5. Henrik
FIVE
HENRIK
Six hours later, Edgar shakes me awake. Still groggy, I force my eyes open. “Ugh,” I groan, wishing I could go back to sleep for a few more hours. But he’s persistent.
“Henrik, wake up. Don’t make me get a bucket of cold water.”
I growl and push myself up. I know once I get moving, an egg sandwich and a large cup of coffee will be all I’ll need.
“Can you give me ten minutes to put on a pot of coffee and make an egg sandwich?” I ask.
Through a yawn, my bother nods. “Only if you make two for me. And put bacon on them.”
Rolling my eyes at him, I agree. “Only if there’s some left from last night.” His Cheshire smile makes me laugh. Pulling on my boots and beanie, I head to the galley to cook.
As I’m climbing the steps to the wheelhouse fifteen minutes later, I say, “Edgar, your food is on the table. You better get to it before someone else does. I heard someone moving.”
His eyes go wide and he jumps from my chair. “We have a few more hours before we have to pull pots, right? I was going to fill my belly and take another nap.”
Looking at the map, I confirm. “We have about three hours until we’re back to our first strings. But that’s assuming the storm passed and we can travel at eight knots.”
Rubbing his hands together, he mutters, “Three more hours,” then gives me a smirk before he disappears down the stairs.
After I finish my breakfast sandwiches, I snicker to myself as I pull another two of Mia’s cookies from my pocket and set them aside for later.
It’s eight in the morning when my cell phone rings. I see it’s Eirik, and I answer.
“Hey, man. Why are you calling, not radioing? I hate using my cell phone at sea,” I say.
His deep laughter fills the line. “I know, but I didn’t know if you were still resting, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Sleeping Beauty? What are you talking about?”
“I tried calling you a few hours ago, and all I got was voicemail. I saw your boat was moving, so I assumed you were sleeping and someone else was at the helm. Edgar answered the radio and confirmed my suspicions.” Funny, he didn’t tell me that.
I mentioned egg sandwiches, and that derailed his thoughts, apparently.
“Yeah. I needed some sleep. We finally got our last pots dropped and hightailed it out of the storm to calmer water so we could take a much-needed rest while they soaked.”
“Heading to your first strings now?” he asks.
I laugh, knowing he can monitor my location just like I can do for him. Like a smartass, I answer back, “And you’re on your pots?”
“Yeah, the guys are pulling ’em in now.”
I take a bite of my cookie, and he growls, “What are you chomping on so loudly in my ear?”
“Sorry. I was just eating a cookie Mia made.”
He groans. “You have Amelia’s cookies onboard? That’s not fair. Please tell me it isn’t her famous monster cookies. Those are my favorite.” Damn, he sounds jealous. I smile, I get it. Her cookies are delicious.
My silence answers his question. “She gave you monster cookies?” He groans again.
He’s taking this way too seriously. “Dude. Calm down. It’s just some cookies,” I say with a laugh.
“No, those aren’t just cookies. They’re Amelia’s cookies,” he whines. “They’re perfection. A taste of heaven.”
Shaking my head, I finish the last bite. “I didn’t realize you were that attached. Next trip, we can ask Mia to bake some for the Emilie too.”
“Your sister and I barely tolerate each other. She’d never do that willingly if she knew they were for me,” he spits.
Laughing inwardly, I roll my eyes. “You and Mia behave like siblings. It’s a love-hate relationship. Ask her at the right time. And maybe butter her up with compliments about the cookies before you ask for some.” I suggest.
Kai wanders up to the helm, holding a breakfast sandwich. He raises it to me, and I shake my head and mouth, “No, thank you. Already ate.”
Leaning back in my chair as we head over to our first line, I ask Eirik, “How are the pots you’ve been pulling?”
“The numbers were low the first few, but they’ve steadily increased as we’ve moved down the line.”
I hope it’s the same for us. I clear my throat. “That’s great. I hope that trend continues. Look, I better make sure my guys are up. It’s time to pull pots.”
“Good luck, Henrik. Be safe.”
“Same to you, brother.” As soon as the call ends, I’m on the boat’s intercom.
“Five minutes until we are on our pots.” Gazing out at the horizon, I see the storm has passed.
The sky is clear, and gulls caw and soar above.
The seas are still choppy, but the rise and fall of the ship doesn’t cause me any concern.
My crew, except for Roy, my greenhorn, who’s still trying to figure it out, operates like a well-oiled machine.
Each man knows his job and performs it with speed and precision.
With yawns and grunts, they all lumber out into the crisp morning air.
Pulling on their raincoats, they make sure their bibs and gloves are secure.
Crabbers wear two sets of gloves: a soft cotton pair that works as an insulator to the severe cold, and a thick rubber pair that defends from water.
Regardless of their additional layers, neither will protect from a crab’s pincers.
Those fuckers hurt. You can be as experienced as they come, and it only takes once being off focus next to a sorting table of huge male king crab to remind you of their defenses.
By the time we arrive at our pots, they’ve soaked for about forty-eight hours, and if we’re on crab, we should easily have over fifty in each pot.
“First pot, be safe,” I say over the intercom to the deck below.
Edgar steps to the bulwark and expertly throws the hook at the first pot’s buoy line.
Because the weather is decent, I have my window open and can hear what’s happening below.
“Got it,” Edgar announces, and I turn in my seat to see him pull in the line.
He reaches over and hands it to Kai, who loops it on a hydraulic winch and pulley to haul it to the water’s surface.
The line runs through the coiler, ensuring our lines stay orderly, saving us from a major headache later.
“Here she comes,” Kai hollers as he operates the hydraulic crane to bring the pot onboard. The steel frame clanks against the side of the boat as it’s brought from the depths.
My eyes go wide as I see the number of king crabs crawling over each other in the pot. Please let them all be legal. Legal crabs, or keepers, are male and must have a shell at least seven inches wide. I stand up, my eyes focused on the cage and sorting table, eager for word from my crew.
“Holy shit. Jackpot!” Derrik shouts. Reaching forward, he opens the pot and the crabs spill onto the sorting table.
He and James get to work sorting. Roy steps up to help with his crab gauge in hand.
He isn’t as fast as my seasoned crew, but his focus and attention make me confident he’ll master sorting before the season is over.
Turning back around, I make sure the Brina is still lined up on the string. “How many in that pot?” I intercom the deck.
The radio crackles and then Kai says, “Seventy-six mother fucking crab. Did you get that, Cap?”
“Fuck yeah,” I answer as I pump my fist before logging it.
While I move on to the next pot, the crew takes the coiled line and buoys and shoves them back into the pot to move it for stacking on the deck.
Honey pot? My skin tingles. The fact we haven’t fished this spot in years is mostly the reason I hoped it would be successful.
An hour later, when we’re halfway through our first string, I can hardly believe the number of legal crabs in each pot. It’s been incredible. I send up a silent prayer, asking for continued good fortune. But that’s crabbing—your luck can shift as quickly as the wind.
“Fifty-seven,” Kai says after the guys have finished the twentieth pot.
“Four more strings to pull. Let’s hope we’re still on the honey pot,” I say as we move to our next line.
Hours later, as we’re finishing up the third string, the weather takes a drastic turn.
The temperature plummets to single digits, and the sky turns black.
Freezing rain falls, covering every surface with a fresh icy sheen.
My stomach drops. This isn’t good. Additional ice on what we already have will jeopardize the stability of the boat.
This weather system came out of nowhere and completely blindsided me.
Looking at the map, I notice that the FV Emilie and Eirik aren’t too far from us, but they look to be in the storm’s eye.
Looking at our current conditions, I know where they are has to be worse.
Holding the bow steady as we ride six-foot waves, I break my cell phone rule and call Eirik.
After several rings, he doesn’t pick up.
Knowing he’s supposed to be pulling pots too has my anxiety spiking.
My blood pressure rises and sweat appears on my brow.
Wiping it away, I tell myself that he’s fine.
However, despite repeating this several times, my stomach churns with concern for my best friend.
Fear motivates me. I try calling again as I turn to monitor my crew.
The call goes to voicemail. Why isn’t he answering?
In a rational state, I might consider he’s busy and doesn’t need the distraction of a call.
But my irrational side has fully embraced being a nervous Nelly.
Finally, the call prompts me to leave a message.
“Eirik, call me when you get the chance. We hit some wicked weather, and I want to make sure you’re safe. ”
Picking up the boat’s intercom, I say, “Guys, remember, we aren’t in a hurry.
Let’s do this smart and safe. Every time we have a rogue wave, I’ll hit the buzzer so you know it’s coming and to brace.
” The guys all give me a thumbs up as Edgar throws the grapple hook at the buoys.
It doesn’t take long before they haul the first pot of the next line.
Shouts of excitement are released when they realize it’s full.