Tempered by Rain #4
With each haul, he learned the rhythm: untangle, lift, sort.
The first time he reached into the writhing mass to separate species, he hesitated—then grimaced and got on with it.
The sea offered up its riches with a kind of ruthless generosity: silvery mackerel, slabs of glistening cod, and even an octopus or two.
Some would stay in Nereid; the rest were destined for the summit, where fresh seafood was a winter luxury.
They packed the sorted catch into crates lined with chill moss and loaded them into wagons bound for the winding road up the mountain.
The hours blurred—tide after tide of work, shouted instructions over the rain, aching shoulders, windburned cheeks. Yet somehow, the day slipped by quickly. The final net was heaved in just before dusk, and within the hour, the last wagon trundled away, creaking under its salted cargo.
Before heading in, Collin joined Logan to complete the roster.
They double-checked every moored boat, called each team by name, ensured the oars were racked and the slips secure.
It was meticulous, repetitive work—but strangely satisfying.
There was a kind of comfort in making sure nothing and no one was left behind.
By the time he returned to the lodge, Collin was hollowed out by fatigue and hollowed out by hunger, simultaneously.
He nearly collapsed into his seat at the table, but the fish stew tasted better than anything he'd eaten in weeks. His body ached in ways he hadn’t known it could, and he suspected tomorrow would introduce a new catalog of soreness—but his spirit was buoyed.
Somewhere between the crash of waves and the steady press of labor, the knot in his chest had loosened. He had contributed to something real. Fish that he had helped pull from the sea would soon be part of someone’s winter table—maybe his friends’, maybe a student’s.
When he finally crawled beneath the covers, too tired even to read, an odd sort of pride settled over him like a second blanket. He still had a great deal to learn—but maybe, just maybe, he was right where he was supposed to be.
In the weeks that followed, Collin threw himself fully into his new life along the coast. The first mornings were brutal—his muscles rebelled with each haul, and his joints creaked like an old dock beneath him—but soon his body learned the rhythm.
Blisters gave way to calluses, and the early sting of cold sea spray became a bracing welcome rather than a shock.
He grew faster at sorting the catch, faster still at pulling in the nets, no longer hesitating when a crate needed lifting or a stubborn rope needed untangling.
With time and quiet competence, Leif entrusted him with more responsibility.
Collin took to closing out the day: checking boats back in, confirming names against the roster, ensuring each vessel was moored with care.
He’d walk the length of the dock at dusk, lantern swinging in the mist, feeling not just useful—but trusted.
On calmer days, when the sky was kinder and the waves less brutal, Leif sent the newer recruits out to sea.
It was exhilarating, to learn how to set the lines and feel the current tug against their weight.
Rowing on the wide ocean was nothing like gliding over the familiar current of the North Town Lake.
Out here, the sea had moods. It tossed and tested him, demanding more than strength—it required instinct.
His first few outings left him gasping and drenched, arms trembling from the effort, his balance upended by the roll of the boat beneath him.
But the veterans coached him with patient grins and sharp instructions, and slowly, their knowledge sank in.
He learned to listen—to the current, to the wind, to the birds wheeling overhead in anticipation of the catch.
He learned when to lean into the oars and when to let the sea carry its own weight.
And somewhere in that spray-slick blur of nets and salt and shouted warnings over the water, Collin began to understand not only how to endure the ocean—but how to read it.
Icy rain streamed from Collin’s hair, traced his cheeks, and dripped steadily from his chin.
The downpour hadn’t let up in hours. It seemed impossible the clouds hadn’t emptied themselves yet.
He jogged along the slick dock planks, boots slipping more than once as waves slammed beneath him.
Just one more boat left to check in, and then he could send the crew home.
But at the far end of the dock, Hayden and Jonah were preparing to push out again.
Collin quickened his pace, lifting his oil lamp high through the stinging rain. “Where are you going?” he shouted, voice barely audible over the storm’s howl.
“We’ve got one last net to secure!” Jonah called back, water sluicing from his soaked curls.
Collin dropped to his knees and caught the skiff’s bow before it could lurch away from the dock. The boat rocked violently in the swells. “I think that’s it for today,” he said, trying to steady both his voice and the vessel. “The storm’s getting worse.”
“We’ll be quick,” Hayden assured him, planting an oar against the dock to stabilize the skiff. “We’ll be back before you’re done with the rest.”
“No worries, boss!” Jonah added with a grin. “We’ve seen worse.”
Collin kept his hand on the slick hull, his breath caught somewhere between authority and doubt. He was the one in charge—Leif had left him to make the call. It was his job to protect the crew. To call it quits. To keep them safe.
But these were seasoned men, and the confidence in Jonah’s voice reminded Collin just how green he still felt. He hesitated a second longer—then gave the skiff a push.
“Alright. Go—but don’t take your time!”
“You got it, boss,” Hayden called, already rowing into the darkening waves.
Collin watched the little boat vanish into the stormy vastness, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The skiff looked painfully small, absurdly fragile beneath the towering sky. He yanked up his coat sleeve and noted the time.
Then he turned and ran.
On the neighboring dock, Mark was struggling with a tangled mooring line.
Collin vaulted off the edge, boots sinking into knee-deep surf before he pulled himself onto the next berth, soaked to the thighs and breathing hard.
Another gust slammed the tethered boat into the dock with a jolt that rattled the boards beneath them.
“Untie the boat,” Collin shouted as he knelt beside Mark. “We’ve got to haul them in or they’ll be matchwood by morning.”
They worked fast, freeing the soaked rope, lifting the skiff between them while the wind howled in protest. Onshore, two more crewmen rushed in to help, and Collin directed them toward the barn. His voice had grown sharp with urgency.
Back out on the next dock, his fingers now stiff with cold, he fought a stubborn knot as the platform trembled beneath his knees. The storm pressed in with renewed force.
Then—a shout behind him.
“I brought you a knife!” Logan skidded to a stop at the edge of the dock, breathless.
“Perfect timing!” Collin fumbled for the blade and sliced through the rope. Together, they hoisted the boat from the water, tipping it onto its side.
Wind shoved at them like a living thing as they stumbled toward shore, both clinging to the skiff and the narrow path beneath their boots. Twice, the gusts nearly tore the boat from their grip. Once, Collin thought they might be thrown into the sea altogether.
But they kept going—step by step, soaked, sore, and burning with the knowledge that the storm still wasn’t done.
One by one, the boats were wrested from the storm and carried into the shelter of the barn. Wind howled through the skeletal docks. Rain lashed sideways, slamming into every exposed surface like nails from the sky.
“Are Hayden and Jonah back yet?” Collin shouted as the last skiff was hauled clear of the water.
Logan shook his head, his voice barely audible over the roar. “Haven’t seen them.”
The storm had thickened into an opaque curtain.
Visibility stretched no farther than a few yards.
Collin sprinted to the end of the dock, lamp in hand, and peered desperately out to sea.
The sky and water had become one bruised expanse.
If Hayden’s lantern still burned, even the faintest flicker would cut through this gloom.
But there was nothing—just rain, relentless and cold.
He raised his own lamp high, watching the light blur and dim as rain hammered against the glass. Fear twisted in his gut, climbing quickly into panic. He should’ve stopped them. That last net wasn’t worth this. No quarter catch justified risking lives. He’d heard the hesitation—but ignored it.
A gust shoved hard against his back, nearly pitching him forward into the surf. The dock groaned beneath his boots. Still, he didn’t move. He couldn’t—not when they were still out there.
Heavy footfalls approached. Logan.
“Send the others home,” Collin said without turning. His voice cracked beneath the weight of fear. “I’ll wait here.”
Logan touched his shoulder. “At least come back to shore.”
Grudgingly, Collin relented. But there was nothing to do now but wait for the storm to break.
And waiting hollowed him out. He could feel it—regret gnawing like cold through a wet coat.
He had accepted the mantle of leadership without truly grasping its cost. Now it pressed on him like the sky itself.
If the worst had happened, he would face the families. He would not flinch from that.
Hours passed.
Collin couldn’t sit idle in the barn. Despite Logan’s protests, he returned to the beach, pacing the shoreline. Searching. Hoping. Anything to avoid that unbearable stillness.