Seaworthy (26 page)

I wasn't happy to see Archie on deck when he was supposed to sleep during set out so that he could steam the boat back to the other end while the rest of us slept. But I imagined he was too keyed up to miss the very first mark on our fresh slate. He caught me looking down from the deck behind the wheelhouse, flashed a big smile and a thumbs-up. “We're fishin', Linny!”

And we were indeed fishing. We were doing business! We managed to get the gear out and back and back out again without missing a beat. Of course, it's important to note that I've been known to be optimistic to the point of delusional. We were not revolutionizing the sword operation, but we were putting fish on the boat. Our first haulback tallied twenty-eight fish that averaged a little over a hundred pounds each, a very respectable start. We were going through all the growing pains that are part of working a boat that has not been maintained to very high standards. Timmy, who had now proved himself invaluable in the engine room and on deck, was a real workhorse. He managed, with troubleshooting assistance from Archie, to keep everything belowdecks ticking. Because of the saltwater rain in the engine room, Timmy's daily maintenance was more extensive than what normally needs to be done aboard a vessel that doesn't have holes in the deck above the main engine. Timmy worked hard on deck, and even harder fixing run-down, derelict equipment. He took great pride in his work and smiled a lot when fielding frequent comments from the rest of us pertaining to his remarkable progress with the sow's ear. Not a day went by that I didn't get a report from Timmy: “I fixed it. I think we're okay now.”

The biggest daily difficulties were the ratty main line and the beeper buoys. Archie, who was getting virtually no sleep, was plagued at night by the weak signals from the beepers as he attempted to steam the length of the gear without running it over. The lack of good beepers made for very long nights for Archie and me. Neither of us felt right about leaving the other to the totally frustrating task of trying to get the boat to the end buoy by daylight guided by signals that were faint at best and didn't indicate the correct direction until the buoy was within eyesight—totally defeating the purpose of the buoys. And part-offs were the worst. We were averaging three part-offs a day, with two days of five. Parted gear is time-consuming enough with good beepers. But with buoys that don't work well, they eat up days like nothing else, leaving us hauling gear way after dark on some occasions and later than everyone around us on all occasions. We didn't have as much main line as reported before we sailed. And we wouldn't have been able to fish any more than what we had in its poor condition. We didn't have enough floats to fish more than eight hundred hooks anyway. This put us at a distinct disadvantage in the friendly competition within the fleet of boats fishing, some of whom were running fifteen hundred hooks out the stern a night. But we were putting fish aboard.

Archie was a godsend. He was a nursemaid to the crew, dispensing Band-Aids, Dramamine, and fatherly advice. He really was the glue that kept the other guys together in spite of the hardships we hadn't anticipated. He put a hearty meal on the table every night. This is not an easy task in bad weather, but it's imperative for morale. I never knew when, or if, Archie slept. But if he did, it wasn't when I needed him to take a watch so that I could. I have a most vivid picture in mind of Archie with a cutting torch working on a bird-nested main-line spool that had suffered the worst backlash I'd ever seen. The drum had spun faster than the line was going into our wake while setting out night number six, creating a rather dangerous situation with loops of slack line going everywhere. Some of the loops jumped over the end plates of the drum, jamming tightly into the bearing. We had to terminate the set at three sections and spent the rest of the night clearing the spool of the messed-up line. Archie, who had finally decided to take a nap, came running onto the deck when he heard the boat slow down and worked in the cold rain and wind in bare feet until things were right. His sweatpants were so soaked they wouldn't stay up. Whoever had a free hand kept it on the back of Archie's waistband. Otherwise I'm sure he'd have worked bare-assed.

Hiltz was great, too. He had finally passed his kidney stone, an occurrence cheered by his shipmates, who were monitoring his visits to the head and who met each exit with, “Well?” Hiltz was sort of funny, with his short fuse. He would get disgusted, throw his hands in the air, and say, “That's it. I've had enough. I quit.” The first time this happened, the guys were concerned. Hiltz took off his oil gear and went into the fo'c'sle, leaving us shorthanded on deck to finish hauling. He wasn't gone long, so I figured he was using the head. When he came back, he went right to work with a smile on his face as if he hadn't a care in the world. The quitting became a daily episode; he once quit three times in a single haulback. In spite of the drama, Dave Hiltz was truly a great asset to our team. He absolutely did what he said he would when I hired him. He filled in and did what was needed when it was needed, assisting his shipmates in their duties, making himself the most willing and competent all-around crew member. Hiltz had taken full responsibility for the leaders, which required him to stay on deck even longer than the others to keep the boxes full of pristine gear. Hiltz was always the first guy with a gaff when a fish was alongside, and he was always quick to help in the fish hold. When we were catching sharks, Hiltz jumped in to relieve with the pulling of heavy leaders and releases. Machado even taught him to clean fish just in case he fell behind in a real flurry and needed help. Which brings me to Machado.

Mike Machado had an uncanny ability to tiptoe along a very thin line between being irreplaceable and being fired. By the time we'd completed a week of fishing, Machado and I were in a true love/hate relationship, as far as I was concerned. His whining and complaints were nonstop, ranging from a lengthy punch list of boat problems to issues with the groceries. He was an anomaly, one minute exhibiting sheer laziness, then just getting the job done, then doing it really right. Machado snacked while lying in his bunk. He got up one morning and found an entire Kit Kat bar in one of the folds of fat under his chin. When he ate the melted mess, I was torn between disgust and admiration. In job performance Machado was a great butcher, cleaning fish with speed and expertise. He also had the right rhythm in the stern of the
Seahawk
while setting out, baiting hooks, and keeping everyone entertained. But he dragged his feet every step of the way, no matter what we were doing. However, I must say that when the going was at its toughest, Machado always stepped up. He stepped up when I needed him most. He stepped up his physical game when he had to, and he always exploited his greatest asset—his sense of humor. I remember clearly a couple of instances when the chips were down—a combination of bad weather and poor fishing—and Machado regaled us all with monologues that would put certain late-night television hosts out of business.

I went to the galley one night expecting some long faces after a day of miserable weather and four part-offs that cost us this particular night's set. I was anticipating giving a little pep talk to the crew. The words of a former boss, Bob Brown, were ringing in my head as I descended the stairs: “We work on a share basis. We share the good, and we share the bad. Right now we're sharing the bad.” Archie was putting food on the table as well as he could with the boat rocking and his eyes tearing from laughter. I had missed Machado's first act, so I caught his routine in midperformance. He was really getting on Archie about the menu. “Really, Arch, I'm not kidding. Gravy is not a food group, nor is it a staple of anyone's diet. Please tell me we have vegetables aboard. I mean, other than onions and potatoes. Come on, Arch. Where are the veggies? You know, the green stuff that grows in gardens? We
do
have some, don't we? Because I haven't seen any this trip. How about a salad? Did you order any lettuce? How about cabbage? I like coleslaw. We don't have a single veggie on board, do we? I'll have the first confirmed case of scurvy in the last century. My fuckin' teeth are rattling.” And this from the guy who has treasure hunts for chocolate bars buried in his body parts.

“We have vegetables,” Arch confirmed through a real deep stomach laugh. “In fact, we're having stuffing tonight. See?” And Arch set Machado's plate in front of him.

“Stove Top stuffing is not a vegetable, Arch. Jesus! Ronald Reagan told America that
ketchup
was a vegetable! He's responsible for an entire generation of malnutrition. Okay, forget about the green vegetables. Broccoli and spinach are apparently off the menu for the next forty days. But what about carrots? Or tomatoes? What the fuck? By the end of this trip, my teeth will have fallen out and I won't be able to chew a carrot anyway. Okay! Now I understand the abundance of cream-style corn aboard this fuckin' scurvy raft.”

Arch held up the stuffing container, slipped his glasses from his forehead to the bridge of his nose, and read, “Celery, onions, parsley. That's green!”

“Onion
powder
and parsley
flakes
? You're trying to pass that shit off as vegetables? I never thought I'd be jonesing for asparagus. Linny, how's my complexion? I'm feeling weak and depressed. My gums are bleeding!” Now I was laughing so hard along with the crew that I couldn't answer. Not that Machado needed one. He kept going. The last I witnessed before taking my dinner topside was Machado holding the blue box of Morton kosher salt close to his cheek, caressing the picture of vegetables in the logo, and muttering, “Veggie porn, veggie porn.”

Each time we had to miss a night of fishing because of late finishes in hauling due to part-offs and sick beeper buoys, we lost our place in the lineup with the fleet. But because we didn't set out, I had the next day to find a new berth—or search for greener pastures, as it were. The good nature of my crew only enhanced my attitude that the glass was barely one-quarter full. We had shifted positions a couple of times. It didn't seem to make much difference, as the fishing was just sort of average and we knew we needed to stick it out and keep grinding to put a trip on.

We were getting geared up for our eighth haulback when Archie couldn't pry Machado from the galley table without feeding him yet another pancake the size of a manhole cover. I was at the breaking point. I was on deck with Timmy and Hiltz and waiting for another warm body to begin hauling. The weather was foul, and I was already anticipating a long day when Machado finally graced the deck with his sauntering presence. The waves were building, and we took a sea that caused his dainty little foot to slip about an inch to one side from where he'd planted it while carefully donning his gloves. That was it. Machado went into one of his hissy fits, cursing the boat and its owner and declaring this whole scene a joke. He looked up at the sky, as if pleading with God to free him from his misery. “I'm a grown man! Why am I out here? I have a real job. This boat is sucking the life out of me!” The big guy was seriously frustrated. But I figured he'd work through it. He'd step up today. The weather was treacherous—the worst we'd seen yet—and we had thirty-two miles of gear to get aboard.

As I jogged up to the first beeper and attempted to get close enough for Hiltz to hurl the grapnel, we took one tremendous sea that flooded the deck and floated my platform so that I was now standing on a raft that was trying to go downriver. I held on and squinted into the wind-driven spray while the beeper came aboard. “Put the door in,” I said, referring to the large wooden plate that closed the opening in the gunwale through which we pulled fish from the water and onto the deck.

“It doesn't fit! It gets stuck, and we'll never be able to get it out!” Timmy yelled, so he could be heard above the screeching wind. We took another sea that sent gallons of water directly down my neck, the length of my body, and into my boots. Great. I was already soaked, and we hadn't hauled a single hook aboard. This would be another fun-filled day on the
Shithawk.
My goal was to keep the boat on the gear and the gear coming aboard. I prayed for a day with no part-offs, which was like hoping for a miracle. As luck would have it, we caught two double markers right at the start. Two two-hundred-pound fish with the first five hooks! It was very exciting. The combination of fish and weather had the gear pretty snarled up, and we struggled to clear the mess. I was hustling in anticipation of the next fish and a big day. The gear is normally in one continuous line that zigs and zags but does not intersect itself. This first mile or so of this line looked like a doodle scrawled on a notepad after a very long, very boring meeting. The gear was everywhere. We had a major frig. And the weather didn't help.

I was in the middle of untangling three leaders that came up twisted together with our third fish, which had just broken the surface, when we got plowed by a wave that filled the entire workspace. The boat listed to port, and the water began to clear over the rail. All I could do was grab a steel post to avoid being swept overboard. I held on as the waist-deep water washed by me like a torrential undertow threatening to suck me away. I looked aft to check on the guys. I quickly counted four heads and went back to concentrating on holding on. Today's conditions would be the supreme test of my management skills. Head counts were something I guessed were unique to this industry. In other, landlocked careers, not punching a clock or missing a meeting was barely noticed. But here, being absent from deck was potentially tragic. Truancy in other jobs might lead to loss of pay or employment. A no-show after water clears aboard a commercial boat likely means loss of life.

Today I would have my hands full keeping the boat on the gear and the gear coming aboard the boat, and making sure the crew was all still on deck. This was the fishing business. We weren't doing a banner business. But we were fighting and succeeding in all aspects. Although we weren't yet the well-oiled machine I knew we would eventually be, we were making strides physically and meeting psychological challenges. Even the fishing ocean showed signs of succumbing to our charms.