Breakers

by William B. McCIoskey Jr.

  They spent hours together in the wheelhouse while Hank cruised the radio bands. Identifying languages passed the time. Of a pinched singsong: “Anybody knows that’s Jap,” said Seth.

  Hank grinned. “Chinese.” He’d ascertained the Taiwan ship’s call sign the day before.

  Of another band: “Don’t tell me that ain’t Russian.”

  “Plenty of Russian around,” said Hank easily, secure again in previous knowledge. “But that’s Yugoslav, Croatian. The Anacortes gang.”

  “You sure know a lot, Boss,” said Mo with admiration.

  All radio talk halted at six p.m. for the weather roundup from Kodiak by fisherman’s wife Peggy Dyson. She had committed to the service after years of nightly communications with her husband, Oscar, aboard his Peggy Jo in the Bering Sea and elsewhere, and now fishermen throughout Alaska relied on her broadcast. While less than two hundred miles separated Kodiak from Naknek, the mountains of the Peninsula blocked radio waves so that her familiar voice came in squeaks. Storms from the Aleutians that had brought the fog, she said, would be replaced by a norther bearing easterly. “Precipitation expected, with gusts possibly exceeding forty knots.”

  Jones had better leave his little sand pocket, Hank thought. Warn him? No, Jones was always careful, and it would only invite some insult. He tuned back to the foreign conversations. Two clearly Native voices spoke English softly, deliberating each word. “So what’s that one, Professor?” asked Seth. “Mongo-Lapudian?”

  “For all I know. Aleut or Eskimo, both are around.”

  Seth picked his teeth. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should shave my beard. Give a try without it. Maybe women don’t like beards anymore.”

  “Make no difference,” said Terry. “You’d be as ugly as ever.”

  “Sometimes you mouth too much!”

  “You’d look good” soothed Mo.

  Hank had watched Seth grow increasingly scratchy. He switched to a band that he knew the Italians used. “That’s Wop, don’t tell me different,” said Seth, still on the edge of anger. Hank nodded and switched to an established Norwegians’ channel. “Anybody knows that’s Squarehead.”

  Seth was mollified.

  The predicted rain arrived with splatting drops. On a clear day the sun would still have hovered low on the horizon for another two hours, but now the gray light darkened. Wind began to kick the water into chop and whitecaps. “Terry or Mo, check the anchor.” Each man for form’s sake declared the other should go, then traded recreational insults while they slipped into oilskins and went out together.

  “Oh man, we’re fuckin’ bored,” said Seth. “I was almost going out there myself. Mo hasn’t even bothered to start chow and who cares. All we got to do is eat.”

  Hank watched through sweeping wipers while his men felt and kicked the anchor chain and then gave thumbs up. “Shitty night,” they declared appreciatively in unison, returning with a slam of the wheelhouse door. “Ol’ Jonesy’s and Ham’s gettin’ wetter asses than us tonight,” added Terry. “But I wouldn’t mind being with them, all that fish.”

  “Anybody who hears me.” It was Jones Henry’s voice on the open monitoring channel. He spoke deliberately. “I’ve run into a little trouble. Nothing we can’t handle, Ham and me. But if anybody’s close by we could use a tow.”

  Mo and Terry made for the bow even as Hank ordered anchor-up. As soon as Jones gave his location, Hank set course, then grabbed the chart and told Seth to go full speed.

  “To anybody hears this,” Jones continued. “Propeller’s gone near as I can tell.” His voice was calm. “Swells coming at us all of a sudden like a roller coaster. A big swell slammed us, we hit ground, scraped over something buried mebbe part of some other boat wrecked. Too rough to see until morning but, like I say, probably broke propeller since we’re dead in the water. We’re safe enough on anchor of course. Tide still going down, means sometimes we beach in a trough, then a wave slams us. My hold’s got mebbe fifty fish, not enough for ballast. Not yet at least. Water’s kicking like a stewpot. Ham! Stand back!” After a static-filled silence, Jones resumed: “Wouldn’t mind having chain on that anchor line instead of nylon, but she’ll hold.”

  Hank bent over a detailed chart. At least only sand was marked at Jones’s location, no rock. But Jones appeared to be trapped in the shallowest water, two feet low tide worst case, three at most, safe only in calm. The inlet was at least a dozen feet too shallow for the Jody Dawn, although depth lines on the chart indicated safe draft only a hundred feet beyond. The northeasterly wind and swells would be driving Jones straight toward the charted sandbars. And who knew what smaller bars lay shifting beneath? When flood tide commenced the current would be directly opposed to the wind. The forces would fight him broadside.

  Jones resumed in a voice that stayed calmly deliberate: “Wind’s rising. She’d blow us onto that hump of land but for the anchor. Getting dark, but I see white breakers along that hump. See it close enough to hear it. And smell it if you know what I mean. Ham! Just rest a minute, make coffee. If the boat ain’t pitching it’s bumping, but no reason not to have our coffee. Yup, we’re being jiggered like some gull tied to a string. Well, work to do. If nobody’s nearby we’ll close off this frequency and give somebody else a chance.”

  Hank grabbed the mike. “Keep talking, Jones. Everybody else alert. Possible Mayday. Keep this channel open.” Several voices agreed. “Jones! We’re full speed toward you. Hang on.”

  “Sounds like Hank. Stay clear, Hank, your draft’s too deep, you’d ground certain.” Pause. “Go back to buying fish for the Japs.” Pause. “Got no Mayday here, we’re in control.”

  A voice: “Advise you put your gillnet back in the water, leave it full of fish as possible. Ride that instead of your nylon anchor line. The nylon could part in shallows with too much stretch and no bounce to relieve it. So when net-over gives any slack, pull back your anchor. Flood current about thirty minutes away and it’s predicted strong. When it comes it’ll pick up that net and drag you with it to deeper water. Not far away. Net’ll ride you out like a tugboat. But secure that net on cleats, everything. Careful. When the pull starts it could bend a cleat, pull it out by the bolts. I’ve been there.”

  “Well,” said Jones. “That advice noted. But here’s only this one fifty-fathom shackle of empty net on board, two fish in the web. Test-dropped it half an hour ago, no fish left for it to catch. Can’t say I’m proud of what happened. But I ain’t ready to leave what we’ve got, that I’m looking at just a few feet out of reach. It’s the rest of my net, detached and out of reach, and it’s plugged with all the fish of the ocean. Ham’s trying to grapple her in, and he’ll do it. Hold on.” Jones’s voice turned distant. “Ham! Rest a minute till I get there.” Voice clear again: “I’ve worked that boy too hard and wish I hadn’t. He’s numbed his shoulder just when we need his best muscle. Happened this way. My first shackle came in a near water haul. Then all at once, start of the next shackle, she was plugged. We’d found our mess of fish backed in here on the ebb. So I detached the empty net on board, buoyed the full one in the water, and figured I’d run in back of the full net and attach the empty one to keep all nets working. Back then I still had mebbe four foot of water, and I draw under three feet. Swells didn’t seem so bad. Trouble is, a swell caught us like the Titanic high as our heads, and we banged in the trough, broke the propeller like I said.”

  “Suggest you stop talking and put out web, even if it’s empty web.”

  “Not come to that, I’m saying. In control.”

  Come on, Jones, thought Hank. No time to get pissed. He’d seldom heard Jones so talkative. It either meant Jones felt safe, or had done all he could.

  “Here we are,” Jones continued, “looking at a net so plugged with big sockeye salmon it’s dipping corks, and with a little luck we’ll still reach it when the tide starts moving. But float that empty net? She’d drag us clear of those fish for sure. Mebbe we’re dead in the water but repeat, anchor holding. Now I g
ot to sign off. My man Ham’s gone back with his grapple and I want to hold his belt. No way to fish him out if he falls over. Boy’s gone crazy to get us back our nets full of fish and I don’t blame him. Just one lucky throw mebbe five feet further, one lucky gust to carry it, and we’ve got our catch and our ride to deep water both. If we put out our empty net just yet, it’ll drag us further from the full net sure, and good-bye the only money-haul of the year. Out.”

  “Forget the fish, man,” said someone. But no further answer from Jones.

  “Stubborn?” said Seth. “Well, he’s so stubborn he’s got style.” He looked at Hank directly. “My kind of stubborn pisser. Got his fish, won’t give ‘em up.”

  “Okay, he’s a stubborn pisser.” To himself Hank added: and it’s made Jones lose his trusted judgment.

  “Ham’s strong,” said Mo. “He’ll get that hook right if it kills him.”

  “Don’t say it that way,” said Terry.

  “No no, didn’t mean it that way.”

  From the cannery, Swede’s voice: “All vessels keep this frequency open. Jones. Read me? Jones! You’re in more danger than you think. A storm’s bearing on us not adequately predicted. Why doesn’t that man answer? Company chopper’s coming to fetch me. Will then head to the scene. Hank. Give me your position and ETA-Jones. Any vessels heading to help, relay your position.” Other boats called, but none were close.

  Hank pumped the throttle and cursed his speed, although water was parting like a wall from both sides of the bow and fans of spray pelted the windows. At least the wind and swells that pushed Jones toward shore pushed him toward Jones. Mo brought him a sandwich. He set it aside. “Break out all our lines, you and Terry. Tell me how much we’ve got. Be careful on deck, we’re hitting the water hard.” They left.

  “You got a plan?” asked Seth.

  “Just as it goes. Any ideas?”

  “No more than you but you’re right, we’ll need lines whatever.”

  “And . . . not sure how we’ll use them, but break out survival suits.”

  “You ain’t swimming in?”

  “Every option. Do it.”

  “Right. But—” Panic in Seth’s eyes and voice. “Don’t consider that. I’ll stop you.”

  A heavy gust independent of the prevailing blow hit the Jody Dawn broadside and rolled it with a shudder. The plate with the sandwich smashed to deck. The gust from unexpected direction would have been routine in the middle of a winter Bering Sea, but not for summer in Kvichak Bay. The overhead thump of rope and clank of metal fittings reassured Hank that Mo and Terry were coping topside on the open storage deck.

  “Jones, damn it. Get back on your channel. Hey!”

  At last Jones’s voice, calm as ever. “Well, Hank. If you’re going to stick your nose into it, we’re jiggering here, out of the rain for a minute while Ham catches his breath. That hook almost made it. Three more feet and we’ve got her. Meanwhile, seems to me the wind has slacked. Soon we’ll get out our bathing suits if this keeps up. Nobody need worry about us.”

  “Jones! Bad forecast whatever the wind’s doing there. Just for the hell of it, you guys put on your survival suits.”

  “Now, you wouldn’t believe this, but we’ve got only one of them things for the two of us. Ham forgot his. But I’m captain and responsible—should have checked any crewman of mine—so it’s Ham’s suit. But Ham, he won’t take it. So the big orange thing just sets here between us like a pot of flowers. However, we ain’t come to that by a long shot. Hank? You back now buying fish?”

  “No, you turkey, I’m heading toward you.”

  “Well. . . Ham and me appreciate that.” Pause. “Hank. You’re a good man.”

  Hank caught his breath.

  “Do not come close, Hank,” Jones continued. “If I’m bumping ground you’d plow dirt. We’re holding. Good little boat. Don’t worry. Less breakers now on that sand hump. Tide’s started in. Sometimes spray hides it, but that hump’s going down while I watch, seems. That’s how fast the tide’s rising. Question for anybody hears me. Wind and swells keep pushing me at that hump. Wonder at high tide if the wind could blow us over it clean. My chart’s spilled coffee on the numbers right there and light’s not good, we’re saving what power we have. But looks like mebbe a patch of nine-foot depth other side that should give my anchor line more play. Does anybody out there know? “

  A voice: “Shifting bars all along that north side. Do not go over. Repeat. Do not.”

  “Then we’ll stick it out since that’s what we’ve got. Hank, you there? Mebbe you can float us a line with your rubber life raft attached. Then Ham can get in and grapple his extra three feet. Then we can pull out together with my fish.”

  “Forget the fish, you idiot!” exclaimed a voice.

  “Sounds,” said Jones drily, “like somebody who ain’t into the fish. Hank, you hear what I said about your dinghy?”

  “We’ll anchor as close as possible—the chart shows safely deep water just outside the inlets—then try to float you a line attached to buoys and life rings. Then raft, whatever, we’ll see.”

  “Current’s making harder now by the minute, Hank, so you’ll have to start pretty far down-current or she’ll sweep past us. You figure.”

  Mo came in dripping to the eyebrows to report lines ready. “We’ll get five hundred feet easy, Boss.” He asked if he could use the mike. “Hey, Ham, you there man? This is Mo.”

  After a pause and Ham’s voice muttering “Press this giz and talk, that’s all?” Ham said cautiously: “Yeah. Hi, man. You hear me?” Mo affirmed. “Uh, well, that’s good. Never used this thing before since Skipper Jones always—you, uh .. . Mo? Gettin’ wet out there I guess?”

  “No, man, I asked how about you first.”

  “Oh. Good. Good. Pretty dry in here.” Long pause. “I just checked the lazarette. No leak there.”

  “Hey. Next time we’re in Kodiak Fourth of July? Want to put on the gloves again? Let Lola and Judy hold our shirts. Beat your ass, man.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Sounds good. Oh Jeez!” It was a cry. “Skipper Jones! That water up through the deck?”

  Static. Hank called and called to no answer. He told the others to break out the life raft and inflate it. Have whatever means ready.

  Ten minutes later: “Okay, hear this,” said Jones. “We’re shipping water, just a little. My pump’s new last year, doing fine, engine room’s mostly dry. Wet no more than to our shins. Lazarette’s dry, leak ain’t there. We are bailing, just for recreation, taking turns. Hank, you there?” Hank affirmed. “Well, now, this is a mountain in a molehill since nothing’s going to happen except me and Ham getting our pants wet. But Adele. She talks a lot but she’s one fine woman. I’d hate to see anything go wrong for her. You hear me, Hank?”

  “I hear you, Jones.” Hank steadied his voice. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “You can kiss her for me if you’ve got the nerve. Now Ham has something he wants to say. Here, son, I’ll take the bucket now.”

  Ham’s voice. “Mo? You there Mo?”

  “Yeah, man? I’m here.” Mo’s voice was husky.

  “Just a dumb thing. My mom? She’s at the address I left at the harbormaster’s in Kodiak. Someday if you get the chance? You see, the water’s up now near to our knees.”

  “Sure, sure, man, but don’t you worry, we’re coming and Boss here knows what to do. Hang on! You hear?”

  “My mom bakes good pies. Going to try that hook once more now.”

  Mo turned to Hank like a child. “Oh Boss, you gotta do something.”

  Hank grabbed the mike. “Damn it, Jones, put out your net.”

  “Captain Henry says tell you, just one more try with the hook. He’s already out on deck waiting for me, sir, so I’m putting this thing down.” The throb of a helicopter passed overhead in the clouds. Swede’s voice. “I’m approaching the scene. Dangerous downcurrents with this wind. Better to reach them by sea if you can do it, Hank. Safest we can do is swing them one by one
to closest shore since I’ve got to drive and John by himself can’t pull a man aboard.”

  “Marvin’s not piloting?”

  “Marvin became my former employee half hour ago when he said it was too dangerous to come here. My volunteer crew is John Gains.”

  “Gains!”

  “Stand by. Calling any setnet sites vicinity south of Halfmoon Bay. Anybody read me?”

  Voice: “Joe Penn setnet camp here. We’re located due southwest the emergency position given, about two and a half miles southwest. Have no wood for bonfire, but will keep generator going and shine flashlight beams when we hear you coming. Lights will be in an area safe to lower, with everybody standing by to assist.”

  “Boss, ain’t that the beach with Jody and your kids?” asked Terry. Hank nodded.

  Jones’s voice: “Wind and swells getting stronger than ever. My mistake to think it slacked. We’ve just now give up with the hook. Anchor line’s stretched like a banjo string.”

  A voice. “Then that nylon anchor line’s close to snapping. Urge urge urge put net in water even if it’s empty.”

  “You’re right. Ham! Throw down the bucket come help me.” Sudden hoarse cries. Transmission stopped. Despite calls Hank could not rouse Jones again. He beat on the wheelhouse rail.

  At last Jody Dawn’s radar showed the sketches of land in the middle of water that betrayed the long, irregular bars among which Jones lay. Closer in, when Hank slowed, the rain hit them harder because they no longer rode with it. He guarded the fathometer but sent Terry to the bow to take hand soundings. Seth and Mo on the open deck above him tied lines and readied the raft. All peered into the dark for signs of the Robin J.

  Jones, Jones, you’ve got to be there. Please.

  He turned on his sodium vapor crabbing lights, and scanned with binoculars. Water rolled under the boat like horses’ manes, leading to empty horizons. The lights diffused against rain but penetrated enough to make out what might be a ridge of land. Swells rolled over it, sinister and glistening, while flurries of whitecaps kicked all around. But Jones, Jones, where? He allowed the wind to creep him in while backing the engine. “Sixteen feet,” from Terry on the bow, confirmed on the fathometer. Risk three more feet, very limit. No. Risk four heading in since tide was rising and his bow rode lighter than his stem.