Disclaimer: This chapter gets graphic with bad language and violence. Again, I don't own the F/V Northwestern, or her crew. I make NO money from this. All I have is my lint. Review please!
Dark chocolate eyes peered across the pitch black sea. Even with glow of the sodium lights on the white mast, it was nearly impossible to make out an outline of a far away boat, let alone the bright orange buoy bags of sunken crab pots. Edgar sighed, leaning against the blue railing of the Northwestern. Behind him, he could hear the continuous swoosh of a knife slicing through the belly scales of the bait cod, quickly followed by the growling of the bait grinder machine, and ending it all with a plastic sounding snap, as the newly ground up chunks of cod and herring made their way into small white perforated containers. In a crazy way, the sounds soothed him, causing pre-season jitters to subside. Besides the presence of Jake Anderson, Edgar Hansen was alone on deck. Inside the warm confines of the Northwestern, Nick was resting in his bunk, no doubt passing the time reading a novel. While, Matt chose to use his time wisely, whipping up a roast with a side of red potatoes. One of his blue gloved hands lifted from the rail, diving south to rifle through the jacket pocket of his yellow rain gear. Extracting a pack of cigarettes, he tapped a smoke into the other hand, quickly jamming it between his lips, as he pocketed the pack, before fishing out the lighter. An orange glow flared at the tip, as Edgar took a long drag, letting the smoke ease out of his nose upon exhale.
Sounds of footsteps on the wooden deck alarmed him, causing Edgar to turn at the hip, as he shot a look over his shoulder. Decked out in orange rain gear and a blue Helly Hansen base ball cap, Norman Hansen, calmly walked across the center of the lightly rolling deck, on his way to the stack of pots on the stern. Idly, Edgar watched his brother, as he busied himself with re-checking the chains. Norman had his routines and was happy to keep himself useful, without being at the center of attention. Good ol' Norm, Edgar thought, as he turned his face back to the black, never ending void surrounding them. With a booming drum beat of thunder erupting above his head, Edgar silently prayed for their safety, he trusted his skipper, implicitly with life and limb and knew above all, he had faith that Sig wouldn't purposely sail them into inescapable danger.
Up in the wheelhouse, Sig navigated through the choppy seas with an unsteady hand over the throttle. In the back of his mind, the grainy, black and white images from his fragmented dream played out like a noir film with cut out and missing scenes. Salt water streaked the windows, with each pummeling spray, as the Northwestern's bow bobbed up and down, parting the sea with variable ease. Although he couldn't pinpoint a single face down to anything recognizable, he was left with a creepy nagging sensation. It was a familiar feeling, but one he couldn't narrow down. Reaching over his throttle hand with his left, Sig lifted his white Northwestern mug to his thin lips, tipping his head back and taking a healthy swig of the thick mud that was his coffee. Straight black, minus any milk or creamer, just the way he liked it. As the thick concoction coated his throat on its way down south, the captain returned the cup to its spot on the window ledge, before jamming his fingers into his left jean pocket. Clutching a box of Marlboros, he flipped the top and extracted a cigarette, before tossing the box onto the control board. Fitting it between his lips, he wasted no time firing up the end, and taking a long, deep inhale. As if the weather wasn't enough to fray his nerves and put him on edge, the undecipherable dream was the icing on the cake. The scent of a cooking roast wafted up the stairs from the galley below, temporarily distracting his addled brain. Deep in his gut, he felt a twisting pang, as his stomach churned. Was it hunger, or simply yet another symptom of his distress? Stalwart on his mission to guide the Northwestern through the storm to get to the Opilio grounds, Sig denied the break his stomach most likely yearned for, and instead focused intently on the set course. It started as a drizzle at first, but soon turned into a raging downpour, as Sig reached up and unhooked a mic from a radio.
"If there's anyone out on deck, I'd advise you to get your ass inside now," his voice boomed over the loudhailer.
Out on deck, Edgar obeyed his captain's orders and hurried inside, where he shed his wet rain gear, hanging it up on a wall hook, next to the washer machine in the hall, before joining Matt in the galley. Jake and Norman weren't far behind, repeating Edgar's routine in the hall, before getting a bite to eat. Sig tapped his ash into the black ashtray that lay beside his coffee cup on the window ledge. The tremor that was evident in his right hand had spread to his left. Stubbornly, he refused to acknowledge it as a problem, instead, he set his jaw, gritting his teeth together, and even tapped the throttle further up. Beyond the glass, the cold wind picked up, sending the waves into a frenzy of movement, throwing the vessel to and fro. In the chair, the building seas rocked the captain, as they hammered into the sides repetitively.
Chancing a look away from the angry Bering Sea, Sig checked the face of his gold nugget watch. The hands told him it was early Saturday morning, three o' clock to be exact. The next few minutes played out like they were in slow-mo. As his head lifted, he caught a glimpse of a large towering shadow out of the corner of his right eye. His heart frantically hammered against his rib cage, cobalt eyes widening as realization hit him. A monster of a rouge wave, barreled down on the port side of the vessel. The forty foot wall of salt water, blasted against the rail, tearing the coiling bucket from the deck boards, shearing the bolts that formally held it, clear off. Wooden planks of the deck were at the mercy of the storm, buckling before breaking free. The crab sorting table didn't stand a chance, as it too, like the coiler, was erupted from its former spot, forced across the deck to smash into the far wall. The Northwestern listed dangerously to her starboard side, nearly ninety degrees. Immediately, the alarm down in the engine room started blaring, piercing the ear drums of everyone on board, putting the danger of the situation into high gear. Down below, the crew was in mad dash to clamor into their survival suits. Every minute counted, as they feared this trip spelt the end of the Northwestern and her crew's fishing career.
As the vessel pitched violently to the left, Sig was thrown from his chair, the mug following him, emptying its contents, before it sailed into his right temple. Yelping a curse, as it nicked his skull, he continued his sideways skid across the carpet, as the far wall of the wheelhouse rushed up to greet his left side and face. Something in his face snapped, and warmth dribbled down his left nostril. Frantic, of the boat and his crews welfare, Sig, clamored to right himself, fighting against the severe angle to reach the controls. Hoisting himself back into his chair, the captain fought to take control of his perilous dilemma. Lips were barely parted, as he took in labored breaths, his heart doing double time in his chest. Shouts could be heard down below it was Edgar, ordering the crew. Easing back on the throttle, and then jamming it forward, Sig hoped to right the vessel, before it capsized. Wetness trickled down from just above his right temple, from his hair line. Absently, he wiped at it with the sleeve of his blue denim, Northwestern polo. Pulling the arm away from the side of his head, he tucked his chin down and swallowed hard eyeing the fabric. The majority of his sleeve was a dark crimson blotch. Eyelids fluttered, and Sig shook his head hard, in an effort to stall the encroaching unconsciousness. Out of nowhere, a second wave pummeled the port side, miraculously righting the vessel. Short of celebrating, the captain reached up, swiping the mic from the radio.
"E-Edgar, everyone okay? Edgar?" Sig's hoarse and shaken voice boomed over the loudhailer.
His temples pounded with a soaring headache, as blood trickled down the right side of his face in rivulets. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled to fight off the overwhelming swell of blackness that threatened his consciousness, as the rain outside, morphed into sleet. The radio crackled above him.
"This is the Coast Guard Kodiak Alaska, and we have a report of an EPIRB going off from this vessel. Fishing vessel, Northwestern do you copy?" The male voice asked over the radio.
It was soon joined by others, as the news spread like wild fire across the fleet.
"Northwestern, Northwestern, This is the Time Bandit, do you copy? Sig are you there?" the concerned voice of Andy Hillstrand interjected.
Soon, the radio was swamped with captains. Keith Colburn was the next to jump on the radio.
"Northwestern, this is the Wizard, Hey man, you out there?"
Slouched over, leaning to the right, the captain lay limp, unaware and unable to respond to the radio. Dark glossy eyes were nothing but mere slits. His head was cocked at a right angle, exposing the left side of his neck, the jugular vein clearly leaping with a slowing pulse just under the pale milky skin. Dark blonde platinum hair was matted on the right, a smear of red marked where the side of his face had slipped and rubbed against the window. Frozen in position, his fingers were still clutched like talons around the handle of the throttle control. The roar of the engine idled behind him. Footsteps echoed off the wooden stairs, as Edgar, dressed in a survival suit, launched him self out of the stairwell, and into the wheelhouse.
"Sig, Sig what the hell," he paused, as his brown orbs widened in shock, taking in the unresponsive body.
In a flash, he was at his brother's side, a palm cupping the other's shoulder. Shaking him awake was brushed aside, when Edgar's eyes swept across Sig's face, noting the bloody nose, the developing bruises around the eyes and registering the dark smear on the window behind it. He feared for his captain's life as he reached up, taking the radio mic in hand. Just as he was about to press the button to send a transmission, a groan rose up from somewhere deep in Sig's chest. Dropping the mic, he lowered his head, pressing an ear to the other's chest. A muffled slow thump, thump, thump, thump was heard.
"C'mon, damn it, fight this," Edgar heard himself cry out in frustration.
"Don't you dare die on me?"