap-controlled management!”

  Jones’s crewman Ham towered behind him, scowling to match. His broad young face, usually open and friendly, had become as mask-frozen as a cop’s or soldier’s on duty.

  Hank caught his breath, but kept his face expressionless. The awful scene continued dreamlike.

  “Hold on, this man’s invited by me,” declared Chris Speccio, stepping forward from a wall. “He’s maybe no member but he’s fished with us and he’s okay. A fisherman. I don’t remember seeing you here before, though, mister.”

  “Fished here under sail before you were bom, so I don’t need your shit when I say these men are spies. The Japs own the boat he’s tendering, they bought him out. So shut up.”

  Chris clenched fists and tried to move toward Jones, but the press was too great. “I fished here twenny years, mister, and you’re a stranger whatever you once did, so don’t give me no shit either.”

  “Hold it,” called the man at the lectern. “I was about to clear the hall of anybody not a voting member, and that’s what I’m doing now.” To Hank: “Ask you to leave.”

  “Of course,” said Hank. “Just let us through.” Keep neutral face, he told himself. His whole being felt hollow.

  Men around him, some whom he knew, made way against each other. “Tell your bosses,” said one, “that nobody here’s going wet until we get eighty cents minimum.”

  Hank stopped to face him. “You won’t get that this year,” he said quietly. “That’s the truth, not management crap.”

  “You are on their side!”

  “You hear that?” cried Jones. “He’s sold out worse than any scab. That man in here’s a rotten apple!”

  Hank controlled outrage as he walked toward the only exit, where Jones stood. Beside him Mo rumbled: “Boss, he hadn’t ought to talked to you like that. Don’t worry. Nobody’s goin’ to hurt you while I’m here.” Hank half-turned. “Cool down.”

  “We’re all behind you,” said Seth calmly. “Let any fucker try anything.” At the front a discussion began over whether the vote should be by open or secret ballot or by show of hands, and the focus shifted from Hank’s departure.

  Hank tried to brush past Jones at the entrance, but Jones faced him. “Canal to Iwo taught me things.”

  “You’ve taken this too far. Calm down.”

  “Yeah,” said Ham with a twist to his voice. “Guam and Iwo. Some people who don’t listen are ignorant. You got to tell them over and over.”

  Suddenly Mo’s face pressed against Ham’s. “You shut up.” The two stood at equal height.

  “Make me.”

  Mo punched hard enough to stagger Ham against Jones and others. Ham recovered with a flying jab that Mo, prepared, dodged and deflected with his elbow. The two scuffled, bumped against others, soon rolled against boots and brogans exchanging blows.

  Hank tried to pull Mo back, while Seth and Terry leapt to control Ham, but neither fighter separated. A kick in the stomach landed Terry doubled up against legs. Jones watched with a tight smile, making no attempt to intervene. Others finally separated the two, glaring and spitting blood. Mud and cigarette butts covered their clothes.

  “Get it fuckin’ straight,” panted Mo in his deep voice. “No shittin’ on my skipper.”

  “Don’t give me fuck about your skipper.”

  Terry slowly straightened and sat up. “You’re some kicker.”

  Ham turned. “That was you, Terry? Sorry. You okay?” His cheek bled enough to drip on his jacket and redden one of the butts that clung to it.

  The fight had blocked part of the entrance, but the meeting was too noisy to be interrupted. “I reckon,” said Jones calmly, “that we’ll go in now and vote. Against the Japs and Jap-kisser. You in shape, Ham?”

  “In plenty shape, Skipper.”

  Hank gripped Jones’s shoulders while tightening his stomach against the opening he’d left. “Jones. Stop this craziness. We’ve been friends too long for this. I. . . care for you, man.”

  “Let go.” Jones turned into the crowd. Ham looked back at Mo, hesitated, then followed.

  Hank and his men walked slowly back to the road and uphill to a dark bar in the village center. It had been emptied by the meeting. He bought them shots (except for Mo who asked for beer, Coke, and water at once and gulped them indiscriminately), and secured ice for Mo’s jaw and knuckles. They drank without savor. Terry attempted to describe the fight as a joke to their advantage, but the effort died. After another beer wolfed with jerky and peanuts Mo declared he felt good, and they walked glumly outside.

  Hank remained numb. Just accept it, he thought. Decision’s been made. It wasn’t dishonorable.

  High weeds surrounded a cluster of houses with rusty corrugated roofs, but a painted fence enclosed a clipped graveyard and church. The church had a plywood onion dome, painted not long before, and a bell on girders mounted by the door. Most of the double-hatched Russian crosses stood straight although some sagged in the wet ground. Artificial flowers draped on the crosses ranged from newly garish colors to weathered chemical reds and blues.

  “Looks like people up here do more with theirselves than just fish in July,” observed Terry. “Remember ol’ Odds? Odds, he liked to fix them little Russian churches, so this would make him happy except nothing to fix.” Nobody answered.

  Gray clouds reflected on the river below and on the multiple roofs of cannery complexes flanking either shore. Each cannery looked larger and better kept than the village itself. Rising tide had begun to swallow exposed humps of mud, and the predatory gulls had dispersed. Hank finally felt he could end the walk and escape to his boat. “We’ll float soon. Time to go back.”

  They followed Hank back downhill to the truck. Raised voices punctuated by shouts came from the direction of the meeting hall. Jack Simmons and a few others hurried into view from the path.

  “How did the vote go?” called Hank.

  The men stopped and eyed him cautiously. “You going back to Swede’s cannery?”

  “Come aboard if you want.”

  As they climbed into the open back of the truck: “Don’t do it!” shouted someone who had followed them. Hank jerked the engine into gear and started off.

  Stones and mud clots thumped on the cab. “Fuckin’ scabs!” Hank looked back. His riders had hunched down. Their expressions were tight and far away. Jack buried his face in his hands.

  19

  STRIKEBROKE

  BRISTOL BAY, 2-3 JULY 1982

  Sockeyes now frothed into the Naknek/Kvichak river system, and reports confirmed the same volume farther north in the Nushagak system off Dillingham. Union boats remained dry. The men ashore smoked and paced their cramped decks, or, between meetings and votes, they gathered in front of stores to discuss and rationalize or, if they could afford it, drank too much.

  Out on the water a spooky quiet prevailed. The usual easy chatter on open radio bands had become cautious quick messages, sometimes so elaborately coded that the speakers themselves acknowledged without humor that they’d lost track. The lights of tenders and processor ships glowed day and night so no strike-breaking fisherman who chose to deliver could miss them. Hank was committed to paying fifty cents although cash buyers with “60” or more scrawled on banners cruised the edges. The latter boats maneuvered to provide a side concealed from binoculars (including Hank’s) to shield skippers, committed to companies, who risked d
elivering for the higher price in bills paid them hand-to-hand on the spot.

  “Who’s that delivering for cash, Boss?” asked Mo.

  “Can’t make it out,” although he had seen indeed.

  On the beach was Jody with his children, working for some set-holder named Joe Penn. Fish and Game marked the location for him—had given him a UHF band to call. Nobody ever answered. It was miles from his anchored position.

  Mo, aching still from his fight with Ham, walked both in a kind of peace for duty done and in gloom for the buddy he might have lost. Terry had inked little skulls on the tape that patched his cracked knuckle. But boredom ruled life aboard the anchored Jody Dawn. Seth turned snappish. Even Terry’s attempts at humor irritated him. When a boat came to deliver—usually in the time of most reliable dark between 11 and 1 A.M., or at least during fog or heavy rain—they all leapt to deck grateful for the action.

  Aboard the boxcarlike tender Orion, when Hank pulled alongside for food he’d forgotten to stock: “Where’s that pretty lady your wife?” It was Doke the old engineer. It might have been the identical greasy coveralls that hung by a strap, but in four years fat had sagged his face further to the sad-eye of a sleepy hound. “Wish I could say the crew Swede sent me this year’s more respectful than yours. Course yours had Johnny Gains, that’s a man made something of himself.”

  The factory freezer ship they served, Dora, radioed often to see if they had fish. “I’ve got a whole classroom of college kids signed up to get rich,” mourned Dave the captain. “Playing cards and worse while they eat my food. And little Jap egg men—uh, Japanese egg men, hello Mr. Fukuhara—mooning to themselves in a comer.”

  Without question those gillnetters who broke ranks had tapped a thick run of fish. Hank and his men watched wistfully while sockeyes grand as footballs—still silver although crosshatched with bloody net-marks—sluiced from brailers and thumped into their hold. But no one showed the spirit that usually accompanied big catches. Few even bought supplies. Especially ignored were the comfort foods that men in other years bought massively as soon as they made money.

  When Jack Simmons delivered he raised his eyes from deck only to check the scales, even handed Hank the signed receipt without a word or look. He and his crewman forewent the Jody Dawn’s toilet, even though the Esther N had no facility except a bucket. Hank put the carbon copy on a box with Fig Newtons, apples, and ice cream when he handed it back. Jack took the paper only.

  “Don’t punish yourself.”

  Jack shrugged and returned to his boat. His crewman cast off and the boat disappeared in the rain.

  By daybreak no one else had delivered. Hank took his single load to the Dora. Japanese faces appeared at the rail above and watched silently while Americans brailed up the fish. “Come aboard for steak,” called Captain Dave.

  Seth, Mo, and Terry had already shucked their oilskins preparing to climb the ladder but: “Thanks, not this time. Got to get back on station.”

  “Boss!”

  Hank steered in the expected direction until the factory ship dimmed, then altered course and sped full engine toward the chart mark of Jody’s beach site. “Oh,” said Seth grudgingly when he saw why they’d lost their steaks. He and the others loosened the life raft and readied it on deck.

  Along shore, smoke drifted from half a dozen buildings no grander than sheds and A-frames, scattered in the middle of sand and brush. He eased in, watching the fathometer. Draft barely a foot, but the tide would still rise for another half hour. Men and women on the beach were pulling into waders or had entered the water alongside a net. He scanned with binoculars. They wore padded clothes, while caps covered the bulk of their faces. He couldn’t identify Jody.

  But there was Dawn by the shacks! Running somewhere with another girl her own age. He pressed the boat’s whistle. It made her stop, look, wave, and divert toward a shack painted green at the door and weathered white at back. In a moment out came Henny with Pete jumping beside him. Hank blasted and blasted, but dared not leave the wheel to go out and wave. The people on the beach looked up momentarily, but were too busy to pay further attention. Jody. Which among them?

  They anchored, and with Terry (the lightest) he paddled the raft ashore. Dawn and Henny splashed in boots to meet him. Pete, leashed like a puppy to a post driven far from the water, crowed “Daddy! Daddy!” and strained against a halter. Hank jumped out, tucked a child under each arm and ran with them up to Pete, then hugged and hugged. They rolled on the damp ground together. How to hug them all enough!

  “Daddy. I have a new girlfriend, her name’s Melissa, and she’s my very best friend in all the world. And Petey can say lots of words because I taught him but he can’t go near the water, and—”

  “I taught him words too,” said Henny.

  “Don’t interrupt, it’s not polite. And Daddy, the bugs are just . . . ferocious sometimes but we spray from a can and it smells bad, and Mommy sings a lot it’s very noisy—”

  “I like her singing. It’s nice and—”

  “Hennyl And Daddy? When all the nets are pulled we make a campfire if it’s not raining, and Melissa and I whisper ghost stories to each other, and Melissa and I help put the fish in the skiff if the water’s not rough—”

  “I do too.”

  “Not as careful as Melissa and me—and I—no, me. So don’t interrupt. And Daddy, listen to this, we’ve got fireworks! The men have a whole box full and Mommy’s bought firecrackers and I just can’t wait. For something tomorrow.”

  “It’s for Fourth of July, stupid.”

  Hank forced a laugh as he studied them, suddenly devastated. Ruddy cheeks, smudged faces washed maybe once a day, clothes so unwashed he smelled them as if it mattered, Henny seemingly grown an inch since last he saw them—all healthy. They were flourishing without him. He’d become incidental. He pulled himself together. “Which one’s Mommy?”

  Henny kept the initiative long enough to point out a figure with a red pom-pom on her wool cap before Dawn declared: “See it? That’s how we can tell, even if it’s raining very hard and we’re supposed to stay inside. Melissa comes to visit sometimes when it’s raining. Her mommy lets her. Everybody’s nice. Except a man who’s very bossy.”

  “She means Mr. Penn. Of course he’s bossy sometimes. He’s in charge. I’ll bet you’re bossy enough on your boat, Dad.” He said it with admiration.

  The figure with the red pom-pom stood waist deep in water, pulling the net alongside men a head taller. He wanted to rush to her, thought better of it.

  Instead he followed them to their house, first trying to carry Pete after unsnapping him. The child had always asked to be carried. Now he struggled free and trotted behind. The single room was warm and soot-blackened. It smelled of bacon and old socks, but it was orderly. Pieces of carpet covered planks of the swept floor. Wooden crates augmented two folding chairs. Air mattresses against one wall had sleeping bags folded on top. Each child’s clothes were stacked in a separate box tiered into shelves. Utensils lay in a basin of warm soapy water atop a plywood counter where Henny had been cutting onions for a stew. A pot of water puffed lazy steam atop of a propane stove as it would in a boat galley. Hank removed his boots, which had shipped water when he jumped from the raft, and started barefoot toward the door to wring out his socks.

  “Give me, Dad.” Henny said it deep-voiced for a seven-year-old. The boy took the socks outside, and returned, flicking them expertly. He was sturdy and calm. Hank watched with a shock of emotion. His son was no longer a young child.

  Time was moving. Tide now should have peaked. Hank checked his watch minute by minute, walked to the door to peer down the beach. The adults were still hauling and picking their net. “Hen, maybe you’d go tell your mom I’m here just for a few minutes?”

  “Sure, Dad.” Dawn continued to inform him of camp details. She stopped long enough for Pete to speak two sentences, mainly to prove her teaching skill. Hank contrived to hug each as he praised them. Pete cuddled for a moment, t
hen laughed and ran behind a crate for peekaboo. Dawn needed to be coaxed and caught, and then she snuggled with: “Daddy, I love you.” Little package! Maybe the image of young Jody. They were all positive.

  Henny returned, breathless from running both ways. “Mom says she’s glad you came but she can’t leave work and come again when you can.”

  He left the house and stood watching the netters from a discreet distance. Jody was picking fish from the net and pitching them into a skiff. Now he’d have recognized her without the red-pommed cap. Her movements were Jody’s alone beneath the bulky clothing. They had the perk and assurance of a decade before when the two of them rode together on the same boat and he fretted that she didn’t want to marry. What had he done to her? He held his children closer, hugged each as long as they tolerated it (they’ve all become independent and don’t need me, he groaned to himself. What have I done?), and left step by step.

  “I was wondering!” said Terry by the raft. “Look how far the tide’s gone down. The raft’s just where I tied it when you jumped and got wet.” It now lay beached and they needed to drag it to water. The children waved a noisy good-bye with demands that he come back soon. As he paddled back to the boat, the figure of Jody stopped work and waved. And she called. Was it to come again? Too much child-noise to hear. But yes, that. Back soon. At least that.

  The Jody Dawn’s keel was just brushing bottom. Another few minutes and they’d have been beached for at least eight hours, perhaps more than embarrassed had a high wind blown.

  On station again, despite daylight, a boat delivered with the now-expected haste and reticence, while another boat hovered to discharge its fish after the first had safely disappeared among choppy waves.

  Dave called from the factory ship. “Been trying to get you. Radio dead? Look, if even one boat’s delivered bring it over so we can work.”

  “But then I might miss others.”

  “Full speed and take the damn chance.”