Lying in the darkness of his room, Evelyn at his side, Brian stared at the ceiling. He felt her roll to her side and turned to face her as she rested a hand on his bare chest. Heart fluttering at her touch, he half smiled into the dark; knowing she couldn't see the smile, he smoothed back a strand of sweat-dampened hair from her warm brow.
"You're leaving first thing in the morning." Evelyn's words hung in the air, a statement of the truth they both knew. Not knowing what else to say, Brian confirmed with a soft 'ja'. Evelyn snuggled close and they lay in silence a while, taking comfort in their closeness. It would be the last night they would have together for three months.
"I love you, Evelyn." He felt her lips curve up into a smile against his shoulder.
"I know. I love you too."
Drifting off to sleep, they awoke to the insistent beeping of Brian's alarm clock. The sound came all to soon, and the couple took their time dressing. With filled backpack slung over a shoulder and a stuffed duffle bag in hand, he led the way downstairs and paused long enough to deposit his bags in the foyer. Silently moving into the kitchen, he reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a half filled jug of milk. Filling the two glasses Evelyn held ready, he put the milk away and chugged his. Both teens put their empty glasses into the dishwasher and grabbed a couple pieces of fruit from the table before heading to the car.
Brian's bags were put in the back seat before they climbed into Evelyn's car. The drive down to airport was silent. Pulling to a stop, they stared out the front window a moment before Brian heaved a sigh. Turning to Evelyn, he smiled and kissed her. Pulling away, he told her the only thing he knew to say:
"I love you." Evelyn smiled and squeezed his hand.
"I love you too. Now you'd better go before your dad changes his mind."
Stepping out into the drizzly morning, Brian waved goodbye to Evelyn before disappearing inside and made a beeline for the gate. Hours later, he found himself safely on the snowy island.
Walking through the deserted airport, his eager energy slowly turned anxious. As he left the small airport, his spotted his grimfaced father standing on the curb smoking a cigarette. Edgar's best friend Matt Bradley waited behind the wheel of the truck. Brian approached the truck, shifting the weight of his duffle bag to his left hand as he stopped beside Edgar. The deckboss snuffed out the cigarette before motioning to the truck's snowy bed.
"Toss 'em in. You got everything you need? Cuz when we get to the boat you'll be shit out of luck."
"Yeah, I got it all a month before I left Seattle." Brian responded as he shut his door and buckled. Edgar grunted absently as Matt started the truck and a silence descended on the drive back to the docks. The silence continued as they boarded the boat and Edgar showed his son where to stow his gear.
Leaning against the doorframe, Edgar watched Brian sling his bags onto the bunk above his father's. When the teen turned to him, Edgar jerked his head back towards the galley.
"You can unpack later. Right now Sig needs to see you in the wheelhouse. When he's done with you, the bait needs to be put away and then we need to show you the ropes." He suppressed a small smile as Brian nodded and brushed past him; watching his son disappear up into the wheelhouse Edgar swallowed an uneasy feeling that was beginning to rise up from the bottom of his gut. I'm just being a paranoid dad, that's all…he thought.
After Sig and Brian finished up the paperwork that the teen needed to fill out and sign, Brian took to the deck and helped load the freezers with frozen bait. Early evening found him standing beside Matt, helping the seasoned fisherman ready and secure the waiting pots to the boat's crane so Norman could swing them across the deck. Jake, standing ready atop the stack, would quickly remove the pots and secure them to their neighbors. With Brian's help, the pile of pots was steadily reduced so that by the early hours of the morning the last of the gear was stowed. The crew was then allowed a couple hours of sleep before the load of groceries arrived.
When the groceries arrived, Brian neatly stacked the dry goods Matt passed him into the bow's storage space beyond Edgar's stateroom. The greenhorn resented Matt's cool attitude towards him even though the man was his godfather. After storing their share of the groceries, they came up onto the deck in time to watch the Coast Guard begin their inspections and drills. Shortly after the Coast Guard left, the state fish and game officials arrived. All felt Ashton's absence, but Brian wondered at the look Edgar and Jake shared. The crew went through the motions with resigned impatience; Brian's youthful enthusiasm humored both agencies, much to Edgar's annoyance.
As the Fish and Game officials disappeared, Sig pulled on his jacket and left the boat alone. Brian looked to Norman in confusion, and the quiet man shook his head.
"He's going to the graveyard above the harbor." Picking up his coffee mug, he started up the wheelhouse stairs with Brian on his heels. Settling into the captain's chair, he continued. "He's been doing that for years now, after Phil and then Keith Colburn died. Says the air clears his head, but I doubt it." Eyes flicking to Brian's face, Norman shook his head with a small smile.
"Brian, don't worry about him. He'll be back, we'll get the crab, and we'll head home. That's how it's been for years." Despite his uncle's spoken confidence, Brian noticed the subtle knock on the wooden dash. Swallowing his doubt, he nodded and forced a smile.
"Sure, if you say so."
"I do say so." Norman's eyes flickered to his nephew, daring him to say another word now that he'd firmly closed the subject to debate. Even after fourteen years of Sig's habitual walk in the graveyard, Norman was still getting used to it. A small part of him was relieved Brian wanted the fishing lifestyle, for it meant Sig could get serious about finishing Jake's training. The sooner Jake takes the helm, the sooner Sig can retire and get off the damn boat. We've done well for all his creepy walks, but how long will that last? His knuckles rapped the wooden paneling a little harder now and had Brian's head turning back as he descended the stairs.
Hearing the knocking, he swallowed his question at the look on Norman's face. Going into the stateroom he would share with his father, he unpacked his bags and by the time he stowed his bags, Sig was back and told the crew to cast off.
Sitting in the wheelhouse, Sig and Edgar listened to the weather reports with grim faces. Edgar's gaze out the window was met with swirling snow. Five days into the season, the weather had deteriorated rapidly. The crew had worked three more days in increasingly nasty winter conditions. They barely made their offload date two days later, but instead of relief, Sig was in a mood as ugly as the weather.
Now, Sig had to decide to either return to the grounds, or sit out the worst of the storm. He'd called his brothers in for advice, but one said go and the other said stay. When he began groaning with nearly each exhale, Norman disappeared downstairs and left Edgar to brave Sig's self-debate.
He's gotten too used to the damn cameras. It's disturbing as hell to hear what's going on inside his head. I don't need to hear this shit, Edgar thought.
"Look, either we stay or we go. I don't really care what you decide, but you're going to have to decide now." Sig heaved a decisive sigh at his youngest brother's statement and nodded. Sucking deeply on his cigarette, Sig snuffed the butt out and smoke streamed out his nostrils and mouth.
"Get Jake and Brian to help you cast off. Fuck this weather…we're going fishing."
Edgar called a 'roger' over his shoulder as he descended the stairs, leaving Sig to stare at the silhouette of a gull perched on the snow shrouded bow. As the bird turned a beady eye to the wheelhouse, the skipper ran a hand over an arm to smooth the gooseflesh. It looks like the one I pointed out to that camera guy after Phil died. What are you trying to tell me, man?
Determined to keep the food in his gut, Brian repeated the grueling process of grinding the frozen and fresh fish into an oily, smelly mixture. After two minutes of shoveling the mixture into the stained but sturdy plastic while being doused with frigid spray, the chill in his bones deepened. The muscles in his jaws tightened as he bit back a grimace from the jarring impact of slamming a hip into the side of the sorting table on his way to the waiting pot; swinging the bait in first, he quickly and painfully hauled himself in after it. Quick movements of stiff wrists left the bait swinging with the violent motions of the boat as Brian slid out.
Boots barely met the icy deck when a wave snuck along the starboard rail and took the crew's feet from underneath them. Hearts hammering and muscles screaming, they scrambled to regain precarious footing. Accepting Edgar's help standing, Brian brushed his father's concerned look aside. When Edgar's blue-gloved fingers came away from the greenhorn's stinging cheek with dark blood and a questioning look, Brian spat out a response.
"I'm fine Dad! It's nothing!"
Edgar shrugged and let it slide, turning back to make a quick inspection of the pot and launcher. Satisfied neither was damaged, they dumped the ready pot overboard. A momentary feeling of weightlessness preceded by Sig's verbal warning had them scrambling for cover as white foam engulfed the deck.
Slamming through the wave, the Northwestern shuddered with the force of the impact. Cursing vehemently, Sig grit his teeth as his crew struggled to set the pots in the increasingly nasty weather. Glancing over his right shoulder, he strained to catch a glimpse of any waves through the haze of snow. With a quick scan of the deck below, a momentary sensation of relief hit the skipper as he counted the remaining pots on board.
As Sig turned back to the waves before him, a wave to the starboard bow knocked the skipper from his chair and sent him sprawling on the wheelhouse floor. A heartbeat later, he groaned and pushed himself upright. Pressing a shaking hand to his forehead, he winced as he struggled to his feet. Ears ringing and head smarting, he scrambled back into his chair and fought off waves of nausea as the boat crashed through yet another whitecap.
He grabbed the wildly swinging handset and tried slamming it back in place overhead. Sweat beaded on his pale forehead as he concentrated on getting to safety as quickly as possible. He missed the smear of red left behind on the white handset's plastic. Hearing voices below, Sig sighed with relief. His relief was cut short when he crashed through the next wave and alarms began to sound.
Below, Edgar led Brian into the engine room as Jake passed a bag of frozen peas to Matt before hurrying up into the wheelhouse to check on Sig; after several unsuccessful attempts to raise the skipper on the wheelhouse phone, the crew's anxiety was quickly on the rise. Matt, with one hand pressing the bag of peas to his throbbing temple, helped Norman attempt to straighten the galley's mess.
"We shouldn't have let Brian stay on…" Matt began to grumble irritably before he caught Norman's dark glare.
"Just shut up, Matt. It wasn't his fault the storm hit when it did. So just shut up and help me pick up." Fighting back pained grimaces as he bent over to pick up the DVDs thrown from their shelves, Norman kept a hand to the wall as the boat continued to pitch violently. The engine room door slamming open caused both men to flinch, and Matt swore as a pale-faced Brian disappeared into the stateroom leading to the front bulkhead. Returning with an armload of rags, he paused to lean against the doorjamb as the boat rolled dangerously to port. All three men grunted as the boat shuddered around them and returned to a more upright position. Both Matt and Norman grimaced as Brian's head cracked against the door frame; Edgar's voice roared above the engine's protesting and the teen ignored the pain searing through his temple as he staggered back to the engine room.
With the violent motion of the waves, Brian's heart hammered against his chest as he struggled against his rising panic to help Edgar keep the master and auxiliary engines from failing. The pain in his temple and hip faded to a dull throb as he focused his attention on the gauges and equipment. After a while, Norman came down to help make repairs. Time and again, Brian would retrieve some tool for Norman or Edgar, or helped them to make repairs when a third set of hands or smaller body was needed.
He flinched as Sig's unexpected shadow fell over him and Edgar shot a dirty glare at his son; but one look at his eldest brother made Edgar rise and, pressing the welder into Brian's arms, the deckboss started following Sig to the galley.
"Finish up with that patch, then keep an eye on the engine!" Edgar yelled over his shoulder before disappearing up the ladder. Brian shifted to resume welding the patch over a leaking pipe. By the time the patch was completed a minute later, his arms were dotted with spark burns and his sweats were soaked through with seawater. Flipping up the face shield, the corner of his mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile at Norman's nodded approval as the older man surveyed his work. Restarting the pumps to begin removing some of the ankle deep water, Norman watched Brian's wide-eyed reaction relax.
"It'll hold. I'll send Matt down in a couple hours to see how you're holding up." Norman reached for the welding tools, gently pulling the face shield from his nephew's head to get his attention. Frowning at the drying trickle of blood running down Brian's cheek and neck from his temple, he gave a slight shake of his head before limping up the ladder.
Brian sat back on his knees and took several steadying breaths. Eyes closed, he forced himself to focus before turning his attention to monitoring the hastily patched repairs. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he grinned in relief as he realized the boat's pitch and roll had gradually lessened. As he focused his anxious attention to reading the fuel gauge, he glimpsed movement from the stairwell and looked up. Matt's faint grin greeted his panicked look; joining the greenhorn by the fuel tank, Matt shouted above the noise.
"Guess you're doing fine here. Edgar says to come up and get something to eat. Might wanna get that patched up too." Matt tapped a finger against the tender skin above the cut on Brian's temple. In the excitment, the teen had forgotten all about his injuries but now the pain and stiffness slammed down on him. Fighting to conceal the obvious, Brian merely nodded before heeding Matt's words.
As he watched his godson stiffly climb the ladder, Matt felt the kid's pain; his own pains, minimal as they were, had settled deep into his bones. Despite their shared pain and suffering, something still didn't feel right to the deckhand. The damage left behind by the storm only deepened his unease and he decided to voice his anxieties.
"Edgar, he's fine. We're fine, the boat's fine…and we didn't loose as much crab as we thought." Sig was sitting across the table from Norman, watching Edgar peer into the stateroom where Brian lay sleeping. Two days after the storm played havoc on the six-man crew, the Northwestern was docked in Akutan after an offload and more substantial repairs. Brian's temple was stitched neatly with seven sutures, the burns on his forearms quickly fading to scars. Matt quietly joined his crewmates and skipper at the table with letters from home. Flipping through the envelopes, Matt's brows raised as a grin spread across his face.
"Runt's got a letter! From a 'Miss Evelyn Henthorn', I wonder what the little lady has to say…" Catching Edgar's look, Matt rolled his eyes exasperatedly and tossed the letter unopened onto the table.
"It's not like it'd be the first time you read a letter without permission," he reminded with a pout. Edgar shook his head as he joined his friends.
"Yeah, but that was different. That letter was for us, not my son." Scrubbing his face with grease stained hands, Edgar groaned into his palms. He peered over his fingertips at his brothers, his worry and anxiety showing in his brown eyes.
"How did our parents put up with us fishing? How did Dad not have a heart attack or panic attack when the weather got nasty? Did they ever tell you that? Hell, how'd Phil handle having both his sons on deck during the nasty shit? How 'bout Jonathan?" A heavy silence settled over the six men, each unable to answer Edgar's questions. Edgar stared blankly over Norman's left shoulder as he continued quietly.
"How'd they do it? 'Cause this is driving me insane…" Another silence fell, broken by Matt clearing his throat softly. Rubbing the back of his stiff neck, he lifted a sore shoulder in hesitation.
"Spit it out Matt." Sig muttered. The skipper's head still hurt from where it met the edge of the chart table during the storm and, combined with the poor weather, it put him in a foul mood.
"I've got a bad feeling about Runt being here. I've had a bad feeling since he was hired. But until Norm's leg gets better…"
"My leg's fucking fine. You sure you didn't hit your head harder than you told the doctor?" Norman growled darkly without looking up from his coffee. Matt bit back a retort, and picked at the crumbs left on the table. Sig scratched absently at his beard and stared at the half opened door, behind which Brian still slept. Looking back at Matt, he shook his head.
"What do you want me to do? Cut him a check, send him packing, and hire on someone else? We already know how he works, we're used to him now. This weather isn't getting much better any time soon, you know." Rising, feeling his temper rise, Sig started for the wheelhouse. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he glared at Matt.
"Hate to break it to you Matt, but I'd rather take my chances with Runt than with some idiot fresh off the docks." He disappeared up the stairs to consider his options, knowing that if he didn't find better weather and even better numbers, he might have bigger problems than a beat up nephew and uneasy crew.
A/N: I was unsure on how to proceed with this chapter, but I'm pretty satisfied with how it turned out. It has a lot going on in it, but hopefully it works. Reviews and constructive criticisms are most welcome and appreciated!
Copyright Alissa Franko 2010
