“It’s just dawn,” she said. “Plenty of time to steam back.”
“Not in this blow. I wants to get ’er all unloaded and weighed and the boat cleaned before dark, Lizzie.”
She stepped down onto the deck and peered through
the trap door into the hold. “But we don’t have our trip limit
yet, Dad.”
He knew that. It was nearing the end of the season, and the ocean floor had been pretty well depleted. He blamed the huge factory freezer trawlers that were out fishing the grounds all year round, while the small local boats were trapped in the harbour by pack ice. The freezer trawlers could stay out on the grounds for weeks, while he and the other locals had to steam 250 kilometres back and forth from the shrimp area to port every few days with their haul.
He knew in his heart it was a dying industry for the small fishing boats. A few years ago he’d made very good money in shrimp and snow crab, but on the last net haul, they had picked up only a half load of shrimp in their allotted time.
“I’m burning more money in gas than I’ll make doing one more haul,” he replied. “And the dock monitor is expecting us by eight.”
Lizzie still wore her stubborn face, but she banged on the wall of the cabin, where her brothers were already tossing back the blankets and pulling on their gloves and boots. Norm slowed the engine, and within minutes his sons had the winch going. The frame shuddered and the huge cable began to creak and groan. Lizzie leaned over the stern of the boat, peering into the churning wake for the first glimpse of the net. Norm felt the familiar quiver of anticipation. Even after years of trawling — first cod, and now snow crab and shrimp — that small, peculiar rush of fear and excitement had never gone away. That moment when the net came into view and he could see how big the catch was, or whether some unexpected rock or shelf had shredded his net. One time a discarded kitchen stove had ripped a hole so big that he had lost half his take.
The beam of the net broke the surface, followed by the floats, skimming along like a string of children’s balloons. His sons ran to each side to guide the ends of the net. So far so good. Norm strained to see the cod end of the net. Plowing through the wake, fighting the tow ropes with a whoosh of foam, the net broke through the surface briefly before sinking back below. In spite of his caution, his heart leaped. Shrimp! Maybe as much as a thousand pounds!
Lizzie leaned way out over the stern. She didn’t look afraid. That was Lizzie, too stubborn to know fear even when she should. Or maybe just too green. She’d been out in boats since near the day she was born, but the ocean had never treated her bad.
“Look at that ball, Dad! We hit the mother lode! Finally!”
He tried not to let himself get excited. He didn’t hold much hope that the big ball was full of shrimp. More than likely they had picked up a whole lot of bottom junk. Lizzie could wish all she liked, but he knew there were not many shrimp to be had. Whole beds were near empty now where ten years ago, when he’d first switched from fish to shrimp, the ocean floor had been teeming with the little buggers. All you had to do was dip your net and haul them up.
No more. The smaller guys like him were lucky to pay for their boat loan, their gas, and the shrimp licence. Screwed once again by the pencil-pushers up in Ottawa, who always gave the big boys first rights. “Careful now!” he shouted back. A stiff wind was coming up, blowing clouds over the rising sun and dropping the temperature five degrees. Waves were beginning to slap the boat around. The net could spin away from her, knocking her clear off the boat into the frigid sea.
When the ball of the net was almost clear of the water, the boys slowed the winch to check the net. Something looked odd. The boat pitched and fought through the chop, and the ball swirled. Not smooth and symmetrical, but bulging out on one side. Setting the rudder, Norm left the engine and came aft for a closer look. Strange colours peeked through the bulge in the green netting. Not the shiny pink of shrimp nor the silver sheen of fish, but rather a chequered pattern of blue and red.
“Pull ’er in slowly, Lizzie,” he said. “Let’s see what we gots here.”
Together they all guided the load in, bracing themselves against the pitch and toss of the boat. Soon the net was fully in view, the water, sand, and ocean muck streaming from it as it was winched up over the deck. He stopped the winches briefly to study the huge ball of wriggling pink shrimp suspended in the air. Saw the occasional flash of silver fish in the morning light. But something else too, buried in the squirm of shrimp. He peered closer. Cloth? A jacket blown overboard? A boot tossed by a careless sightseer?
He guided the ball lower toward the deck, turning it slowly for a better look. Spotted a red-and-blue jacket, black pants, and a running shoe.
Just as he made sense of the whole, Lizzie screamed.
Chris and Amanda loaded her bike into the back of his truck and were working their way slowly up the northern peninsula, asking questions and showing Phil’s photo in every coastal village along the way. Chris was out of uniform and he’d learned the fine Newfoundland art of banter, but even so, people took his questions seriously. Legends of people lost at sea loomed large in village lore. By the end of the day, Amanda was even more grateful he’d come along.
It was nearly sundown before they had their first confirmed sighting at the Seaview Motel, a plain white clapboard bungalow on the side of the highway near Black Duck Cove. Phil and Tyler had stayed there two nights earlier. The poor buggers had planned to camp on the beach, the motel keeper said, but the rain was blowing sideways and your man took pity on his boy.
Amanda nearly jumped for joy. They were on the right track, albeit two days behind. More importantly, Phil hadn’t done anything crazy. He was working his way up the peninsula, still apparently following his plan.
“Did they say where they were going after they checked in?” she asked.
“Well, we didn’t stand dere in the rain chatting, but ’e did ask where they could get a bite of supper. I sent them to Nancy’s Restaurant up the road.”
“Did he use your phone or computer?”
“Nudding like dat, darlin’. No computer ’ere anyways. He was after a clean bed and a hot shower, das all.” The motel keeper was laying the accent on a bit thick, Amanda thought, but perhaps in the tourism trade, he figured it was part of his charm. She and Chris had found him changing the sheets in one of his motel rooms and she eyed the accommodations longingly. They were certainly basic, as he’d said, but they looked like paradise after her night in the tent. Chris flashed her a sympathetic grin as he turned to go.
The man straightened as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I did hear somet’ing of their conversation, if you’re interested.”
Chris swung around. “Please.”
“They was going out to their truck, and de boy was talking about going fishing the next day. He were jumping up and down, you know how kids are. Like they gots springs in dere feet.”
“What did the father say?”
“Nudding, b’y. Just got in the truck.”
Amanda didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of mood was he in?”
“Mood?” The motel keeper looked incredulous. “Fifty dollars a night gets dem a bed and a bathroom, my dear, not a palm reading.”
Chris laughed. “I thought palm reading was a Newfoundland specialty.”
“Well, he be wet and cold, I figures. Probably hungry too. And after listening to that kid yammering all day, even the Lord himself would be cranky.” He snapped a pillow case and turned his attention back to the bed. Chris thanked him and they headed back across the patch of gravel that passed for a parking lot. The sun hung low over the ocean, a blurry orange smudge behind the gathering clouds. Chris gestured to it.
“Looks