Seaworthy Read online

  Eight was the lowest of the trip. It felt bad to hear confirmation of what I’d suspected of the tally. I refused to register the disappointment of our dismal catch, knowing that things could and would turn around. We just needed to stay positive and keep plugging. We couldn’t compete with the other boats; we weren’t in their league. Although we were fine in our pounds-caught-per-hook-fished, the shortage of line and floats prohibited us from fishing more than half of what the other boats were able to set out each night. But I knew that we could still beat the extreme odds that seemed to keep stacking up against us. I had unplugged the remote VHF speaker long before, so that my crew wouldn’t hear the discouraging reports around us. When no one is catching, there’s a tendency to lose faith and yearn for home. My stubborn streak was never as wide as it had become during this three-week stint aboard the Seahawk. We were in a slump and would slug it out—no matter what. Machado leaned with both hands on the rail between Archie and me. He stared into the darkness as if searching for a buoy we hadn’t parted off yet. “Hey, Arch,” he said softly as he handed a leader aft to Timmy, “this ain’t lookin’ good, man. This is a disaster.”

  This was the first time I’d heard one of my crew refer to our situation as what it was shaping up to be—a disaster. I assumed they’d been discussing our missteps and misfortune in my absence; crews always do that. I prepared a pep talk in my mind to follow whatever lamenting came from the guys in response to Machado’s leading remark. I would bolster their confidence by telling them about trips that would make this one look like a real winner. I would assure them that we still had bait and fuel for another ten sets if need be. The fish would bite when the moon reached its first quarter phase. We were in control of our paychecks and our destiny. I would tell them that we were in this together and we would buck up and we would be fine. I honestly believed it. They would, too. Now it seemed that everyone was waiting for Archie to respond. I wondered if Arch was still confident that we could pull it off or if he was ready to throw in the towel. He appeared to be thinking. Machado wasn’t patient. “Come on, Arch, buddy. I need some pumping up. I am fuckin’ discouraged. I’ve had it. How are we going to make any money out of this horror show?”

  I was getting ready to jump in and save Arch before he could possibly join the ranks of despair. We didn’t have much that was solid to pin faith or optimism to right now. To me this would be Archie’s defining moment. Before I began what would have sounded like pleading for the guys to hang with me for a few more sets and promised them that things would turn around to our benefit and told them we’d come too far to give up now, Arch looked as though he had a revelation or an epiphany. His eyes grew wide. He held an index finger in the air, asking us all to pay attention. He smiled and said, “Merchandising.” We remained silent as Archie thought a little more. I threw the boat out of gear to deal with a sharked-up leader but kept an ear on what Archie might add.

  The next sound came from Timmy, who began laughing so hard he couldn’t speak. His laugh was instantaneously contagious. I was basically laughing at Timmy laughing. Tears streamed down his beet-red cheeks, and he finally managed one word: “Merchandising?”

  “Yeah, merchandising. You know, stuff to sell,” Arch explained through a chuckle. “I’ll start working on a marketing plan. We’ll offer Seahawk lunch boxes. Kids love lunch boxes—they’ll be big sellers.”

  Now Machado chimed in. “Lunch boxes are a great idea. We’ll recommend a very unhealthy Seahawk diet—lots of stuffing and gravy. And when the kids pick up the boxes, the handles will fall off and the thermoses will leak.”

  Hiltz added, “But they’ll come with a repair kit of two-part epoxy and a bungee cord. The kids will love that! And what about plastic swordfish? A few anyway. And lots of sharks! And an Eagle Eye II boat, complete with towline to attach to the Seahawk’s bow.”

  “Don’t forget the action figures,” said Timmy. “We’ll offer an entire line of talking dolls dressed in oilskins and boots. We’ll start with the Archie doll, because it was your idea,” he said as he pushed an imaginary button in the middle of Archie’s back.

  “Timmmaay!” Arch yelled in his best imitation of himself.

  Shrieks of laughter filled the deck. Archie pulled an imaginary string from Machado’s back, and Machado responded immediately: “This boat is sucking the life out of me.”

  Machado in turn pushed Timmy’s button, which resulted in, “I fixed it. I think we’re all right now.”

  The Hiltz doll had a string and a button: “All I want to do is catch fish” and “I quit.”

  When Hiltz pulled the string from the Linda Greenlaw doll, she yelled, “Put the fuckin’ door in!” Hiltz pulled my string a number of times, and I yelled with each pull, much to the delight of my crew. We carried on with this wonderful foolishness until the end beeper came aboard and the fish tally remained at eight. There are things out of our control, but attitude is not one of them. I had never loved and respected any crew member more than I did Archie right then. He was indeed the gem I knew he would be.

  Our next day of fishing was equally bad. I recorded ten fish in my logbook. But the weather had improved greatly, and we celebrated quietly in only one part-off and got the gear back in time to set out with the fleet—a true Seahawk triumph. Now all we needed was for the fish to “turn on” and really start biting. The crew had become vocal in their support of my opinion that we must stick it out and that we would be successful in the end. The guys began speaking with some affection about the boat, saying that she had character and that she really was a good sea boat, meaning that she was quite comfortable and that they felt safe aboard her. We were in control of our destiny, and nothing could keep us down. Even Machado was optimistic and feeling good about our having overcome so many obstacles, and he really believed we’d have a decent trip against all odds.

  I realized that I hadn’t heard the guys refer to our vessel as the Shithawk in some time until the next evening, when she regained that name. I was scoping out the break and just about ready to give the guys the sign to toss the end buoy. Things were as good as they’d been all trip; fishing, mechanics, weather, and morale had finally all joined hands. Timmy scrambled up the stairs and said, “Dave got a real bad shock.” I could tell from his tone that there was a sense of urgency and that he wasn’t talking about static electricity. I threw the boat out of gear and followed Timmy back down to the deck, where the guys were huddled around Hiltz, who was sitting on a cooler. His oil pants were around his ankles, and he cradled his arms against his chest. Hiltz’s eyes were glazed and unfocused. They were red, and goop seeped from their corners. Snot ran from his nose, dripping down into his mustache and beard.

  Archie was holding Dave’s shoulders and speaking softly to him, “Stay with me, Dave. You’re going to be fine. You got a bad shock.” Hiltz could only moan in reply. I took his pulse and was relieved to find a very strong one. I would be lying to say I wasn’t terrified. Hiltz just looked so pathetic. When I asked what had happened, I learned that he had simply tried to turn on the deck lights. He apparently got zapped, causing his muscles to tighten so that he couldn’t release his grip on the hot switch. It wasn’t until he lost consciousness and fell to the deck that his hand was torn from the current, releasing him from the 110-volt stream. Within a few minutes, Hiltz was speaking, but not very coherently. He repeatedly asked if we were fishing, in a voice that was faint and mumbling. His lack of focus and confused state scared me. He muttered that his arm hurt. His hand appeared to be discolored. He asked if he could go to sleep. While Archie held Dave up and kept him somewhat alert, I ran to the wheelhouse to make some calls for advice.

  My first call was to Scotty over the SSB radio. I’ve always had great respect for the captain of the Eagle Eye II and considered him as smart and knowledgeable on a wide range of topics as anyone I’d ever known. Scotty calmed my nerves by sharing his opinion that a shock of 110 volts was not lethal and that in his experience the victim was always fine given some t
ime. Although I was glad to hear that, I was still very nervous. What if Scotty had never seen anyone who was shocked as severely as Dave had been? I picked up the satellite phone and by some miracle was able to get through to my friend Simon. He’s a doctor. Granted, a retired orthopedic surgeon, but a doctor nonetheless. He’d know what to do, I thought. Simon reassured me by pretty much concurring with Scotty. He asked about Dave’s pulse and said that it would be okay to allow him to go to sleep. He warned that Hiltz could possibly feel as if he’d been run over by a truck when he came around, but other than that, Simon thought he would be fine.

  I hurried back to the deck to relay this information. Hiltz looked even worse now than he had five minutes earlier. He was babbling, his eyes were rolling around in their sockets, and he appeared sort of half poached. I watched him for a few minutes and discussed options. I wondered who would take the rap for an electrocution. It was an impossible leap to say that fate had anything to do with it. The guys were already cursing the makeshift and last-minute electrical work done to get us off the dock, and once again we were the proud captain and crew of the Shithawk. Finally I asked the guys to get Hiltz to his bunk so that we could set the gear. This was met with some hard looks but no words. I felt pretty coldhearted, but I had to believe that Hiltz would be fine. Besides, what could we have done if he wasn’t? We were here to fish, and that’s what we would do. At the risk of sounding paranoid, this was just the most recent of strikes against us and our ability to get a paying trip. We had to persevere.

  The men reluctantly helped Hiltz to his bunk, where they tucked him in and promised to take turns checking on him throughout the five-hour setting process. I thought Archie might cry, he was so upset that one of his shipmates had been nearly fried. But the guys set the gear shorthanded, and I got several intermittent reports regarding Hiltz’s snoring and turning over in his bunk, and I took some mind-easing looks myself to ensure that he was indeed breathing. When the end buoy splashed into the black wake behind the boat and the guys peeled off oil clothes and prepared for a nap, Hiltz arose from his deathbed and asked what had happened. He was still quite bleary but seemed to understand what he was told, although he had no recollection of being partially electrocuted.

  The next day was brilliant. It was haulback number ten, and things really came together. We tallied twenty-five fish, and nice ones at that! We again retrieved the gear in a timely fashion allowing us to set it right back out. This was the way I remembered swordfishing to be. Timmy had the mechanical problems at bay. The weather was splendid. The crew rejoiced in what seemed to be our beating another major obstacle. Not even electrocution could keep us down! Hiltz was sore, but not of spirit. All the muscles on his right side from his hand to his buttocks were extremely weak, but this didn’t keep him from working as hard as ever. Mother Nature, mechanical problems, poor fishing, the gods—there was nothing we couldn’t take to the mat. The wild sea had been tamed to a docile subservience. The sun had been forced out of hiding. The guys were elated that we were pulling fish aboard with some frequency and a paycheck was within reach. None of us could imagine anything we hadn’t yet encountered in the way of deterrence. We were cocky in our posture of nobody or nothing being a match for us. We were tough and callused. I hauled faster and harder than ever. Machado’s knife went through fish like it was silk. We were finally looking like a real, experienced team. We clicked. There was just nothing left to get in our way. We all shared an attitude of “Bring it on!”

  For the first time since we made our very first set twelve days before, I didn’t have to tell the crew to get bait out of the freezer. They seemed enthusiastic about fishing now. Today’s haul had landed another three thousand pounds of the healthiest fish we’d seen yet, and we had another six sets to make. I estimated a total of close to twenty thousand in the hold and knew that forty thousand was well within reach at our present rate. The moon was just beyond its first quarter. The weather gurus predicted nothing but light and variable winds in the foreseeable future. I knew the importance of staying on our game at this point. We couldn’t let our guard down. We couldn’t get too comfortable. There was no room for mistakes. Neither fate, nor luck, nor the gods would take credit for the pulling off of such an impossible feat as we were so close to doing. It was easy to believe that we were the center of the universe. All revolved around us. Every act aboard the Seahawk was so painstakingly deliberate. We would take nothing for granted.

  “Seahawk, Eagle Eye II. On here, Linda? Come on.” The ring in Scotty’s voice indicated that he’d also had a great day. I’d learned that the telling detail was in the tone of his signature “Come on.” I was quick to answer my friend and knew he would be pleased to hear a positive report from me, too. My crew and I had set our mark on catching half of what Scotty did each day, and we considered that amount something to celebrate. We figured he had twice the boat and twice the gear and was the highliner of the fleet. So if we could just catch 50 percent of Scotty’s act, we had nothing to be ashamed of. I waited patiently to hear a number from Scotty in anticipation of my own boast of twenty-eight fish aboard the Seahawk today. I never dreamed that twenty-eight fish would feel so good. It felt like one of the hundred-fish days enjoyed aboard the Hannah Boden. Scotty was interrupted mid-transmission, right after his report of forty-six fish, and excused himself, promising to get right back to me.

  Wow, I marveled as I waited for Scotty to come back on the radio, we had done better than I thought with our small boat and our short string of gear. Quite respectable indeed. And the sharks hadn’t bothered us. And we had only parted off once in the entire haulback. Life was good and showed signs of getting even better. I was eager to tell Scotty how our day had gone, as I was sure he was weary of all my bad news and perpetual problems and my asking for troubleshooting advice and medical consults and … If I were Scotty, I’d be quite hesitant to answer me on the radio, I chuckled to myself.

  Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, Scotty returned. His voice wasn’t quite as chipper as it had been. “Hey, Linda. That was Malcolm on my satellite phone. He’s been trying your phone, but no dice. He asked me to pass along this message: You are to be at the dock in Bay Bulls, Newfoundland, Monday morning. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.” I felt as though I’d been popped with a pin—totally deflated. I couldn’t even figure out when Monday was, or why my boss had shut me down midtrip. I was stunned into silence, and then Scotty added, “You would have to leave now to get to the dock Monday.”

  This was confusing, a cruel joke you hope you’ve misunderstood. My thoughts were awash for a few seconds while I processed what Scotty had relayed to me. It was totally unheard of in my vast experience to be called back to the dock before completing a trip. I hardly dared tell my crew. Could I possibly ignore the order? Could I thumb my nose at Malcolm and say, “We’re staying out with your shit boat until we finish this friggin’ trip”? I had, in the past, been ordered to stay out. I had never been ordered, nor even been made to feel welcome, to come in before the hold was full. Everyone aboard any boat always wants to go in. But not us, not now, not this way. I thanked Scotty for the message without ever telling him about our twenty-eight fish. God, I wanted to stay out and finish what we’d started and suffered through. I didn’t want an excuse for failure. Of course I wanted to succeed. Or if I couldn’t do that, I wanted to fail on my own terms. I wanted no excuses for failure.

  To disobey Malcolm’s order was within my control. Malcolm was an old man and fifteen hundred miles away. But the reality of the fact that all I had invested financially in this venture was a pair of rubber boots weighed heavily. Maybe I wasn’t out here for the money, but my crew needed to be compensated. If I bolted, they might never get paid.

  But for all my concern for the crew, my real thoughts were about number one, me. Where was the young, feisty captain of my past? Was this to be the metaphor for my middle age? When “they” call you to the dock, you’re done. Ouch, I thought. This could be the biggest cop-out
of my life. The culmination of nearly thirty years of life on the water boiled down to what I had to prove in this outing. This had not turned out to be the noted comeback I’d hoped for.

  I had, however, confirmed one suspicion. The renegade in me had faded in the past decade. Jimmy Buffett, step aside. This pirate was looking at fifty. My life had changed. I had established a life on land. The sea was no longer my only option. I reluctantly turned the Seahawk toward the dock. I had learned a few things over the years I’d spent dangling hooks that pertained to life on land or sea, and one of them was this: There are some things out of my control. And “seaworthy” was no longer the only adjective in my vocabulary.

  Epilogue

  Why we were ordered to the dock was baffling at the time, and the ten months that have passed since haven’t produced a satisfactory answer. The boss was reasoning that, historically, the price of sword has always been at its highest annual point following the full moon in November. So, in theory, if we were able to land this trip, return to the fishing grounds immediately, and land with a second trip during or after the next moon, we would have been rolling in dough. However, there is a very good explanation for the historic price spike in early winter. It’s a function of supply and demand. There are no fish to catch. It doesn’t matter how high the price is if you have nothing to sell. Swordfish migrate, and sometime between mid-October and the first of November they split, leaving the Grand Banks like tourists exiting Maine after Labor Day. They vanish. Poof—gone. And they do not return until the next season, which begins in late spring. We were ordered to unload in Newfoundland on the twentieth of October. I was nervous that by the time we turned the boat around (unloaded, cleaned, and resupplied) and got back to the fishing grounds, the proverbial fat lady could be finishing her encore and we’d be setting out in an empty ocean.