Seaworthy (17 page)

I saw a few inverted V's scattered between ten and fifteen fathoms, and my heart raced. Tuna. New regulations allowed me to have as many as I could catch. Old regs limited long-liners to one fish per trip, resulting in a few dead tuna being thrown back over the side (not much in the way of conservation). As tuna is more of a daytime feeder, we never catch that many of them while targeting sword. Giant bluefin tuna is sometimes worth its weight in gold. Fish that run between eight hundred and a thousand pounds each fill the fish hold quickly. I recalled a seven-hundred-pounder that I received thirty-five dollars per pound for, and I felt a happy flutter in my stomach. And bigeye tuna, although much smaller, were often very pricey. This was the time of year for the Grand Banks to produce tuna with high fat content, which usually rendered them more valuable than swordfish. Swordfish was our bread and butter. Any incidental tuna would be a bonus. If we landed a boatload of sword and a few tuna, we'd be fat.

Arch stuck his head in the back door and said, “We didn't get enough bait out of the freezer for eight hundred hooks. Should I thaw more out or cut it off at seven hundred?”

“This is looking really good, Arch,” I said, indicating the sound machine. “Let's set nine hundred. I wasn't seeing much until I started down the east side of the canyon.”

“Wow! Look at all of that bait!” Arch stared wide-eyed at the multicolored blobs that now filled the screen from fifteen fathoms to the surface. “Okay, I'll get a few more boxes thawed!” He hustled down the ladder and back to the deck, where I could hear his report to his shipmates over the intercom. “We're on 'em! She wants nine hundred. Mike, you keep throwing hooks, and, Tim, stay on floats while Dave and I get more bait up.” Now everyone was feeling the excitement and anticipation for the haulback. If you've done it right, hauling longline gear can be like Christmas morning every time you pick up the end buoy. And now the guys sounded like a bunch of kids expecting rewards from Santa for good behavior. I could feel the men's kindled excitement through the steel deck. I was in my groove.

Although live bait is where it's at in most hook fishing, frozen bait is the only option for the distant-water fleet. I had made the huge mistake of thinking I could catch squid for fresh bait one winter while running the
Hannah Boden
out of Puerto Rico. The boss rigged the boat with automatic jigging machines and gigantic spotlights to attract the squid, which are caught at night. The problem was that the jiggers were less than automatic, and what they produced needed to be iced. So our four hours of sleep each night was cut to no sleep at all. We couldn't endure that schedule for long and were thrilled to go back to dead, frozen bait.

I was relieved that Arch had taken the reins on deck. I was also happy that he had come up and asked what to do about the bait shortage. It sometimes took a few nights to get a correct amount of bait thawed, as the boxes all contained a different number of individual fish. After a couple of sets, an average becomes obvious. I recalled a time many sets ago, late in a long trip, when we were all at the end of our wicks and the guys hadn't thawed enough bait. Rather than asking me, knowing I would say to get more out because we always set a thousand hooks, they decided to cut the gear off at eight hundred. They had the deck all cleaned up and were headed to their bunks while I continued to work, oblivious to their decision. I was still zigging and zagging along the break and thinking I was making one hell of a good set when I noticed that there was no gear going out. I insisted, much to the crew's dismay, that they get out more bait while I found the end buoy with a searchlight. We tied back in and set the remaining gear with long faces and complaints on deck. The following day the haul was one of the best ever. We totally plugged the fish hold and went home. I never said, “See? I told you so.” But it was there.

Now, as it turned out, we ran out of line before we got all nine hundred hooks set. The drum was dangerously close to the bitter end when we cut the gear off. Although the many turns I made back and forth and around depth changes made it difficult to know exactly how many miles had gone over the stern, it seemed to me that we had set closer to thirty than forty. In fact, at an average speed of seven knots for four and a half hours, my math said approximately thirty-two miles. I had been told that the
Seahawk
's drum held forty miles, and it appeared to be full. We didn't have any spare line stored aboard. Now it was clear that we would fish short sets for the trip. We had also set every single float on the boat. Oh, well. We would make do. We had real synergy going for us.

We would just have to be more productive with less gear, I resolved as I shut the boat down for the night. We could squeeze a thousand hooks onto thirty-two miles. I had to put the gear on the meat every night and not waste any line searching or exploring. We certainly couldn't afford to lose any gear. I had a reputation for
not
losing gear. I was good with the RDF and better with radar. One of my strong points was estimating where a loose piece of gear would be when parted off. I would pay extra attention to wind and tide this trip. We would have to be diligent about clearing all snarls. We would be fine with the bare minimums. My mojo was alive and doing fine.

I climbed into the top bunk knowing that I would not sleep. I had actually begun to believe what Sebastian Junger had written about me. I wasn't just the only woman in the business, I was one of the best captains, period, on the entire East Coast. Of course, I knew that the number of captains remaining in this racket was damned small. But still, no matter how poor the results, I must be
one
of the best. A combination of excited anticipation for the haulback and questioning whether the self-deceptive mode was working overtime had me wondering. Mostly what I wondered was why successful fishing at this point in my life was so important to me. Hadn't the standard by which I measured my own worthiness grown beyond seaworthiness? Apparently not, I admitted as I imagined hauling aboard the first fish in ten years. I was certainly aware of times when everything looks perfect during a set but nobody's home the next day. And I hoped the haulback would put to rest the possibility that I had seen tonight through rose-colored glasses. My reality check was just a few short hours away. Tomorrow would answer a lot of questions.

L
ight westerly wind teased up the ocean's surface to just beyond ripples. The rising sun shone across and through, rather than down upon, the surface that flickered in flamelike, yellow squirming shimmers. It was unusually clear and calm for this late in the Grand Banks season. I had always been thankful for good weather. But more so today, since great conditions would be appreciated as the five of us ironed out wrinkles that had set in during a decade of storage. Mornings are gung ho at this longitude, fully alert and broadly lit while daylight to the west is still sleeping soundly. I had been up for an hour when I pulled on my knee-high rubber boots. As I stepped from the fo'c'sle onto the deck, I took in a gulp of cool air and exhaled a sigh of warm anticipation. This was day one in the persistence and determination that defined Linda Greenlaw. No matter what this haul produced—good or bad—it was only one day of many to come. Nevertheless, the first haul of any trip can be a defining pacesetter. A slow start could amount to a marathon, while a great day could mean a sprint to a quick finish. I had competed in a few hundred-yard dashes in my career. But most races required a little more leg and wind.

The first haulback would be primarily a physical test. I wondered if muscles had memory that could stretch to bridge a ten-year gap. Or would my physical ability be more like an old piece of pot warp left to dry out in the sun, faded and kinked beyond usefulness? Although I'd been tending lobster traps since my departure from blue-water fishing, my inshore life on the water was tamer in many ways. When I wake up at home to a screeching gale, I pull the covers over my head and wait for a better chance to haul my traps, with a comfort level enhanced by the thought that the traps are getting an extra night to fish. That is not an option offshore. If gear is in the water, it must be hauled back aboard or be lost. It's that simple. I am physically weaker than I was at thirty-seven. But I was confident that I could indeed work smarter and not harder, a combination that might make me more efficient than the younger, tougher me. This work would certainly lead to some sore muscles. I actually looked forward to some aches and charley horses. Like the emotional/psychological element, the physical component needed to fish for sword is more endurance than sheer strength. And I have always been more of a distance runner than a sprinter in terms of work.

Last night I'd given the crew the option of a wake-up call that would allow them time for breakfast. And all but Machado had agreed that they would indeed like to get up when I did. Machado wanted the extra thirty minutes in his rack, evidence that he was my only true veteran. I knew that the breakfast club would dissolve as the trip wore on and hunger was quickly upstaged by sleep deprivation. But this morning we ate oatmeal. I couldn't wait to leave the galley, as excitement mounted for what our first haulback would produce. If you're not excited for the very first haul, there's no hope. I had a reputation of being first on deck and last off when I worked as a crew member, and that attitude and persistence followed through my years in the captain's chair.

I took my position at the hauling station and looked upwind for the beeper buoy that marked the southeast end of our string of gear. I had steamed to the buoy just prior to inhaling my oatmeal. And sure enough, there it was, bobbing slowly and wagging its whip antenna. I put the engine in forward and jogged toward the buoy while the men watched and waited from their single-file lineup behind me along the port rail. Machado had not yet emerged into the light of day. Although it would have been nice to have him conduct very basic instruction to the others, I didn't actually need him until there was a fish on deck to be cleaned. Some guys are just unleadable. Machado might be one of the few who truly can't be pushed. Trying to light a fire under his butt could be counterproductive. Forcing, threatening, cajoling . . . My read of Machado so far was that nothing would work. Good thing I hadn't counted on him to set an example of a work ethic. And, I knew, the rest of the guys were all seasoned fishermen and had a good understanding of the process and procedures without ever having experienced long-lining for sword per se. We would get along fine without Machado. I hoped he'd come to life when a fish hit the deck.

The device used to steer the
Seahawk
from the hauling station was a jog stick, a small lever that sent an electrical signal that controlled the rudder. The jog stick was mounted on a steel plate next to the gearshift and throttle, where I could easily operate all with my right hand. The valve that drove the hydraulic main-line spool was just below the engine controls. And I could reach that with either hand, depending on what else I had going on. The men had built an eight-inch platform from some scrap wood for me to stand on while I hauled, without which the main line (as it is retrieved) would be too high for my five-foot-three stretch. I needed to be tall enough so that the hauling block, which was welded to the overhead, hung just above my left shoulder. Comfortable and effective hauling technique calls for the line to run over my shoulder and through my left hand while it comes out of the water so that I can grab or remove the snaps that attach the leaders to it and also to feel fish coming. I knew I would be a bit awkward at first, especially with the line rigged on the port side. But I'd hauled what I estimate to be tens of thousands of miles of longline gear in my life. So I assumed that I would adjust somewhat easily to being left-handed. Attitude would carry me until my rusty skill loosened up.

The beeper was alongside. I knocked the boat out of gear. Hiltz tossed a small grapnel to catch the line upwind of the buoy and pulled the rope tied to the grapnel hand over hand until he had the monofilament main line aboard. Timmy grabbed the line that was secured to the beeper and hauled the buoy aboard through the “door,” or the cutout in the side of the hull through which fish are pulled. Timmy turned off and stowed the beeper in its spot in the steel rack along the starboard rail, while Hiltz coiled and stowed the grapnel. Archie cut the knot from the end of the main line meant to keep the beeper from sliding off the bitter end and, with a barrel knot, tied the end leading into the water to the end coming from the spool. Timmy took a wrap of line around his hand on one side of the knot, and Arch did the same on the other. The two 280-pound men each gave a heave in opposite directions to cinch the knot up tight. We were hooked up.

I pushed the gearshift forward, turned the jog lever to straighten the rudder, and twisted the valve to start the drum spinning. As the drum turned, it wound the line onto it. The line was pulled from the water, through the single-sheave hauling block behind and above my left shoulder, through a second identical block mounted at eye level on the setting house's forward bulkhead, and across the work deck onto the spool. My left hand rode the line as it came aboard, feeling for the right tension. I would go through a lot of left gloves, I realized. Too bad I hadn't saved all the lefts from the years of right-rigged hauling. At the end of a trip, the captain always has quite a collection of gloves for the nonhauling hand, while the other half of each pair has been totally destroyed and discarded.