3. Henrik
THREE
HENRIK
Afull shift of dropping pots has passed, and my crew is running on fumes.
Minus a few brief breaks to eat, and one short rest, we’ve put thirty hours in.
From eavesdropping on the banter on the deck, my crew has transitioned from jovial to grumpy.
They require food and a long rest, or it may turn ugly.
We’re pushing our luck with their level of exhaustion and fatigue, but it’s a tough game of balance.
And as captain, I have to make the call.
We still need to drop the other half of our two hundred pots.
Darkness surrounds the boat as I grip the rail.
Thankfully, the sea’s relatively calm. Last night was another story, though.
The waves grew choppier the longer we worked.
Frigid crests struck the deck relentlessly.
The wind whipped from the north at around thirty-five knots as the boat slowly worked through ten-foot swells.
From my seat in the wheelhouse, I knew conditions were miserable. Hell, it was typical weather for crab fishing in the Bering Sea. But despite everything, my guys kept their energy high, and I was proud of them. They successfully made it through, launching string after string.
And now, warmth, food, and sleep were the only things on their agenda for the next few hours. Picking up my radio, I call the deck. “How many pots have we dropped?”
“We’re two shy of a hundred,” Kai answers, his voice strained and raspy from yelling commands at the crew. I never realized how loud it was on deck until I worked it. Even when you’re standing next to someone, you have to yell just to be heard.
“Let’s drop the final two and then you guys head in for some well-deserved food and rest.” Hearing me loud and clear, the remaining deckhands whoop and holler.
After the last two pots are launched and everything on deck is tucked away, I tug on my fleece jacket and step out into the ten-degree weather.
The bite of the frigid air nips at my exposed skin, and I wish I were wearing a beanie and gloves.
A shiver runs down my back as I fumble with my zipper.
Glancing around, I’m pleased to see we don’t need to deal with ice build-up.
The weather reports mentioned a fierce storm heading our way in the next few days.
My hope is we’ll get all our gear offloaded before it hits.
I don’t want to be hauling pots in an ice storm, and I’m hopeful we can move to the outer edges of it while our pots soak.
Seeing as the crabbing season is only open a certain number of months, working in violent storms is part of the job.
You could check with any crabber. Storms come with the territory.
Howling winds, freezing rain, huge swells, slippery decks, the rocking and lurching of boats; they’re all part of the charm of one of the deadliest jobs.
Not just anyone can step onto a crab boat and survive a shift in the Bering Sea.
The guys I surround myself with are made of something different.
Like me, this lifestyle is in their blood.
The guys who last in this industry are tough, steady, intuitive, reactive, and determined.
Every dollar made comes through the sacrifice of blood, sweat, and tears.
“Cap,” Kai calls, his damp head poking out from the wheelhouse. I turn to him, and he smiles.
“Did you get a shower? Food?”
He nods and laughs. “I don’t know what it is, but a hot shower after thirty-plus hours of fishing is better than sex.”
I smirk and give him a side-eye. As a self-described playboy, I’m sure he doesn’t actually feel that way.
Again, he laughs. “Oh, and Derrik cooked. I brought you a plate.”
“Thanks,” I say as I turn back to him. My stomach growls at the thought of food.
Other than too many cups of coffee and a protein bar, I haven’t eaten a proper meal since before I left Kodiak.
“That smells incredible,” I say as I drop into my chair.
Hamburger steaks, mashed potatoes, and gravy are piled high on a plastic plate.
Starving, I finish my plate in under ten minutes.
Stepping into the galley, it appears I’m not the only one who had been hungry. Seated at the eight-person table are some of the best friends I have. Dressed in clean, dry clothes with their bellies full, all they need now are their bunks and a few hours of shuteye.
“Thanks for dinner, Derrik,” I say as I move to the sink to wash my plate. He nods before he finishes wrapping up the leftovers. In a few hours, I know the guys will reheat that and speed-eat it before heading back onto the deck to launch the remaining hundred pots.
Before heading back to the helm, I pour myself another mug of coffee and tell the guys to get some rest. With the seas calm, the bobbing of the ship will easily lull them to sleep.
As the captain, I have to be sure I don’t fall victim to its soothing movement.
Once the crew has rested, either Kai or Edgar, my younger brother, will relieve me so I can catch a few hours of sleep.
They can handle the first few strings without my oversight, especially if I mark where I want them dropped.
After I return to the wheelhouse, I wonder how Eirik is doing. I pick up the radio to check.
“FV Emilie. Do you copy? Over.”
My phone lights up with a text message from my dad.
Dad
The state announced they’re canceling opilio season again this year.
Me
Thanks for letting me know.
My deep groan fills the small space as static comes over the radio.
“Henrik? Is that you?” Brock, Eirik’s cousin and second in command, says.
I laugh. “Yeah, it’s me, Brock. How are you? How’s fishing?”
“We just got all our lines in. You?”
“We’re about a day behind you. We’ve already dropped half, and we’re starting our second hundred after the crew rests. I just received a text from my dad, and I wanted to share it with Eirik.”
“When he gets up in a few hours, do you want me to have him radio you?”
In a few hours from now, I plan to be sleeping, so I say, “No, it’s fine. Can you tell him that the state canceled opie season again this year?”
Brock groans. “Fuck. That’s horrible.”
“I agree, but I wanted to pass on the information.”
“Thanks, man.”
Almost two days later, we’re battling a horrible storm as we drop the last of our two hundred pots.
About eight hours earlier, we’d shut down for a small rest after our greenhorn, Roy, got himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, almost going overboard with a pot, and it was scary as fuck.
Luckily, my brother Edgar was there to save him.
Roy isn’t the first deckhand Edgar has saved. As captain, I’m grateful to have him on my crew. He’s always the voice of reason, encouragement, and accountability. And his reactions and responses to situations going to shit is top-notch.
The waves grow choppier, and I notice more water splashing on the deck.
“Watch out! Rogue wave!” I say into the intercom, warning the guys.
For the last hour, I’ve felt like my warnings have been on repeat.
Waves crash constantly onto the boat as the Brina handles twenty-foot swells.
I move slowly, trying to keep the working conditions as safe as possible.
I pray the fishing grounds where we dropped the first half of our pots is outside of the storm zone.
But from looking at maps, it looks incredibly close.
My eyes widen as I turn back to the deck.
Over the last half hour, the weather conditions have worsened.
The sea splashes and freezes to every surface.
The ice buildup shimmers in the sunlight.
It’s beautiful, but extremely dangerous.
I’m grateful we haven’t accumulated too much because the ice makes me nervous.
If not handled, it could take a boat down.
Six years ago, it had happened, and none of the six crew members had survived.
Ice wasn’t the only thing to blame, but it played a major part in the vessel sinking and lives being lost.
Putting the radio to my lips, I say, “Once that last pot is dropped, it’s time to rest.” The crew below let out a loud chorus of whoops I can easily hear. A smile spreads across my face.
I watch as the lift slides the pot into the sea, and I log its location. In forty-eight hours, we’ll be back, checking to see what we caught.