Seaworthy (27 page)

W
ith all of this talk of managing, manipulating, and controlling, I would be remiss not to admit that fate also sits at the table with a fistful of cards. Managing Mother Nature is, of course, impossible. The best we can do in times of heavy weather and extreme sea conditions is to maintain that we are putting safety first, with the reality of knowing that we simply must retrieve whatever gear is in the water regardless of inherent danger. Unless the weather is so severe that I can't muscle the boat up to the end buoy to hook up to it in . . . let's say, three passes, we'll combat anything a low-pressure system can serve up until the last inch of line is spooled onto the drum. Preparing for the worst and hoping for the best is just not enough. Tossing arms in the air and giving in to what is conveniently deemed as fate or destiny is too easy. Although I preach personal responsibility and hold myself accountable for all that goes on aboard any vessel of which I'm in command, I have been made acutely aware of the role of what some might regard as the hand of God intervening at sea. The line between management and fate is somewhat equivocal and is always drawn subjectively in hindsight. This particular day, with ever-increasing wave height and wind velocity and deteriorating morale, my personal God seemed to have been having some fun at my expense.

Wind-driven spray had already left salty deposits in my eyelashes that scratched when I wiped them away with the back of a gloved hand. The best oil clothes money can buy are rendered useless when water seeks entry. My hood string was cinched as tight as I could get it without totally obstructing my vision or breathing. By the time we had half a section of gear aboard the boat, I was as soaked as if I'd just climbed out of a swimming pool. Gallons of water seeped down my neck and up my sleeves and pant legs, until my knee-high boots were full and running over, fountainlike. Cold wicked inward. There was no sense taking time to change into dry clothes, as they would only be drenched with the next inbound wave. Besides, I couldn't leave the deck and the controls in these elements when all hands were required to maintain some semblance of order in the hauling process. I was certain that every one of the guys was as wet and cold as I was, since water was just everywhere. Besides, none of my crew would be comfortable hauling the gear in these conditions even if I had the audacity to suggest it. So I accepted the fact that the five of us would be putting in another long, cold, wet day together.

The main line was still fouled up and showed no sign of straightening, which made it difficult to get into the rhythm achieved when longline is hauled efficiently. There was no point in trying to hustle. Hurrying would only make things worse. We were catching fish, and retrieving the line too aggressively just enhanced the chances of losing fish from hooks if they were pulled too hard. “Pulling fish off” was something I prided myself on
not
doing—even at the expense of precious time spent going slowly and easily along. A hook coming aboard with nothing on it but a gill plate torn from a swordfish's face when gear was hauled in haste was something that the men in the stern were quick to point out. I had received many scolding, guilt-producing looks in the past and knew that today's weather conditions would result in an increased risk of pulling fish off as the boat helped yank the line when it surged up and down violently. Methodical patience was the order of the day.

Every time we shipped a sea, I turned to find the men clinging to whatever they could until the water from the wave crashing aboard had cleared enough for them to resume their various jobs. Machado was having the toughest time, as each rush of water over the deck floated the fish he was attempting to clean and stow before the next fish or next surge came aboard. The station where the fish were headed and gutted was the middle of the open deck. Machado had nothing to break a wave or to hang on to or to hide behind. He was not a real fun guy this morning. In fact, he was enraged and swearing at the top of his lungs about the situation in general while chasing runaway fish carcasses that rolled back and forth across the deck in the ever-sloshing nuisance water. While the rest of us found some humor in his act, he got madder and madder. As each sea retreated through the scuppers, Machado collected himself, his tools, and his victim just in time to be swatted down and scattered again. I hardly dared to be caught casting a glance toward him, for I knew from my years of working on deck that the captain is held responsible for all discomfort—whether it's justified or not. In spite of Machado's apparent unhappiness with our decent production, the rest of us joined in brief cheers between struggling to perform our duties and remaining in the positions required for us to do so. Things could be worse, I knew. We could be fighting the weather and
not
catching fish.

I pushed the
Seahawk
's throttle up to wide open to swing her bow into the wind while another double marker was dragged onto the deck. As soon as the fish was safely aboard, I let the bow fall off, leaving the wind on our port side again, and I resumed the crawling pace along the serpentine gear. Just as I had the boat back on the gear properly, we took the worst wallop yet. Green water pounded the hull smack on our beam and cascaded like a giant waterfall over the rail. When the boat rolled to starboard, the volume of water collected and rushed that way, taking all that was in its path with it. My back was pressed securely against the side of the fo'c'sle, and I planted my feet to brace myself and avoid becoming part of the reaction. The boat rolled back to port, and the torrent buckled my knees briefly. I recovered and looked aft to see two fish slide toward the open door, followed closely by Machado, who was foundering flat on his belly and quite helpless.

The first fish went through the door and overboard. Machado's eyes were like saucers as he headed toward the opening through which the fish had just vanished. Although everything was happening at high speed, my memory of Machado is in slow motion. His arms and legs were spiraling much like the limbs of a turtle stuck on its back and struggling to right itself, to no avail. Thinking back, I imagine Machado as an astronaut out of gravity's grasp. Machado's expression was the perfect picture of sheer terror as he looked desperately for something to grab to save himself. A second fish splashed through the door that was now acting as a funnel for the deluge of exiting water. There was no doubt in my mind that Machado would immediately follow the fish. And there wasn't a thing I could do to stop him. I threw the boat out of gear to avoid moving away too quickly or chopping him up in the propeller should the boat be blown down on top of him. I wondered if one of the guys could throw the life ring quickly and accurately enough. Suddenly, just as Machado's head went over the threshold, Timmy appeared from out of nowhere. He dove onto Machado, pinning him hard to the steel deck and stopping him just short of being a goner.

It was quite a frightening scene. I had never lost a man overboard, and I understood that if one went in this weather, it would be extremely difficult to get the boat close enough to him to pull him back before he sank beneath the surface. My stomach turned as I had a flash to the story of a man lost off the deck of the
Hannah Boden
and sinking from sight while the crew failed in attempts to harpoon him. I deliberately wiped from my mind the image of Machado with a gaff hook in his head. If Machado had been lost and not recovered, would fate be blamed? Or would I be thrown under the bus for Mother Nature? Many a captain had lost interest in the sea following a trip home absent one crew member.

The water cleared. The boat stopped wallowing. I swung the bow into the wind to allow everyone a second to regroup before attempting to haul again. “Now, put that fucking door in!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “I don't care if it never comes out. Didn't I say to put it in before we picked up the end buoy? This is not
my
first trip! Put the fucking door in!” I didn't mention that we had almost lost Machado. I didn't need to.

The big guy was clearly and understandably shaken by the near miss. I had no time to console him or do a psyche check—my job today was to keep the boat on the gear and the gear coming aboard. I eased back into hauling while Machado collected himself. Sawdust flew in the gale as Archie ground down the door so it would appropriately slide in and out of the slots that held it as needed. And we needed to remove it twenty-five times that day. Production-wise, it was our best day of the trip so far—I estimated a conservative three thousand pounds. If we could make another seven or eight sets, we would be going to the dock with a very respectable load. It was a super-long day, but a good one. We were still chasing part-offs after dark. All in a day's work, I thought with a shiver. I was mildly hypothermic and relieved to be hauling the last few hooks under a spotlight not quite bright enough to allow me to see the leaders coming. As the snaps ran into my fist, through which I allowed the line to run, I removed them mostly by feel and handed them to Archie, who'd been working faithfully at my side for the last sixteen agonizing, yet oddly satisfying, hours.

“I see the beeper,” Arch said softly, referring to the welcome sight of the very end of the gear, marked by a strobe on the beeper's antenna that went in and out of view as it rode up onto a crest and down onto a trough. Seeing the end beeper after what we'd withstood today stirred emotion in the way I imagined hearing “Land ho!” at the end of a very long voyage would have done a century ago.

“Just in the nick of time,” I said with a smile.

“We were lucky to not lose Machado this morning,” said Arch. No one had mentioned the incident all day, although I assumed that everyone was still thinking about it, as the image of a man so close to probable death was not one that would fade quickly. I hesitated and finally decided that too much time had elapsed for me to respond. Arch would think I hadn't heard him. I was the first to have a turn in the shower, and I stood with the hot water blasting the back of my neck. As the feeling came back into my fingertips, I couldn't help but contemplate Arch's opinion of our having been “lucky” to still have Machado aboard. Not that I would dispute the sentiment of Archie's statement—just the phrasing. I've always had trouble with the word “luck,” even though I use it as often as other people do. Walking a line between believing that there are indeed things that can't be orchestrated or controlled and wanting to think that blame can only be placed on oneself in life makes for tough sledding when things go wrong. When events go against me, it's “the fickle finger of fate.” When all is well, I'm a genius.

Our society in general has a need to place blame. This propensity to hold someone or something responsible for what could easily be explained as an act of God has never been as clear as it became in the months and years following the Halloween Gale of 1991, known now as the Perfect Storm. Once the American public learned all there was to know about the events that led to the deaths at sea of the six fishermen of the
Andrea Gail,
the questions began. Wasn't there a problem with the boat's stability? Isn't it true that Bob Brown was a bastard? Wouldn't they have survived if the National Weather Service had accurately predicted the storm? Do you think the captain made a mistake in steaming directly into the storm? Why did he do that? The events of 1991 still intrigue and fascinate people. They often tell me I survived that storm because I'm lucky. I beg to differ. I feel as though I did everything right, and I attribute my survival to the seamanship and skill of myself and my crew. If I believed that luck had a hand in our survival, I would also have to believe that eventually our luck would run out and I wouldn't dare go to sea ever again. It's just too weird to believe that I'm alive simply because of fate and that Billy Tyne and his crew are dead because someone screwed up. Very few people are able or willing to shrug off ill fate as “bad things happen.” Someone must be at fault. It's just the way we are. Having said all that, I'll add that there are no atheists at sea. In times of peril, even the most stoic of seamen become quite prayerful.

Knowing and understanding the pervasive mind-set and the need to point a finger didn't make me feel any better about today's episode, which could have ended so badly. The general public would never hear about our
almost
losing a man. They would never hear about most of the daily heroics at sea. They wouldn't know the bravery of Timmy. Or the mental strength and fortitude of my men and what they had endured today. They wouldn't know the anguish and coping skills of men working and living like animals, who are sometimes subject to fate. It's funny, I thought as I sipped a cup of hot tea and watched the stars emerge from a hole in the overcast darkness, I blamed myself for almost losing Machado by not insisting that the door be placed in its slot, closing the gaping hole, in spite of the ill fit. If Machado were now in the past tense, I would certainly condemn heartless Mother Nature for taking him. But here on the water, “almost” doesn't count. I wouldn't give Machado's near demise another thought.