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  No problem, I thought as I placed the phone back into the receiver. I’ll fly to Florida, get certified, book my return flight into Boston, and beg or hire a ride to Fairhaven. All I needed to do was hire my crew. And tie up some loose ends here at home. “Loose” was an understatement. I had ends flopping around everywhere, at every turn. The prospect of the thrill of catching swordfish was all I needed to get very motivated to tidy up my life in short order. I would bring a load of traps ashore tomorrow. I would do whatever was required to jump on this opportunity of my lifetime. But for now I would concentrate on assembling a top-notch gang for this comeback trip.

  My mind raced ahead of my Rolodex as I frantically searched the dog-eared cards for Ringo’s number. Did I have it under “Tom”? Did I have it crammed in with the Cs, for “crew”? I couldn’t imagine going offshore without Tom Ring. I had had the good fortune of great crew members while captaining the Hannah Boden and knew that Ringo would be my first-round draft pick for the upcoming trip. Like me, he hadn’t been swordfishing in the last decade. But, also like me, he’d been working on the water and dreaming about a comeback and waiting for the right opportunity. And now opportunity was knocking.

  Ringo answered the phone, but he wasn’t about to answer the knock. He had been gillnetting with the same captain for some years now and wouldn’t feel right about leaving him in the lurch, he said. I wondered when Ringo had become scrupulous. “Besides,” he explained, “my life has changed. I’m a grandfather.” That was a tough one to argue with. Ringo had played the grandfather card. There was no sense trying to sway him. Ringo was out. November would be a possibility, he said, as his captain liked to go hunting and would be taking time off to do so. Two trips beginning mid-September; I had no intention of hanging on through the dreaded month of November, which is historically the wickedest weather-wise. Besides, the opportunity was here, it was now. Like tide and time, it would not wait. Ringo would sit this one out.

  So Ringo’s life had changed. No shit—whose hadn’t? If your life doesn’t change in the course of a decade, there must surely be some moss growing. I had settled down significantly in the last ten years, and the changes had been good. Although I’d never married, I did have the best guyfriend, Simon. Sure, I had pushed for a permanent relationship, including a ring. But Simon just couldn’t get there. We did, however, go dutch treat on a cement mixer. And that’s about as committed as I’d ever been. I had long given up on the wedding bells. And furthermore, Ringo’s grandchild, just for the record, is his wife’s daughter’s baby. Not even blood related! His life had changed. What about mine?

  If Ringo could claim he was a grandfather, I could say I was a mother. In fact, talk about change and responsibility—I had become the legal guardian of a teenage girl just one year before. I’d gone from zero to fifteen with the stroke of a pen! Granted, I was still in the process of getting to know Sarai and hoping I would do a better job than her former guardian, who was currently awaiting trial on federal charges. But Sarai would be well cared for in my absence, I justified. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more comfortable I was about shirking this particular responsibility. The entire island community had stepped up to mother and mentor both Sarai and me in our new roles. I counted out the months on my fingers. She’s a boarding student. It’s now September, and she doesn’t have a break until Thanksgiving. I’d be home by then. I would ask my sister to act as guardian while I was at sea. And Simon … well, he was at his place in Vermont. He’d hardly miss me. My parents would miss me, though. I paused to consider that they were a lot younger when I’d last headed offshore, but they could still fend for themselves for two months. So I needn’t worry about them. They would be as nervous as they’d always been when I was at sea but would understand that this could very well be my last chance to go. Who knows, maybe my folks’ status would prohibit me from going in the future. I had to go now! I could easily leave the lobstering. I’d bring my traps ashore before taking off, and I’d ask a couple of friends to keep an eye on my boat. I was supposed to begin writing the third book in my mystery series. That could wait. Ringo couldn’t drop everything and go offshore for two months? It’d drive him nuts knowing I was catching swordfish without him. He’d be sorry.

  As I flipped through the cards, it soon became clear that most of the guys I would like to have fishing with me could not pass muster in any background check. One consequence of not keeping your nose clean is that there are chances that you will not be eligible for. These guys did not deserve this opportunity, I decided.

  My second choice after Ringo would be Kenny Puddister, the redheaded Newfy I had worked with for years. Kenny would probably be fishing with Scotty aboard the Eagle Eye II. It wouldn’t be very ethical of me to try to steal him. Besides, if I were Kenny and had to choose between the two captains, me or Scotty, I would go with Scotty, too. There was no point in putting myself through that humiliation. I had absolutely no way of getting in touch with choice number three, Carl. He owed me some money, so there was little chance that he’d surface if I put feelers out. James was in Ireland. I hadn’t heard from Ivan in years. I hesitated on a card on which I had written “moron.” The moron would be available. But I just couldn’t do it. I had signed on to spend sixty days a minimum of a thousand miles from home, bobbing around the North Atlantic Ocean during the height of hurricane season in pursuit of swordfish. I would be living and working in less-than-optimum conditions very closely with four men. In the past I had not minded working with men who behaved like animals—or morons, for that matter. They got the job done. I had always hired from the neck down. But at the age of forty-seven, I realized that I had changed and that perhaps my criteria for crew needed to change.

  I took a break from the Rolodex to check e-mail and was happy to find a note from Jim Budi. Jim must have some innate sense about things, I marveled, as I read his e-mail. He had sent a list of potential crew members, with short bios and contact information. He listed five guys, all of whom had experience fishing on the boats he managed that constituted the “Eye Fleet” and all of whom he’d recently contacted regarding work. The names, except for one—Mike Machado—were unfamiliar to me.

  The first bio read like a personal ad, with details about eye color and zodiac sign. No thanks, I’m all set on that front, I thought. The second sounded like a backwoods, Rambo type of guy. Nope. I’ve fished with the likes of them. Not this time. The third one Jim referred to as “the Silver Fox” and noted that he had “been sober for two weeks.” Great, an old drunk. I’m not that desperate. I have a friend who trumps the Fox—out of rehab and straight for three months—but I’m not taking him offshore. Possibility number four was “Mr. Weeks.” Would I have to call him “Mister”? Too weird for me. The additional comment that Mr. Weeks had actually captained the Seahawk for a short while and might need an occasional reminder that he was no longer in charge sealed his fate. One boat plus two captains equals nightmare. This was beginning to resemble audition week for American Idol. It’s one thing to accept opportunity and quite another to capitalize on it. The right crew would be essential in maximizing this opportunity. So much for Jim’s suggestions.

  The next call had to be a yes. Who’s a sure thing? Surething! The name of Dave Hiltz’s boat was an omen. Why hadn’t Hiltzie come to mind first? Dave Hiltz was a friend, a fellow islander, and a fisherman. He’d been after me to take him swordfishing since I’d known him. I’d promised him many times that if and when I had an opportunity to make a trip to the Grand Banks, I would take him along. Dave was the epitome of squeaky clean. Boat owners like that. I figured that he would be home from hauling lobster traps by now, as it was late afternoon and he always started his days at first light. Hiltzie would make a good shipmate and a great crew member. And if he ended up going, he could fill the position of the token greenhorn. Normally the green guy had little or no time at sea and often had no fishing experience whatsoever. Dave Hiltz was a lifelong fisherman. He worked his own boat, fishing for lobste
r, halibut, and scallops, and had fished with others for shrimp down south. Because he had never caught a sword, he was technically green. Dave Hiltz is a nice man and one of my best friends. Notorious for his temper and tall tales, Hiltzie would be a colorful addition, I mused, as I dialed his number.

  Whether his decision was totally situational (the poorest lobster season in his experience) or the fulfillment of a lifetime dream (Dave’s grandfather had been a Grand Banks fisherman) mattered not. Dave Hiltz was on board with no question or hesitation and plenty of enthusiasm. It was a yes all the way. Then, minutes later, he called back with his wife, Debra, on the extension. The voice of reason wanted to know if Dave would make any money on this swordfishing voyage.

  Ah, there it was, the dreaded money question. I said all the things that I had repeated so many times during my career. I promised nothing. I explained that we would be working on a share basis and that compensation would be commensurate with pounds of fish landed. Settlements were pretty standard, I explained. After the fish went to market, trip expenses—bait, fuel, grub, et cetera—were deducted from the gross, and the remainder would be split between the owner and the fishing crew and captain. While I was careful not to predict a gold rush, I was confident that I could still produce. Although I had not vocalized it, I knew that this could be one of the greatest comebacks in fishing history. Dave would be leaving his wife and their thirteen-year-old daughter, Abigail, for two months with no guarantee that he’d return with a cent—or that he’d return at all. I recall Debra making a comment about whaling, and I confessed that commercial fishing hadn’t progressed far. Opportunity for a unique experience—for sure. Opportunity for financial gain—potentially.

  The obvious risks inherent in commercial fishing—like those to life, limb, and livelihood—are concerns of mere mortals. Real fishermen risk other things that are less easily explained. In my present situation, the risks involved in returning to something I’d once felt so passionate about were many and not as tangible as fears for personal safety or pocketbook. I risked falling out of love with fishing itself. I’m good at catching fish. Is this why I like to do it? What if I were to suddenly realize that I did not enjoy the hunt? What if I were absolutely turned off by blood and guts? What if my heart didn’t race with the tugging of a fish on the line? And, God forbid, what if I’d lost the ability to catch fish? My entire identity and self-definition were at stake. Disillusionment, should it occur, would hit hard. The half-full glass was not my style. Perhaps the same scenario could be seen as enlightenment. Either way I spun it, learning the truth was worth the risk, I concluded.

  In spite of the financial risks, Debra seemed willing enough to let Dave go. And he seemed elated to be going. Escape? Maybe. I knew well the enticement of going to sea and forgetting about what is lying in wait back on solid land. The sea has an uncanny ability to swallow troubles (even if it spews up a few new ones to take their place). The problem is that your troubles are patient, and you do eventually have to come ashore. But at the moment, my troubles were few, and getting fewer, I realized as I dialed up my old fishing buddy Arthur Jost.

  It was more of a courtesy call than an invitation to go fishing; I knew that Archie would be excited to hear the news of my upcoming adventure. He would be envious, for sure. But at sixty-six years old and somewhat overweight, Archie probably realized that his commercial-fishing days were now in the wake of his life. Besides, Archie always had so much going on with family and friends that he’d never be able to shake free. He owned and ran two businesses, selling hot tubs and fuel additives. Between marketing, selling, installing, servicing, and distributing his wares, Arch found time to be in the midst of a major house-construction project in the Bahamas. He and his wife, Marge, had moved from Montauk, New York, to Stuart, Florida, several years before and had just begun to enjoy a semiretired status. I knew Arch as a chronic workaholic who would never fully retire. When I visited, I literally chased him from garage to shop to warehouse to truck to backhoe to boat and always marveled at his energy and expertise in all things. There was nothing Archie couldn’t do. It was always fun to talk boats and fish with him, because he walked the walk. My primary goal in placing a call to Archie was to receive a huge “Go, girl!” I knew that I would be hearing a lot of things to the contrary once word got out.

  Archie answered my call with a cheerful voice that always made me glad I had dialed his number. I couldn’t contain my excitement and just started blurting things out. Because I had no intention of inviting him to go fishing with me, I was shocked when he interrupted and informed me that he was making the trip and would bring his friend Tim Palmer along, too. “This will be great! I always wanted to go to the Grand Banks with you. You’ll need a good engineer. You know I can fix anything. Timmy is a real good guy. You’ll love having him aboard. I’ll start getting some stuff together. I’ll need an address to ship things to. This will be great.” I was hesitant to remind Arch that he was a grandfather. I remembered my conversation with Hiltzie’s wife and fought the urge to ask Arch if I could speak with Marge. Marge would be more sensible, I reasoned.

  As it turned out, Marge had no sense either. Twenty-four hours after the original call from Jim Budi, Archie had already shipped to the dock the first of several loads of engine-room supplies he wanted to be sure to have, and he and Tim had booked tickets to Boston. Archie was fully invested now, with his wife’s consent. And the more I heard from Arch and Tim, the more I believed that this opportunity was of the golden kind.

  Completing the crew would be Mike Machado, the one man I found acceptable from Jim Budi’s list of recommendations. I’d met Machado in Puerto Rico years back. At that time he was working for Captain John Caldwell aboard the original Eagle Eye. John Caldwell had a reputation for running a tight ship as well as catching fish, so I assumed that Machado would be an ace. With a verbal voucher from Jim Budi on Machado’s ability to clean fish, which was the hole in this crew in need of filling, I was satisfied that I had put together an all-star cast.

  News of the upcoming trip spread and covered the island like blueberries in August. There was real electricity in the buzz—well-wishers had high hopes for our success and clung to the possibility of more island men getting similar opportunities in this very poor lobster year. I had the names and numbers of nearly every able body when I left the town dock and headed off with a “write when you find work” tone in the farewell. I recalled the apropos words of my friend, first captain, and fishing mentor Alden Leeman: “I want to make one more ripple before I’m done.” My optimism was saying “splash.”

  The tingle of excited anticipation was not overshadowed by the old familiar burden of expectation. Greater risk always meant greater reward, I reminded myself as the last of the hand wavers disappeared in the wake of the mail boat that ferried Dave Hiltz and me away to the mainland, the first short leg of what promised to be a long voyage. Challenge was what had been missing in my life. I needed to be shocked, stunned, scared. I needed to react to emergency. I needed to fend off ever-looming disaster. I needed to fight the forces that converge at the center of the funnel. I needed to be daunted by a task bigger than getting a grasshopper out of my hair. I was aware that fulfilling these needs was an exercise in personal indulgence. And if I happened, in the course of meeting selfish goals, to succumb to the inherent physical danger, Sarai was my only real responsibility. She needed me. She didn’t know it, but I did. Irresponsible? Selfish? Perhaps. But I needed to be offshore.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Crew

  The time had come to throw the lines off the dock. I wondered if the tightness in my gut was the same nervous excitement I’d experienced so many times on sailing day through the years. Or was this something altogether different? I would know soon enough, I told myself as I put the engine in gear to spring the Seahawk away from the pier. The stern eased out to form a wedge of space between the rail of the boat and the dock. Satisfied that I could now slip away without even the faintest caress of pilings
, I yelled down to Dave Hiltz to release the spring line, totally severing our last tie to solid land, like the cutting of an umbilical cord. I was full of the apprehension of independence and exhilarated by anticipation of the same. I had been wondering how this would feel. Now I knew.

  Let’s face it: There had to be some blowback from ten years of additional age and absence from the swordfishing industry that I had loved for so long and spent the last decade openly and vocally missing. I was struck by a new notion: that my proudly professed love affair with longlining Grand Banks-style might have been a defense mechanism, love feigned in denial of the possibility that I had wasted nineteen precious years of my life chasing fish in far-away waters. This hazardous image crossed my mind as I nodded to Archie to loosen the stern line.

  Archie, Tim, and Machado—who had been a no-show up until minutes before loosening lines—filled the work deck. The backs of these three XXXLs were impressive. “Ohio State,” they had already dubbed themselves, in reference to their combined weight totaling an entire offensive football line. Dave Hiltz joined them in facing the stern to wave last good-byes. At six feet tall and two hundred pounds, he looked like a shrimp. Dave’s dark goatee added a slightly sinister air to what otherwise looked like it would be a fun-loving and good-natured group.

  Tim was the first to give up on the stern and turn forward. His body was nothing short of awesome. Like a man and a half, Tim Palmer looked like a machine—square, mechanical, and built to work. His boyish face and grin, framed in Dennis the Menace-style brown hair, contradicted what stood from his chin down, in the best Photoshopped fashion. Freckles trickled across the bridge of his nose connecting tanned cheeks. At thirty-six, Tim was the baby of our new seagoing family.