The stories he’d tell of being in the rack, four Calcutta poles tied to one hook, lifting two hundred and fifty pound yellowfin as they streaked towards the surface, inhaling the squid, filled my nights with dreams of fish so big they could swallow a man whole.
“If you didn’t time it just right, and they got their heads pointed away, man oh man, were you in for a world of hurt. Nothin’ like liftin’ fish,” he’d say, the memories dancing behind his eyes.
He taught me how to wrap white chicken feathers and cow hide into perfect squid baits. He taught me how to tie the right kind of knots for whatever we were doing. He taught me how to read the water. How to look for signs. What initially had been nothing but liquid surrounding us on our daily runs, slowly turned into a virtual landscape—overflowing with information. Rich in texture. Teaming with life. Radiating like neon street signs pointing which direction to go. He showed me how to recognize temperature breaks, currents back eddies and wind rips. He even taught me how to smell the oil that herring leave on the surface after having been balled up and worked over by a school of salmon. He taught me to watch the birds. “What’s going on above the water is a mirror image, reflecting what’s going on below it.”
And sure enough, we’d pull up on a big bird school, diving and working a bait ball, and you could see the fish flashing under the bait, scales rippling down. “Just like an hourglass,” he’d say.
He taught me to respect the sea—to listen to her rhythms—and most importantly, to heed her warnings. “For when she unbridles her fury, no man, beast or ship is safe.” He taught me an appreciation for the cycles of life, showing me how everything is connected. “We’re all just guests here on this big blue beautiful orb, ” he said, holding his arms out, eyes smiling, his face pointing to the sky, “… bobbin’ around in our own little lifeboats. Treat her well, and she’ll do you the same.”
Three years later, Mom died. The morning we scattered her ashes from the boat, there wasn’t a wisp of wind.
The only sound was the low, steady hum of the diesel. Hanging like a shroud around us, the fog was so thick you could hardly see the bow, but Grandpa navigated through the harbor like it was the back of his hand. Few words were spoken. Grandma held me tight by her side the whole way out. I was doing all right until I felt her shiver. I looked up and watched a tear drop down her cheek. Seeing her crying made me start balling like a little girl. Men didn’t cry in Grandpa’s world. I knew it, but couldn’t stop. He glanced over at us without saying anything.
After awhile, he pulled the boat out of gear and shut off the main. The instant silence was overwhelming after the comforting, steady drone of big iron. It took a hundred yards for us to stop gliding across the sheet glass water. When we did, the priest, a long time family friend, spoke in quiet tones about what a wonderful woman my mom had been. We joined him in The Lord’s Prayer. Then, without any fanfare, Grandpa scattered Mom’s ashes overboard. They ever so slowly filtered down towards the water spreading out like a giant cumulus cloud. A cloud with wings, I thought to myself, tossing a bundle of hand-picked flowers onto the disappearing ashes. Grandpa gave Grandma a squeeze, thanked the priest, fired the main back up, put the boat in gear and spun us around for home.
When we got back to the dock and got the boat secured, Grandpa looked me in the eye. “You still hankering to move back onto this ol’ boat?” he asked.
I was shocked. “Yes, sir,” I managed to say. “You know I am.”
“Then go ahead,” he said. “You’ve been doing a good job tending to her all these years. She’s old, but she’s solid. You two take care of each other.”
I didn’t know what to say. I threw my arms around him and squeezed for all I was worth. No one ever hugged Grandpa. I felt his spine stiffen, but he let me hold on for a couple of heartbeats. Then he patted me on the back like a dog and took hold of my shoulders. His stare could have bored holes through granite. He was one of the most respected and powerful men on the waterfront—a big, tough Swede who had fish in his blood. The few who challenged him did so only once. He ran his domain with an iron fist and, in my case, a well-cured leather strap that made its acquaintance with my young ass on more than one occasion. In his world, there were no excuses, no second chances. His motto was: Do it right or pay the price. Just like the sea.
He nodded slowly before continuing. “Go ahead. Get your things and move back here. But if I hear so much as a rumor about you missing a day of school or causing any problems, it’ll be your ass. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.” There I was, sixteen and being told I could move back on board. I loved my grandparents, but living on the boat alone …
“Thank you,” I said, offering my hand. His grip was uncompromising. “I won’t let you down.”
Grandpa nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out the keys to the old '51 Ford pickup I’d been driving around the cannery for the past three years. “You earned this,” he said with a satisfied nod, handing me the keys. “You worked hard. Never asked for anything and never complained. I’m proud of you, son.”
I didn’t know what to say. Tears started to well up, and my chin started quivering. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying again.
“Work hard. Be true to yourself,” he told me. “Everything else’ll take care of itself.” He paused, looking out across the harbor into the fog. “Moving back onto the boat, you’ll be on your own. You got work at the cannery if you want it, but I’m not going make you come in. If you find something better after school, or you want to play ball—fine. If not, you’ve been working deck and cutting fish now long enough. You know good grade the instant you see it. If you want, you can start running one of the boats. Up to you.”
“No shit, Grandpa?” I blurted out, without thinking.
He frowned at my language, but a smile managed to crease his lips. “Like I said, son, you’ve earned it.”
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Chapter 2
The three of us had grown up together—a couple of dock rats and the homecoming queen—an unlikely threesome if there ever was one. Karyn was from an esteemed, respected family who lived high up on the hill, way past my grandparents’ house. Shane and I were born and raised on boats, sons of the sons of fishermen. When we were only kids, no one seemed to pay us any attention, nor did we seem to care if they did. But as we grew into adolescence and were seen doing everything together, people started talking. “That sweet young thing, always surrounded by those boys. She’s developing into such a beautiful young lady. She shouldn’t be spending all her time with those boys from the docks. It’s not right.”
We were certainly not the type of young men an outstanding family like Karyn’s wanted to have courting their only daughter. But all the fuss was in a world we could care less about—an adult world miles from our own.
Weekends were heaven. Exploring the sights and sounds of Seattle, we roamed the open-air markets of the waterfront. For as long as each of us could remember, we had been inseparable. In our youthful innocence, we thought nothing would ever change that—until gangs of raging hormones made their way into our young bodies. Before we knew it, they started dominating our world. It was only a matter of time before either Shane or I would get the girl—one of us tasting the sweet nectars of love; the other left alone to discover just how important a young man’s right hand really