Chapter 3
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Gulf of Alaska, Off the Coast of Chichagof Island, AK
Anya Baron’s head throbbed.
She pulled the throttle back a notch, holding the track of the Lady Melinda perfectly steady as it crested the top of a formidable ten-foot swell.
She took a deep breath, counted to four, then exhaled, a feeble attempt to expel the fear and anger seeping into her bones.
Her right arm still ached with every move.
She gently placed her palm over the marbled bruise on her forearm. Hot to the touch.
God, she hated him.
Anya turned up the volume on the boom box she had bungeed to the side console.
KCAW FM Raven Radio from Sitka crackled through the static, the first and only radio station in Southeast Alaska.
It had been on the air for just a few months.
Anya was grateful for it. She’d worn out her cassette collection, and the radio station gave her some new music for a change.
It made her long days at sea tiptoeing around her husband’s drunken temper slightly less lonely.
Midway through the marine weather forecast, the weak station struggled against the static to deliver ominous news of a strong low-pressure system moving in, winds escalating to gale force—over thirty knots. Not ideal. Anya clenched her jaw, resolving to keep a watchful eye on the weather.
“You tryna kill me?” Her husband’s hollering reverberated from the stern of the boat. “Keep the damn thing steady!”
The hydraulic winch whined as he raised the downrigger line, reached over the gunwale with the gaff, and pulled a salmon off the rig. He dropped the fish onto the cleaning table, held it down, and smacked its head with the bloody club.
Don’t talk back. Keep quiet.
He battled demons she could not see. With every day, every week, every year that passed, it became more and more difficult to picture the man she had married.
The man who loved to dance. The man with a spirit of adventure.
The man who partnered with her when the other fishermen left their wives alone in town.
KCAW radio had moved on to “Muskeg Messages,” their daily personal announcements.
“…Dolores V. found an abandoned baby deer, needs advice on taking care of it. Happy Birthday to Ned on the fishing vessel Icy Predator—fair winds, calm seas, and don’t let all those candles set your boat on fire. Love, Mom.”
Anya knew Ned from Rose’s in Pelican. Nice kid.
She adjusted the boat’s path as it bottomed a trough, then tapped the power back a bit and steered up the next swell.
Finally, the soothing tones of Fleetwood Mac filled the air, urging Anya to “Go Your Own Way.” She bumped the volume up a bit more.
She’d be safe tonight at the cabin. He wouldn’t get out of control with the other two fishermen there. She’d be careful, making busywork while the guys drank. Booze’d put him to bed soon enough.
Stay easy. Stay silent. Stay smooth. Stay safe.
Anya’s husband’s forehead was wrinkled into a scowl, his lips tight together, his shoulders hunched up near his ears.
Catching her stare, he snapped, “Not gonna get anything just sittin here watchin me! The fuck you waitin for, fish to just jump on the boat? Gonna starve if we just sit out here driftin all day. Git er movin!”
Anya’s hand trembled as she reached for the throttle, pain coursing through her right side. Gripping the helm with her left, she deftly spun the wheel, aligning the trolling boat precisely for the next swell.
She was a damn sight better boat driver than him. It took real skill to keep this thing tracking straight in these conditions and to keep the trolling rig tight. He’d hit a piling and bent the bow-rail last time he tried to pull her into the slip. Idiot.
A crash erupted back on the fishing deck. “You tryna jerk the fuckin rig loose?” Her husband’s shouts slurred.
Please. It’s ten in the morning.
“Take it easy comin over the top! You bust this’n we’re done for the month.” He slammed his fish club on the cleaning table. “I cain’t put food on the table you bustin ar fuckin moneymaker! Pay tenshun fer a change!”
Don’t bite. Don’t take the bait.
The song on the radio begged, “How Deep Is Your Love?”
The handsome stranger who had dropped into Sitka that late spring day, wide-eyed at the magic of the Alaskan wilderness, was her dream come true.
He’d arrived in Alaska looking for his father.
She’d taken him under her wing and they’d set off on life’s adventure together, scraping to buy their boat, building their fishing business.
Then the letter arrived informing him that his mother had died. That’s when the drinking and fighting started.
She risked another look back as he flopped unsteadily into his white plastic chair and reached for his bottle.
He belonged to the bottle now, more than to her. She’d been trying so hard for so long, and now she was just lonely and so very tired.