Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“This is so dangerous,” Scottie said, raising her voice to be heard over the rumble of the seiner’s diesel engine.
Splendid. She spread her feet shoulder-width apart, grateful for her rubber boots and the traction they held on the boat’s deck.
It was slick already, and everything smelled of brine and diesel.
Thick fog had rolled in, clinging to the massive green mountains that seemed to rise straight up out of the cold depths of Prince William Sound.
The fog blotted out her view but amplified noises nearby—the thud of boots, the metallic slap of gear, heavy-metal music blaring from a speaker she couldn’t see.
On a commercial fishing boat floating a few yards away, two women stood near the stern, so close that Scottie could see the steam rising from the coffee mugs cradled in their hands. Laughter rang out across the water. The bay seemed like a tailgate party for people who wrestled fish for a living.
This was one part party, two parts reality TV as Damian stood on the stern deck of a cabin cruiser about fifty feet away, megaphone in one hand, smartphone in the other. His voice came through the speaker, thin and bossy above the thrum of engines.
“Scottie, remember, we’ve got drones and we’ve got the GoPro. I really need you to focus on close-ups.”
Oh brother. “I really need to focus on staying on this boat.” With four wakes churning, plus the four skiffs idling nearby, ready to spread the nets when the opener started in less than fifteen minutes, there was a lot of water sloshing.
The boat shifted under her, a live thing, shouldering itself against the chop.
“Is that guy in charge of you?” Keegan asked.
“Yes, he’s in charge of the whole show. Is this your dad’s boat?”
“Yeah. He got it from my grandpa, or maybe my uncle.”
“So you’re the third generation to fish here?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Keegan glanced at the pile of netting at his feet—black, slippery mesh with white cork floats attached. The coils reminded her of a sleeping animal.
“Do you like it?”
“Most of the time. It’s hard work, though, and I get really cold sometimes.”
“Are you ever scared?”
“Yeah, if we have to fish in a storm and when we have to haul the nets in. It’s a lot of fish and a lot of yelling. Everybody has to do their part.”
Scottie nodded. “Got it.”
Elise, Theo, Carter, and Calista had all been assigned jobs.
Elise was going to help drive the skiff that would set the net.
Sheldon and Theo were going to help haul in the nets once they caught the fish.
And Calista had been handed something that looked like a plunger.
Her job was to shove more fish into the net.
“I do not have a good feeling about this,” Scottie said.
“Why not?” Keegan looked up. “It’s going to be fun.”
Raindrops speckled her face like cool pinpricks. She double-checked to make sure the camera had its waterproof cover in place. The plastic smelled faintly like new pool toys. “This would be more fun if the sun was shining.”
“Nah. You’re asking too much,” Keegan said, grinning, freckles bright against wind-reddened cheeks. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. “We’re almost ready.”
His dad, visible through the second-story windows on the boat’s cabin, turned on the vessel’s communication system. A squeal of feedback needled the fog.
“All right, all hands on deck. Everybody know their job? Camera operator, give me a thumbs-up.”
She turned and glanced up into the arch-shaped bank of windows over her head, gave him a thumbs-up and a cheesy grin. Certainly not a reflection of how she felt on the inside. Her stomach clenched. Maybe Tate’s concerns were valid after all.
The clock inched closer to the official time when the boats were permitted to set their nets and start hauling in fish.
She gathered some footage of the small moments: contestants chatting with the boat’s crew members, palms slapping shoulders; other vessels floating in the emerald-green water, hulls ticking softly as they nudged the chop; a deckhand biting the end off a zip tie; a skiff driver spinning his cap backward like a ritual.
Hard to imagine there were hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions, of salmon about to meet their fate.
She panned the shoreline several yards away—rocky outcroppings slick with kelp, evergreen trees beaded with mist, a bald eagle perched on a bough high above, motionless and regal, observing the action or waiting to catch its next meal.
The eagle shook once, sending a glitter of droplets into the gray.
The captain’s voice came through the speaker.
“All right. It’s go time.” Somewhere the heavy-metal music surged, adding to the chaos.
Rain fell harder now, ticking on her hood, and the wind picked up as the boat rocked.
Diesel exhaust mingled with the salty tang of the Sound and the faint aroma of coffee.
Please, please, no motion sickness. They had one shot, because this ship—the Tenacious Hope—had only agreed to let them on board for four hours. All of the other commercial fishing boats Damian approached had declined.
Maybe they’d been the smart ones.
She pulled her phone out and snapped a couple of quick pictures to edit, then post online later.
The contrast of the white boat with its industrial-strength winch system, the nets rolling out into the water, the skiff’s engines revving, enthusiastic yells cutting through the air.
These people were like elite athletes. Every decision, every movement calculated, planned, practiced.
The cork line unspooled in a white-dotted curve, arcing across steel-gray water like someone drawing a boundary on a map.
She shifted the camera’s focus and zoomed in on Elise driving the skiff, her hair in two long adorable braids, water droplets beading along the strands.
A crew member pointed, guiding her route, and the two of them were like orange-and-yellow game pieces bobbing in the aluminum skiff as it dragged the net out into the bay.
The skiff’s bow slapped a wave. Spray lifted in a glittering sheet. Elise whooped and Scottie smiled.
“You go, girl.” Adrenaline coursed through Scottie’s veins. Beneath the music and the jokes and the caffeine buzz was the low thrum of risk. Every boat on the water leaned into the same hungry pursuit—catching as many salmon as possible before the clock ran out.
The rain fell harder and the boat rocked.
But she kept filming. The skiff closed the loop.
She framed Elise’s proud smile as the net cinched, forming the opening of a giant purse.
On the captain’s orders, they cranked up the winch, steel whining over steel, and Keegan stood back.
He and Theo guided the net in, gloved hands slick with fish slime and rain.
Soon, thousands of silver bodies flopped desperately in the net, scales shimmering like coins. Their tails jackknifed, splattering the deck with saltwater and blood. The deck shuddered as the drum took up the strain.
“Whoa!” Keegan yelled, thrusting both fists in the air. “This is an epic haul!”
He showed other contestants how to jam the plunger in, encouraging more fish into the net. The plunger thunked over and over, water geysering up in cold bursts that peppered Scottie’s cheeks. She kept her stance wide, willing her body to find a rhythm with the boat—knees loose, camera braced.
“Go with the flow; don’t fight it,” she whispered. “You’ve got this.”
She moved around the wide, flat deck, changing angles, stepping up on a raised hatch to get a better view.
Rubber boots squeaked on gelcoat. A line snapped taut near her ankle and she hopped sideways, heart spiking.
Overhead, the drone hummed as Tabitha recorded footage from a bird’s-eye view, a mechanical wasp in the gray sky.
Radio chatter crackled—numbers, bearings, half-shouted jokes.
They all worked together, laughing, joking, high-fiving each other.
Calista tipped her head back and whooped.
Theo grinned like a man who’d found his sea legs in a single morning.
Carter tried to mirror Keegan’s quick movements and almost went down, catching himself on a cleat with a grunt.
They looked like they knew what they were doing—until they didn’t—and the crew members stepped in, quickly correcting ignorant mistakes.
Pungent diesel fumes belched from the boat like a hot breath as the vessel idled, waiting for the net to dump into the hold. The winch screeched and the engine block complained, a grinding note that raised gooseflesh along Scottie’s arms.
“Let’s go again,” the captain crackled over the speaker.
Keegan frowned. “Are you sure, Dad?”
“One more round, at least.” The captain’s voice had that implacable edge—a command not to be ignored. Rain hammered the deck in wicked sheets, bouncing off fiberglass, needling through gaps in slickers. Wind whipped around Scottie, testing her balance.
Scottie thumbed the camera off, chest tight.
They’d have to rely on the drone and the GoPro.
There was no way she could capture all this and keep her electronics dry.
Her gloves were soaked. Water ran in rivulets in places it shouldn’t no matter how she angled her hands.
Cold found her wrists, then her elbows, spreading.
Damian lifted his obnoxious red megaphone to his mouth. “Scottie, keep it rolling please.”
“Too much moisture,” she shouted back, but the wind snatched the words and flung them into the sound.
“Keep it rolling.” His answer came back again. What, was he a lip reader?
She sighed, turned her camera back on, tucking it under her hood for a second to shield the screen.
“Right. Your wish is my command,” she muttered.
Her fingers stung. Focus ring, zoom toggle, wipe lens, breathe.
The boat lurched and she rode it, counting her breaths the way Tate had once told her to do in chop—in two, out four.
Calm is a choice.