Seaworthy (13 page)

The smell of bacon made my stomach growl in anticipation. Oh, good, I thought, another low-cal meal. It was no wonder the crew tipped the scales at a good half ton among the four of them. If I wasn't careful, I would leave the boat after two trips shaped just like a porpoise. At my age it was getting difficult to keep my matronly figure. I wasn't vain about most things. But weight had always been an uphill battle. There were five pounds that I'd juggled around on a seasonal rotation, and they had refused to migrate out of belly fat as of late. Maybe if I worked hard this trip, I would at least look a bit fitter than I did right now. I would certainly burn off the rashers of bacon Arch served me. And the eggs and toast. I had been heavier in my younger days of Grand Banks fishing, but in better shape and stronger. Food was always a great diversion. When the chips are down, we eat and forget. I so enjoyed the plate of perfectly cooked eggs that I nearly forgot how rotten the past two days had been. Maybe that really was behind us now.

I was proud of the way we had all pulled together when the going was tough. And I was amazed at my ability to keep my cool. I had grown up, I realized, and out of the childish rages that many a crew had suffered. Ten years ago, in the same sequence of events that I'd endured this trip so far, I would have screamed my voice to extinction. I had never made a full trip without a touch of Grand Banks laryngitis. This would be a first.

It was nearly 10:00 A.M. and time for the daily morning report from the fishing grounds. I hopped out of the chair and reached to turn up the volume on the starboard SSB radio. The digital frequency display indicated that the radio had been set to 2182.0 megahertz, which is the emergency channel. That was curious, I thought as I turned the knob clockwise one click and then back in the other direction two clicks. I distinctly remembered leaving the starboard radio tuned to 3417.0 so that I could eavesdrop on the fleet and better plan my fishing strategy. Or was it the port radio that Timmy had finally succeeded in accidentally tuning to the right frequency? No, it was definitely the starboard. I now scanned a few more turns to the right and then back to the left. There was no three-megahertz channel. I felt the heat rise from the pit of my stomach to my neck and eventually to my face, where it burned. Angst increased with every spin of the knob. Someone had frigged with my radio! I spun the knob wildly, searching for anything that resembled the secret channel. I tried the other knob, which controlled the “groups” of channels in bunches of one hundred. Between the two knobs, I knew that the radio had the capability to store thousands of channels, and this knowledge fed my growing anger.

Playing with electronics while on watch is absolutely forbidden in my book. Plus, this radio wasn't like the one in your car; it had many knobs and buttons and was extremely complex to program. What could have possessed someone to change the frequency of the radio to the emergency channel? This was the breaking of what I considered a cardinal rule. Was someone planning to make a Mayday call? This seeming OCD behavior on my part could really become a question of life or death. I was now turning both knobs at once, one with the right hand and one with the left, both in the same direction, then toward each other and then away in opposite directions. The more I searched, the further I seemed to be getting from where I started. And there seemed to be no hope of returning. The blood that had now left my hands had accumulated in my temples, where it surged faster with every turn of the knobs. I clenched my teeth and resisted the urge to rip the microphone cord from the receiver. It was now 10:15. I wondered what the fish reports had been and whether anyone had given bearings of where they were working. I wondered how many fish had been caught so far today, and in what temperature water, and how deep, and with what type of bait. . . . I wondered how far ahead of us Scotty was, and when he would be making his first set, and where.

Just as I was ready to give up and find a heavy object with which to crush the radio, there it was—3417.0 flashed in the orange-lit digital display. Scotty was just signing off. He thanked Charlie Johnson for the information, wished him luck tonight, and said he would be north of him tomorrow and making his first set. Then the radio went back to static. I had missed the entire report. I let my arms drop to my sides from the radio over my head. My hands tingled. So Scotty would be fishing tomorrow night. I wondered where the small fleet was working and whether I could possibly reach the area by tomorrow or the next day. I didn't want Scotty to get too much of a head start. I couldn't believe that one of my geniuses had touched my radio. Who did they think they were? Watch meant watch; it did not mean play captain with the electronics. I took a deep breath, said to hell with self-control, and stepped out the back door of the wheelhouse.

Archie and Hiltz stood at the fish hold's hatch. Arch was applying a little Liquid Skin to the end of his thumb, while Dave ran a knife over a sharpening stone. They sure looked happy down there in the sun. I was pissed. I started down the ladder and was cursing before my feet hit the deck. In my own defense, I did not lose control. It was a conscious—if spontaneous—decision to go nuts. “Which one of you jerks decided to tune the radio?” They looked at each other, then back at me. “Some fucking idiot changed the frequency from where I had set it, and I just missed the fishing report.” This was met with looks of surprise and silence. “There are too many fucking captains aboard here! What the fuck? If anyone dares touch anything in the wheelhouse again . . .” And on and on I went. It was bad. Once I started, I couldn't stop myself. I swore. I threatened. I belittled. I called them names. I think I may even have stomped my feet.

“How were your eggs?” Arch asked with a tiny smile. That seared me. I wanted Archie to fight back. If anyone had assaulted me verbally, I would have uncorked like shaken champagne. I wanted these men to defend themselves and pledge their innocence or ignorance or something. I wanted them to give me something to take another swipe at. But they simply stood and stared at my face as it deepened in redness. This was Archie's gentle way of telling me everything was okay, and that I should take a deep breath. I took that breath, and the men went back to the knife and the thumb, unscathed.

S
o the jig was up. And, I realized, being captain had a lot in common with love—it meant never having to say “I'm sorry.” Thinking back, I couldn't recall ever apologizing to crew for lashing out, or anything else for that matter. I certainly would not begin now, which was significant to me in that it indicated a stoicism of sorts. It was practically tangible proof that I could point to and say with something well nigh to conviction, “There. See, I haven't changed.” As strange as this may sound, rather than being embarrassed for my outburst, I was in fact relieved that I still had it in me. And so spontaneous! I wouldn't waste any more time wondering whether my newfound ability to remain cool in any calamity was a result of maturity or a desire to portray myself in any particular way. That point was now moot.

Another pimple of positivity that came to the surface of this irritated boil of a situation was my ability to remain unmoved by what others might see as a blunder on my part. It's a type of grace that a person is born with, I think. It can't be learned. Either you have it or you don't. I've always had a knack for manipulating the sun at the center of my personal universe to keep me in the most favorable light, no matter what degree of cloudiness I have created. An offshoot of this mentality is the fact that it's nearly impossible to embarrass or insult me. Some might call it being thick-skinned. I would disagree. But whatever the case, this psychological twisting of “never let them see you sweat” had served me well through the years. It's not that I do not sweat. I just don't admit that I sweat. That's not to say that I have the power to bend light in the eyes of others. Basically I'm a master of self-deception. The upside of viewing life through rose-colored glasses is a deep and relentless optimism regardless of how bad others sharing a situation might perceive it to be. The downside is real disappointment and frequent disenchantment when reality finds its way through the sparkling glitter of my vision.

Archie and Dave had not been bothered by my tantrum. They had taken it neither personally nor seriously. Although their reaction was never verbalized, I got a sense that they found it humorous. Word spread quickly through the ranks, and the phrase of the week became “Meanwhile, aboard the
Seahawk
. . .” The original trigger point—that I didn't want anyone else playing captain—was lost when the handwritten sign that I posted in the wheelhouse—DO NOT PUSH BUTTONS, TURN KNOBS, OR ADJUST
ANYTHING
!!!—was replaced with one that Archie designed on his PC and printed in bold red letters. He even included all three exclamation points. There had been times, and this was one of them, when I found it easier to deal with fish than with fishermen. It was most definitely time to get fishing. Then the crew and I would all unite against a common enemy—the sword.

 

Swordfish and I had been adversaries for a long time, I thought as I sat back in the chair and mused over the bow and into the future. I like to think that I know my enemy, and reflecting on the past would be most helpful in reacquainting myself with this one. I had read most of the small amount of literature available on the biology of swordfish, and some of it is contradictory, indicating how little is actually known. Personal experience and observations through the course of my twenty-year work-study had taught me most of what I know about the behavior of swordfish. I couldn't help speculating on what that same experience had taught the fish. There have always been fish that just can't be outsmarted. And that is critical to their ultimate survival. I wondered what swordfish know about this predator and was immediately embarrassed by the thought. Did the fish know I no longer had a
need
to catch them? Did they know that wants were as strong as needs in me? Did they realize the lengths to which I would go to fulfill this particular want? What I wanted most in the world at this moment was to put a slammer trip of fish aboard the
Seahawk.
The fulfillment of this deep-seated desire hinged on my ability to know my enemy to the point of knowing where they would be prior to their arrival.

When I say “I love swordfish,” I am not necessarily commenting on them as a meal, although I surely do enjoy them in that capacity. Swordfish are the most interesting creatures! They are fascinating and intriguing in their unique combination of fish and sword—like a unicorn, but real. The facts and figures surrounding swordfish perhaps explain what makes them so worthy of my lifetime pursuit of them. The speed at which they travel, the distances they cover in their migration, and their strength all contribute to the quality most frequently attributed to them, elusiveness. I can't imagine a life spent digging clams or trapping slime eels—they're just so . . . ordinary. What's to know about a clam? You traipse around the clam flats looking for holes in the surface of the mud. One hole, one clam, as my Aunt Gracie used to say. You see a hole, you dig, and you find a clam. Big deal. A clam does not possess the ability to dodge the digger. Swordfish, in contrast, are mysterious and challenging and sexy. You never hear stories about the giant clam that got away. Clams have no personality. You've seen one clam, you've seen them all.

Although I had never regarded swordfish merely as hunks of meat, I sensed that my feelings about my relationship with the fish had grown into something more intimate or substantial in the past ten years when I was not pursuing them. Was this an example of absence making the heart grow fonder? No, nothing so sentimental. Time is money. I had a lot invested in this relationship. Defining that relationship is more complex (for “complex,” read “confusing”) than doing the same for most of my others. Each individual swordfish is an entity to be reckoned with. Long-lining is not casting a net and hauling in whatever gets in the way. It's a plan of attack that targets fish one at a time. Patterns of behavior lead to numbers being caught. But still, there is a point in each fish's capture or release when it's a one-on-one fight. That's the romantic part. The most beautiful and stoic picture in the fishery is the image of one human finessing one fish. Until the fish is either dead on the deck or swimming away, that relationship is absolutely tentative. The flip of a tail could amount to slack line and sunken hearts aboard the boat. The wrap of a line around something too solid results in the same line going slack. Weary arms and impatience also lead to pulled hooks and lost fish. Heavy weather always plays on the side of the sword. Often, big tangles of gear come aboard devoid of a fish that must have escaped before the real match. At times it seems that fish have a huge advantage in the battle.