Breakers

by William B. McCIoskey Jr.

  “Something else managed to kill him.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No, you don’t.” She surveyed him dispassionately. “At least the shock’s brought you to life. First time I’ve seen you off your ass in a week. I’ve decided to come along.”

  “Don’t kid. The guys are all watching.”

  “Do you boys always get so upset with things you can’t handle? Set an example for poor confused Ham there.”

  “Dear, it just won’t. . . This is a guy thing coming up.”

  “I’d call it a thing for those who’ve risked their lives on the water. How’s your memory today?”

  “When you fished with me? That was years ago.”

  “When we fished together. In this lifetime, Hank.” When she sharpened her voice she enjoyed the way he stepped back warily. Never admit except to herself how much she loved him at any time, for both his assurance and his doubt. “Better not embarrass yourself in front of your men.” Indeed they all watched while pretending to work. “I’m aboard and staying.”

  Hank turned for help to Adele watching from the pier. She stood calmly with arms folded, a dumpy figure in brown slacks, hair tidy under a flowered bandana that had replaced the black one of days before. “It’s my boat now, Hank dear.”

  “I know. But Jones . . . Not my rule.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Hank dear. What if I could settle Daddy’s debts without losing the boat? I’d need a captain. Maybe I’ll just hire Jody to run my boat for me. Jody! What do you say?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Hank glanced at his crew. They had stopped altogether to listen. “Come on, ladies. We’re off on serious business today.”

  “Oh God!” Jody exclaimed. “They take a little step forward the size of a spider’s, then at first threat to their guyness they scamper for a hole. And when they bring it on themselves they wonder why. Adele! You know I have run a boat. Let’s talk when I get back!”

  Adele’s laugh was incongruously hearty for the occasion. “We’ll damn well talk! Hank, you know I love you, but watch out. One day Captain Jody’s going to make you ask permission to set foot on her Adele H.” She stared at each man in turn. “Boys. How’d you like a woman for your skipper?” Seth, Mo, and Ham collectively gaped and backed away. Only Terry held his ground, grinning.

  Hank attempted the same heartiness. “I guess since the atom bomb’s exploded anything can happen. Poor Jones would turn in his—” He checked himself.

  Adele touched her breast. “I carry the man right here, so I daresay I’ll be the first to feel it if those ashes start to roll. Now, Hank. Where do you plan to go? You know best where Daddy liked to fish.”

  “Uganik.”

  “Good. Good. He’d approve.”

  Hank turned respectful. “Want them to bring you the urn for a minute?”

  She quieted. “No, my dear. That kiss you delivered will do.”

  Boats all around them backed from their slips puffing exhaust. Hank put his arm around Jody, and waved to his children. At least make it appear to be his own initiative. “We want to make Whale Pass at high slack so let’s go. Lines off,” Swede and John on the pier started toward the mooring posts.

  “No, boys, that’s mine,” announced Adele. With the ease of a fisherman’s wife who had done it before, she unflicked the stem line and tossed it to Mo. Then she strode to the bow where Ham waited. The big youth’s eyes widened. She freed the line but held it, and, as the boat left the slip, walked it back. Ham gave her slack, but glanced warily toward the flying bridge. Hank at the open wheel above him shrugged, uncertain of Adele’s intention himself. At last she threw over the line with: “It’s all right, Ham. You take care, and come call sometime.”

  For all her push, Jody now chose to leave the others alone—they’d had enough shock for a while. If Hank on his own invited her up to the flying bridge, however . . . While the others assembled around Hank to enjoy the scenery leaving port, she busied herself in the galley. Cleanup remained whatever the men thought they’d done. Odors of whiskey, beer, and mustard still hung in the cramped space. She wiped the tables, noting racks and cupboards at first unconsciously, then with method.

  Captain this boat? Crazy idea. Just Adele’s joke to make them squirm. She’d steered and worked on deck for Mike Stimson and others long before Hank entered the picture, albeit as cook. Idea for another day. The kids needed her, even though Adele was wonderful. But the thought made her look into space. Back at the setnet camp the children had looked out for each other and thrived on the freedom. She could fish day trips, like a job. No, a boat this size needed to fish around the island all seasons to pay for itself. She felt for Hank’s farewell note in her pocket, fingered the paper. Would he be secure enough to accept a fisher-wife, and one not under his command at that? Suddenly she missed her children. Why had she insisted on coming today like some brat? She’d brought no clothes except the jeans, blouse, and thick old jacket she’d thrown on three hours ago.

  She glanced outside. The crew remained with Hank: huddled around him in fact. They wouldn’t see her. She went back through the galley and slipped down the ladder. The area with bunks along the curved bow had musty damp odors of unaired sleeping bags and blankets. Any crew she ran would air bedding on sunny days. Cautiously she opened the adjacent door to the engine room, the only boat space strange to her. Steeling against the blast and airless oil stench, she entered, closed the door to face it, and forced herself to stay. Learn. But not while the thing pumped and threatened, She studied the tubes and wires and greasy metal without moving her back from the bulkhead. Retain the picture at least. It was a relief to return to the galley.

  She stretched her arms on deck, gladly breathed the droplets of foggy air, watched the passing spruce hills of Near Island. The boys on the flying bridge still clustered and all looked ahead. Hank stood by the wheel graceful and straight, looking himself again. Breeze dented his beard. The urn of Jones’s ashes, firmly lashed to a stay, made a spot of blue against the gray sky. Water gurgled against the hull. The boat had begun a gentle sea-rock. She’d forgotten how the motion soothed, how even harsh pitch and roll suited her.

  Back inside the galley she tied open the door, started coffee brewing, and settled at the table where she could look out at the deck with its stacked seine and slips of sky, trees, and water.

  A knock against the metal door. The short figure of Terry stood in the doorway. “Hey. Boss says tell you the view’s nice topside.”

  The invitation pleased her, but it had taken too long in coming to accept at once. “Thanks. I’m fine down here for a while.”

  “When we start to roll you’d do better in fresh air.”

  “I won’t be seasick.”

  “Boss said you wouldn’t be.” He hesitated. “Mo, he’s cook? Can he come down and make coffee? Is that okay?”

  “It’s already making. Shall I call when it’s ready?”

  Terry hesitated further. “You know, none of us is sorry you’re aboard, even Boss. Even Ham. It’s just that everybody has to go through, like, some weird motions. We hope you don’t feel bad.”

  “Thanks for saying it.”

  “Later, if you need warmer clothes . . . I’m the smallest here, mine’ll fit you closest. Although my stuffs kind of stinky since I’m engineer. Kind of oily some of it.”

  “That’s really sweet, Terry. Don’t worry about smell. I’ve been around boats.”

  “I know. Boss is so lucky. My ol’ lady? She left me from too much boat on my mind, and the smell was part of it.”

  “That’s right, you’re our machinist. Say. What do you know about the engine on this boat?” He started giving details enthusiastically. Although he continued to avoid calling her by name, he relaxed enough to sit at the table and sketch a basic marine engine.

  After a while he regarded her directly. “Was that all just kidding? Could you really skipper this boat?”

  “What do you think your Boss would say?” />
  Slow grin. “Atomic bomb, maybe. Something like that.”

  “What would you say?”

  “Me?” He blushed. “I guess, maybe, like: ‘Give ‘em hell, Jody.’ Yeah. That’s what.”

  “Don’t worry, it was just talk. But thanks.” She sent him off with mugs of fresh coffee for everyone.

  Hank had expected Jody to join them on the flying bridge as soon as they left the pier, but was relieved when she chose to limit her invasion of his domain. Her presence, added to their mission, kept his men from their usual high spirits of departure.

  Beyond the breakwater, with farewell waves to shore behind them, he felt, gladly, the release from land and the water’s fresh push. Jones’s seiner had a different pitch than the larger Jody Dawn, quicker, more like the old days. With his shoulder in a cast he’d planned to give Ham the wheel through Marmot Bay, then turn Whale Passage over to Seth. But he felt the surge of command and retained the helm himself.

  Fog descended in a rolling presence just as they entered the narrow gap of Whale Passage. The others fell silent instinctively. He had traversed Whale often enough, but he never ignored its potential danger. Whirlpool water bore them past glimpses of brown rock and hills of spiked spruce tops. Ghosts haunted the Passage for him, at one with the fog. There had been the end of Spitz the Prophet and redhaired Pete, drowned friends of his first fishing summer with Jones. He breathed more easily when they entered wide Kupreanof Strait, less for danger than from memory.

  By the time they reached Uganik Bay it had long ago turned dark. Jody had found cans to open and had served a meal despite Mo’s embarrassed protest that he should be cooking. They anchored. Jody joined Hank at last, quietly, saying little. But soon she yawned, and retired to the lower bunk of the small skipper’s cabin. Hank duly followed to make sure she had bedding and to tuck her in, but was glad that she asked for nothing more. The ghosts of Whale Passage had remained with him, and solitude was his need.

  Snores issued from belowdecks as he passed through the galley. He wandered to deck and settled on the high stack of web with his back against the skiff lashed on top. The fog around him thinned to show hazy lights of other boats around them, thickened again to muffle even the hum of their engines. Smells of briny water mingled with the fog to evoke memory with heartaching sharpness.

  A full moon began to bum through. Its glow surrounded him and slowly intensified. At length the boat’s housing stood black against silver light. The light etched ripples all the way to the dark hilly shores and throbbed on the beaded white corks stacked behind him. These were the waters where he’d first learned to fish. His ghosts paraded in the ripples. There bounced Jones’s old saucy paint-chipped Rondelay, and aboard strode salty Jones Henry himself who’d hired him in near-charity for his eagerness and had drawled him the mysteries of fish from lookout on the flying bridge; gruff, amused Steve who taught him the gear and dipped him overboard when he whistled; sententious, protective Ivan of the skiff-next-to-God and fragrant socks. They’d all cuffed him into shape. He dozed, and they visited.

  He woke in the dark with a start. Dew had seeped into his shoulder cast. He was shivering although someone had tucked a blanket around him. Jody? He thought of her with guilt and tenderness. A month ago his only dream was to have her back, and hours ago he’d been annoyed to have her aboard. He hurried to the cabin. There she lay, hair tumbled softly, the most precious part of his life. He knelt and kissed her, breathed in her cheek’s scent. Kissed again, tenderly, ready to caress and make love when she woke. Her arms reached around his neck to draw him down, but she diverted his face. He tried to raise to her lips. “No,” she murmured. “Come back tomorrow. Take a blanket with you this time.”

  A pause so long he thought she’d fallen asleep again. Then she caressed his hair. “I found your note. You’re the flower of my life too. Shh. Don’t speak.” He remained in warmth until her breath steadied back into sleep, then took bedding from the top bunk and returned to deck.

  He thought he was returning to his ghosts, but under sharp moonlight they had dispelled and he realized he no longer sought nor wanted them. The lights of other boats anchored around the lagoon sparkled like a Christmas garden, no longer hazed. Splash! announced a salmon, and widening silvered circles in the water showed where it waited to be caught. Above black-hilled treetops throbbed a distant patch of mountain snow. Clean breeze entered his lungs in wafts sharp with spruce. He lay back against the pile of net and locked fingers into the roped web. Tangible. His life lay ahead, blessed by fortune. All of it mattered. He felt his energies. What life took he’d give back. This was his time and this was his place.

  Sun in his eyes woke him next. Ham stood staring, hesitant. The others still slept, Ham said. “Can I do anything for you, Captain Hank?”

  He needed nothing, felt strangely comfortable, but: “Sure. Make coffee and bring it out.” Sturdy okay kid, he thought. The new adventure longlining for black cod awaited, with the need for additional crew. Needed guys he could trust to push under his drive: to catch enough quickly, pay off the Japanese, be free again. He’d offer Ham a berth. Sunlight sparkled on the water, and through a gap in the forested hills it sharpened the snowy peaks of the mainland forty miles away across Shelikof Strait. Up from the water arched a salmon and returned with a splash. Hank sat alert. Farther off another jumper arched. The water was alive. Other boats cruised, staking space. Fish and Game would soon declare the opening on radio and with a rocket fired from their patrol boat. By the time Ham brought coffee Hank strode the deck, newly charged for action.

  Jody came on deck, stretched, and smiled. Her own jeans and shirt outlined her trim body beneath a vastly oversized wool shirt of his that she had commandeered. “Mo demanded back his stove. Suits me.” He rose and they hugged. Then she eased away. “Now go do your guy stuff. I’m not going to interfere.”

  “Thanks for the blanket last night.”

  “Better than nursing you through pneumonia.”

  He started to make a joke of Adele’s notion to hire her as skipper, thought better of it. Instead, sincerely: “I’m glad you came.”

  “Oh ho, don’t get carried away.” But she rested her head against his chest, and, when Terry called out “Chow, folks,” took his hand as they strolled to the galley. Mo had laid out platters of stacked sausage, eggs, and pancakes. Everyone waited until Jody had filled her plate before they ate, and their forks clicked with only subdued conversation, but each in turn invented some friendly comment to involve her.

  “Okay,” said Hank finally. “You know why we’re here. I’d normally take the helm but that’ll be Seth’s job.”

  Seth’s chin jutted and his back straightened. “Right.”

  “And without this cast I’d operate the skiff alone, but today I’ll need a second skiff man.” He glanced from face to face at the others. It was Ham who needed to come. “You good with a plunger, Ham?”

  “Yessir!”

  They unlashed the skiff from the stack of web and launched it astern. Hank started the engine and checked its fuel, then settled in. The time approached for Fish and Game to signal the opening. Seth, at the controls, cruised while they all peered for signs of fish. Hank watched critically, restless to be in control himself. “Jumper ten o’clock starboard,” muttered Terry.

  Seth glanced at Hank, uncertain. Hank nodded to approve the spot, and there they waited. A rocket swoosh, and the opening began.

  “Yo!” cried Seth. Mo’s mallet hit the pelican hook. With a snap and clatter Hank’s skiff floated free, pulling the end of the seine attached to its stem. It had been a long time since Captain Hank had handled the skiff-end of a seine. He forced himself to watch and obey Seth’s gestures as he guided the skiff with the net to encircle water where the fish had jumped. At last they reached a holding pattern. Boat and skiff moved parallel through the water pulling the seine in a semicircle between them. Ham, without coaching, grabbed the shaft of the plunger and hit the metal cup at the end into the water with
a loud pop and bubbles. No need to explain to him how to scare fish into the net.

  It was time. Hank called Ham from the plunger and turned over the controls. He stood with the um of Jones’s ashes and held it up for the others to see. In the sky eagles flew. Down in the water salmon jumped. “Okay Jones,” Hank cried. “God keep you!” He pulled off the stopper and upended the um over the water as Seth sounded the Adele H’s horn. Word had spread and other boats blew also. Ham joined with a low cry in his throat that became a howl.

  Nothing fell from the um. Hank, startled, peered inside. Smell of whiskey and ashes. The mess had coagulated. Hank held the um high and waved it. “Oh Jones, you pisser to the end,” he bellowed. “Jones Henry has the last word on us all!” He flung the um high with his good arm. Sun glinted on its handles as it turned in the air and splashed down. Whistles and horns echoed across the water.

  Hank didn’t bother to wipe his eyes as he watched the ripple where the um had plunged. He envisioned its contents dissolving, becoming one with the sea. He threw after it a wreath given him by Adele, and a flower of his own.

  Ham’s howl subsided. At length Hank told him to take up the plunger again. “Yessir!” said Ham. His voice had cleared.

  Seth signaled, and Hank brought the skiff with its end of the net back to the boat, closing the seine in a circle. At Hank’s command Ham leapt aboard, a vigorous man again. Hank alone worked the skiff to hold the boat off the circle of net. He watched as his crew winched in the purse lines and then raised the net like a sail over the power block to stack it again on deck, his breath and body bending to each step.

  That figure stacking rings! She wore yellow oilskins oversized as a tent with legs and arms rolled back. Admit it. She belonged.