Seaworthy (10 page)

And with that, Arch essentially took on the role of first mate. He became the go-to and the go-between, effectively relieving me of running up and down between three decks. Archie carried out my wishes and orders even when he disagreed with them. Now he went below and returned with the anticipated results. No one was quitting. We were all in, from dock to dock, as they say. “Oh, that's too bad,” I said. “I don't suppose I have grounds to fire either of them. They haven't actually done anything wrong yet.” Arch was quick to agree that I certainly could not fire anyone. But I knew he would smoothly slip that concept into his next visit to the galley table.

I sounded like a bitch, but this was actually one of many mind games that fishermen, and men of the sea in general, play to occupy nonworking hours. I preferred having the men nervous about the security of their jobs to me worrying that they were quitting, and scrambling willy-nilly for adequate understudies. This was a lot more entertaining than measuring the depth of dips the stern of the
Eagle Eye II
made with each bob, which was the only other amusement I had. This drama had real potential. The theatrics inherent in life in a small, tight-knit island community had nothing on life aboard a commercial fishing boat. I knew that as soon as we all got busy going about our business, things would be A-OK. We would be so busy working once the engine was fixed that the games would be delayed until the next dull moment. This was just like home.

 

In spite of the men's multiple offers to take watches, I stayed up all night. It wasn't until Scotty called the next morning and said that he was delivering us to Sambro, Nova Scotia, that I gave in to boredom more than sleepiness and went to my bunk. We were fighting a bit of tide and would, according to Scotty, arrive outside Sambro Harbor that evening at around ten. At that time we would drop the tow and pick up lines from a Canadian coast guard vessel that would escort us right to the dock, where a certified Cummins mechanic would be waiting. With a solid plan in place and everything seemingly organized, I managed to get a bit of sleep, waking to the sight of a thin, gray line of land off on the distant horizon.

Just before 10:00 P.M., we dropped Scotty's towing bridle from our bow. And like a dog suddenly liberated from a taut leash, he was gone without so much as a whimper, free of the sixty-three-foot hunk of steel that he'd been tethered to for nearly twenty-four hours. Adios, amigo, I thought, and imagined that his reply would have been more of a good riddance—and rightfully so. As the lights of the
Eagle Eye II
disappeared behind a headland, a sharp twinge of anxiety swept over me quite unexpectedly. Depending on how long we were laid up, Scotty would be gaining a real advantage. He'd certainly reach the grounds before I did, giving him first dibs on the water. He might make several sets before we arrived and have part of a trip aboard before we landed a single fish.

The old familiar wheels of competition had begun to turn. My competitive spirit in the past had always been driven by hunger. “A hungry dog hunts harder” is what Alden used to say. Now, it wasn't exactly the case with me that I actually wouldn't eat if we came up short on the catch. My hunger wasn't literal. I wanted to be on the water for many reasons—not just financial. I wondered if competition just for the sake of it would be enough to drive me now. The only thing I really had at stake was my reputation. My crew would not suffer unduly without huge paychecks. I reminded myself that I had never fished for the money. I fished for the love of it, and I imagined that the competition was part of what I loved.

But, I realized, I had never fished when I wasn't living from hand to mouth. Desperation was always good motivation, but it came at a price. Some part of me was glad to know that it wasn't life or death, but another part of me was relieved to feel the burning in my stomach when I thought of Scotty getting such a jump on me. The desire to outfish my comrades came quite naturally. I felt myself slipping into the comfort of more familiar ground, less
acting
and more
being
captain. I wished the Canadians would hurry up.

The small powerhouse of a vessel out of Sambro was manned by several Canadian coastguardsmen. The warning-orange boat was alongside and throwing lines to my crew before my impatience could be verbalized. Secured to the
Seahawk
's hip, or made fast to our port aft quarter, the smaller boat had no trouble manhandling her incapacitated rescuee. Absolutely smooth and professional, Canadian mariners were among the best in the world, I had always believed. The Nova Scotian captain really put on a show at the wharf. A couple of thrusts of his engines and there we were, without creating so much as a ripple. Dock lines were heaved to men waiting to receive them. The towboat cut loose and pulled away to its berth across the harbor.

Among the guys on the dock stood a tall, gray-haired gentleman wearing a jumpsuit. A large steel toolbox rested at his feet. “You must be the Cummins man,” I said, looking up from the deck.

“I am.” And that was the end of the dialogue. Timmy helped the mechanic aboard by grabbing the box of tools, and they both disappeared through the entryway and down into the engine room.

I was greeted by a cheery man in a wheelchair who introduced himself as my port agent. His last name was Henneberry, familiar to me as a family of highliners, or top-notch producers, on the international fishing scene. The tide was low enough to prohibit me from climbing up or him from sliding down. So I reached to shake his hand and receive some paperwork required by customs and immigration. “Just fill in the blanks, and I'll be around tomorrow to pick them up,” he said. I thanked him, bade him a good night, and headed for the warmth of the galley, where I spread the forms on the table.

The same basic immigration and customs forms I had filled out time and again when entering any foreign port, they mainly asked for names and passport numbers. We had no booze or guns. Machado was our only smoker, and he claimed three cartons, which were supposed to be kept in a locked compartment. The process was laid-back relative to what happens in larger ports.

After supplying me with his passport information, Machado requested permission to leave the boat. He had a friend on the dock and had been invited to “go out.” This “going out,” in my vast past, had often led to nothing good. But I really couldn't tell a forty-year-old man that he was grounded. He promised to be back aboard first thing the next morning and was gone. I was a little nervous about the games I had dabbled in earlier and sincerely hoped that Machado wasn't headed for the airport in Halifax. He'd certainly get the last at-bat if that were the case. I wished that I trusted Machado. He had given me no reason to distrust him, but I didn't know him well. What I did know, or at least believed, was that he was smart in a streetwise way about the ropes, hoops, and loopholes in the unwritten rules engaged in by captain and crew in what sometimes is more of a battle than what is normal in conventional working relationships. Compared with Machado, the rest of the crew were naïve in the ways and wiles of this salty workaday world. Liking Machado was not a struggle. He was eminently likable. There was just a little something there—a cleverness that put me on edge—that I found challenging. His range of experience in commercial fishing put him in my league. He might even have a few moves I hadn't encountered. And if Machado outfoxed me, it would cost some time. Lost time would equate to Scotty's getting more of a head start on his trip. I couldn't have that.

Archie and Hiltz seemed content to hang around the galley with me. We listened to Timmy screaming over the generator and were amused that there was never any response from the mechanic. “Maybe he's using sign language,” Arch suggested. Hiltz nodded and flipped a double bird. This seemed very funny at the time. We laughed hysterically until tears formed. Looking back, it doesn't seem a bit humorous. But I'm sure that we were stressed to the point of silliness and needed some comic relief. And Machado, who was our usual supply of jokes, had left us to our own devices. When the weight of anticipation got to be too much for me and my belly ached from laughing, I reluctantly decided to descend to the engine room to check on progress and hear the prognosis.

Before I made it halfway down the stairs, I met Timmy coming up. Glad to put distance between me and the noise again, I hurried back to the galley with Timmy close on the heels of my rubber boots. “How's it looking?” I asked.

“The mechanic is great,” Tim said as he wiped sweat from his forehead with a paper towel. “So far he's found two bent push rods that appear to have been caused by the hasty rebuild. Every bolt securing rocker arms had backed out to finger tight. It's a wonder we didn't trash the entire engine.”

“So we
didn't
trash the entire engine?” I asked nervously.

“No. He's still checking, measuring, tightening—but I think we'll be fine. He brought rods, and so far he hasn't found anything that will keep us from getting back out tomorrow. Or is it today now? It's a good thing we didn't run the engine any more than we did. It could have been a lot more serious.” This was the best news!

Archie clearly understood diesel engines as well as Tim did. They theorized on a few points that were slightly beyond my mechanical-engineering acumen. Basically they assumed, based on what had happened, that the mechanic who did the recent work may not have retorqued the bolts after the engine had been put through the usual paces following work that required certain tension strengths to be put on threaded fasteners that hold various engine parts together properly. Once a newly rebuilt engine is brought up to temperature, it's vital to check and retighten as necessary due to the effect of heat on steel. “It's an expanding and shrinking thing,” explained Arch.

I was greatly relieved to understand that we would be throwing the lines off the dock at first light. We had certainly lucked out this time. Tim went back to assist the mechanic, while Arch, Dave, and I remained in the galley extolling our good fortune, our great mechanic, and our hardworking shipmate. We wouldn't be far behind Scotty if we could indeed get under way in the next few hours. In fact, with Scotty going to Newfoundland to pick up two crew members, we could actually beat him to the grounds. I had always done what I could to have any perceivable advantage over my fellow captains, and getting first hooks in a certain piece of water that might be more productive than its surroundings would be huge. The North Atlantic Ocean is vast, and there are hundreds of square miles where swordfish can be caught. But there are known hot spots, and I now had a shot at one of them. The ability to get the first set under my belt before Scotty arrived on the scene was within reach, and the prospect of gaining an edge excited me.

I didn't voice any of this to Arch and Hiltzie, as doing so might put me in less than a good light. The more I considered my situation, the better I felt. I'm not proud of these feelings, but there they are. Scotty had just sacrificed this same advantage I sought by doing me a favor. Great! This is a classic example of the thinking that separates fishermen from the rest of humankind. Perhaps my hunger hadn't been sated after all.

The only spoiler to our second auspicious weighing of anchor could be Machado, I reflected while Arch and Dave helped Tim with the tools as the mechanic of few words stretched a long leg across from boat to dock. Mr. Henneberry had come and collected our paperwork for customs. The engine had been given a clean bill of health. We were discharged and had only to wait for Machado to grace us with his presence before leaving Sambro and charging back on course toward prosperity.

We all conceded that we could use some sleep, and with a man still ashore there was no reason not to take a short nap. My errant crew member had been so nonchalant about showing up in Fairhaven to help prep for the trip that I figured there wasn't a chance he'd step aboard at dawn following a night on the town. Shore leave in a foreign port often leads to an attitude of carefree gluttony made easy with the knowledge that anyone you happen upon is a stranger. And how could scandalous words of drunkenness or bad deeds possibly find their way so many miles home, against the tide? These thoughts had led to trouble and, at the very least, to late arrivals with hangovers—it had happened so frequently that I knew I had time to close my eyes for a while before going ashore myself to track down Machado. But I was too wired to sleep, thinking of the miles Scotty had gained already.

Then, just as the crew had turned in, Machado was climbing aboard. “Good morning, everyone!” He appeared to be in great shape considering what I suspected of his overnight activities. Beyond surprised, I was shocked to see him so early. “Hey, you should see the mackerel at my buddy's freezer plant. It's gorgeous!” This was so far from what I expected to hear that I was confused. Had he really spent his night of shore leave checking out bait? “Linda, I know you're not thrilled with the bait we have on board. We can get some great-looking stuff delivered this morning if you want—mackerel or squid.” Machado was right regarding my opinion of the ten thousand pounds of frozen mackerel I had reluctantly left Fairhaven with. Most of the fish we had were freezer-burned and on the small side. I had rejected one pallet of bait that was worse than the rest, but I had to take something. Good bait always equals good fishing. “The mackerel is huge!” Bigger bait had always resulted in bigger fish. This would be another, even greater asset than beating the
Eagle Eye II
to the fishing grounds.

“What's the price?” I asked.

“Cheaper than that shit we got in Fairhaven. We can't afford not to take some. And Malcolm has an account in good standing with my buddy. All I have to do is say the word, and he'll be here with whatever you want.” Machado held out his cell phone, poised to dial.