Seaworthy (2 page)

I
t had been a tedious, discouraging day of hauling lobster traps. My string of gear had been neglected, by both me and the lobsters, during a six-week stint of book touring, and the warps bore the telltale signs of inattention. These are the lines that stretch from buoys to traps, and mine were downright turfy with slime, sea-grass growth, and what could have been mistaken for the beginnings of a mussel aquaculture project. The catch was so pathetic I could see the bottom of the blue plastic barrel through the lobsters it contained at the end of the haul. With the price of bait and fuel soaring to an all-time high, it didn't take much math to figure that I was falling behind at a record pace. Disheartened, I threw a couple of buckets of water across the deck of the
Mattie Belle,
put her on the mooring, and headed home.

The bed of my pickup truck had finally slouched toward the road far enough to rub against the axle or the driveshaft or something else it wasn't designed to ride on. All the structural-steel components underneath were pretty well shot at this point, and even the wooden block that the island mechanic, Ed White, had jury-rigged had seemingly worn through. The Dodge Ram's 1983 body had been drooping for a while. But I had coaxed it along gingerly all summer, hoping to get one more season of service before coasting her onto a barge headed off-island and to wherever the junks end up once they finally die. I eased over the last couple of potholes, praying I'd reach my parking spot and avoid having to abandon the wreck of a vehicle in the middle of my own drive-way. I crept up a slight incline, swung into the shade of a stand of spruce trees, and was relieved to stop and put an end to the awful noise that the truck's most recent malady had produced.

Looking forward to a hot shower, I reached through the open window of my truck and released the door from the outside, as the latch no longer functioned from within, and stepped out of the sagging pickup. As I approached the house, the front door flew open and my two barefooted, blond-headed nephews, Aubrey and Addison, shot out and sprinted toward me. Ten-year-old Aubrey had a half gallon of ice cream under his arm and a spoon in the opposing hand, and his younger brother was chasing him frantically with a spoon of his own. They were both laughing and completely ignored my request that they close the door behind them.

Aubrey brushed by me and raced in the direction of his house, which was right next door. Addison stopped abruptly and stood stock-still as something apparently caught his eye. Before I could give him the bug lecture and ask that he please go back and close the front door, Addison flung the spoon (which I assumed came from my kitchen) into the bushes, dove headlong with arms outstretched, and pounced belly flop-style into the grass beside me. Just as quickly he was back on his feet with filthy hands cupped. “I got it,” he said quietly.

“Wow. What is it?” I asked, and bent down closer to have a look.

Addison popped whatever he held into his mouth and stared at me with blue eyes steeped in mischief. Sticking out his tongue, he exposed a large grasshopper. The bug sprang from his mouth, right into my hair. I let out a startled squeal and began swatting my head to free the grasshopper from tangled entrapment. It seemed this was the funniest stunt the seven-year-old had ever managed. He was laughing so hard he could barely scamper home. As he reached the woods between the two houses, I heard a faint reminder from the older brother: “Don't forget to tell Linny about the lamp.”

“It was an accident” was the last thing I heard from the nephews as I turned and started once again toward the house, wondering what had been added to the ever-growing list of household fatalities. The lawn, as shaggy as everything else in my life, needed help. Maybe I should cut the grass before getting cleaned up, I thought as I waded through the front yard to the mower. A dozen or so yanks on the pull cord were ignored by the mower, and just as I was resorting to checking the gas tank, the phone rang. Hoping it was my mother rescuing me with an invitation to dinner, I dashed into the house and grabbed the phone before it completed its third ring.

It wasn't Mom, but I was delighted to hear instead the voice of a friend from my swordfishing days, Jim Budi, who was calling from Fairhaven, Massachusetts. While Jim and I exchanged the usual greetings, I stepped over the kids' life jackets, a BB gun, a slingshot, a pair of muddy sneakers, and a bottle of glue to make my way to the freezer door, which had been (not surprisingly) left wide open. By the time I'd wiped up a puddle of Elmer's glue from the floor, Jim was down to the business of his call. He was looking to hire a captain to run one of the four swordfishing long-liners he managed. I had had similar conversations with Jim over the past few years and had always thanked him for considering me. But the timing had never been right.

I looked around my disheveled living room. I glanced out the window. The yard was sorely in need of taming. The truck was on its last gasp. My lobster traps were not producing enough to pay expenses. There was a pile of unpaid bills on the kitchen table. The timing would never be right, I thought. Or maybe this was what the right timing looked like? Every year that passed and I put off my return to swordfishing, the prospect of ever getting back out on the water became more remote. “I can do it,” I said, astounding myself with the level of irresponsibility I had achieved.

I felt myself flush with excitement. I was going swordfishing. I had never relaxed my grip on my most coveted identity—swordboat captain—and now I was going to live the dream one more time. I felt big and strong and courageous. I have always believed that the ability to answer the door when the right opportunity knocks is what separates truly successful people from the crowd. Here I am, I thought. My life is safe and comfortable. I have a deep yearning to go out of that comfort zone one more time. I need the reward that comes with great risk. I was truly living a blessed life. Cool things just kept happening to me (a few unpaid bills and an overgrown lawn notwithstanding). Jim Budi was offering me the chance to accept what might become my biggest personal challenge yet. And in classic “Casey at the Bat”-style, any truly great one would approach the plate one last time. I just hoped I was doing it with better results than Casey!

Before the end of our conversation, I understood that I would be reporting for duty in one week with a crew of four men. We were to make two trips to the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. The boat in the offing for me was the
Seahawk,
a boat I knew from the past as a solid producer and one that at just sixty-three feet in length was at the smaller end of the Grand Banks fleet. I tried not to focus on the fact that the most recent captain had died aboard her during a fishing trip.

The
Seahawk
had been dry-docked for several months following this unfortunate incident and was now for sale. Although a deal was in the making for her purchase, the prospective buyer hadn't actually come up with any cash. So, the owner of the boat was happy to have her recommissioned. Things had changed slightly during my sabbatical from swordfishing, Jim explained. But the changes were mostly just new rules and gear regulations that he could easily explain when I arrived in Fairhaven to help get the boat ready for sea. All I needed to do was hire four men who could pass the background check that the owner required and get the mandatory Protected Species Safe Handling, Release and Identification Workshop's vessel-operator certificate. This workshop was offered in Florida, Jim explained, and was designed to train fishermen how to safely handle and release protected species should they encounter any. In the case of long-lining sword off the Grand Banks, turtles were the concern. And although I had never killed a turtle, I realized the importance of getting the certificate.

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.