Chapter 12
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Gulf of Alaska, Off the Coast of Chichagof Island, AK
Anya eased the throttle on Lady Melinda as the boat rolled over the top of a swell.
The sharp clang of the trolling bell broke the steady drone of the diesel that pushed the fishing boat up the coast. They’d passed through a school of salmon and probably had several fish on the line.
Anya pulled back the power a bit more to make retrieving the trolling gear easier.
The seas were getting worse, and just reaching for the lever sent a pain up her right arm.
She felt ragged. Her side ached, and every time she took a breath it sent a searing spike across her chest. She ran her tongue between her front teeth and the wound they had made in her swollen upper lip.
She tasted blood. Every move she made, her rib cried out in pain.
She caught her own reflection in the window.
There was a large bruise above her eye. She pulled down the front of her wool stocking cap to cover it.
The piercing noise of the bell rang in her ears. She never got seasick, but the smell of fish, which usually gave her energy, nauseated her. Her body ached, and her mind felt dull. She wanted real sleep. And that damn fish bell needed to end.
Anya cranked up the boom box. “…is KCAW FM Raven Radio, broadcasting at one-oh-four megahertz at three-point-six kilowatts. Now, Crosby, Stills and Nash, ‘Just a Song Before I Go.’ ”
The night before was a blur. He was drunk and shouting before they even finished dinner.
She tried to distance herself and began cleaning off the table, and he screamed at her for “stealing the food off his plate.” Then he tripped her.
Said she “was clumsy and fell,” but he definitely tripped her.
Deliberately. Didn’t he? Did she really just fall?
Dishes broke, and he was out of his chair.
She really couldn’t remember what had happened next.
Screaming and kicking—she was pretty sure she had bitten his wrist.
Anya turned to see what he was up to in the fishing cockpit. Her neck protested with a sharp pain. Could he not hear the bell?
Gonna get the fish, or do I have to do that too?
He stirred and seemed to lose his balance as he tried to get to his feet.
Drunk. Not even noon.
Stay quiet. The fish don’t matter. Drive the boat.
He stumbled to the starboard side of the boat, seemingly in no hurry to pull in any fish. He turned and grabbed his chair and pulled it up next to the…
Oh, great. He’s going to piss over the side.
He held the gunwale and climbed up, standing on the seat of the chair. He began unzipping the fly of his construction-orange rubber pants.
The weather continued to worsen, and Anya was afraid they’d have to knock off early and go back to the cabin.
The seas had grown from five or six feet in the early morning to eight or nine now.
These conditions were easy enough; the waves were tall but wide and gentle, like driving a car on a hilly country road.
But once the outgoing tide from Icy Strait started flowing against the incoming swell, they’d sharpen up and turn nasty.
And the onshore wind was building. The combination could quickly become dangerous.
Lady Melinda crested the top of a large swell and started down the other side.
The carnival harmonica lines of Supertramp’s “Take the Long Way Home” floated from the boom-box speakers.
Anya caught a quick glimpse of land in the distance.
They were five or six miles out. The rest of the fishing fleet was several miles south of them, but he had insisted they fish the north side, saying he’d show those idiots where the fish were.
The mast of a single troller rocked back and forth on the horizon to the south.
The boat bottomed the trough, and she could see nothing but walls of waves on either side.
So alone.
Lady Melinda glided over the top of the next swell.
Yep, they’re growing. Gotta keep an eye on that.
“Keep er steady, I’m tryna piss!”
His acrid tone rang in her ears.
Gently now.
She instinctively turned the helm to find a smooth line to drive down the other side and, at the same time, reached to reduce the throttle…
No. Push!
Anya was awake.
She jammed the throttle forward. The diesel belched and revved.
She cut the helm hard in the opposite direction just as the boat was about to start downhill.
The vessel responded, lurching, heeling wildly to starboard.
Dishes crashed in the galley below. The logbook she kept at the helm slid off onto the floor.
Anya pulled another turn on the helm and held on tight.
Black smoke from the exhaust stack washed over the top of the pilothouse.
Anya widened her stance and gave the wheel another twist. Lady Melinda rolled violently.
Too hard. I went too hard. We’re gonna capsize.
She reached overhead and gripped the grab handle.
The boat creaked as she rolled back to port, almost horizontal.
Anya held on with all her strength. Her feet started to slide across the pilothouse floor.
She pulled her weight back with her left hand and held her right on the wheel.
Her knee banged against the helm station, sending a jolt of pain down her leg.
Her breath stalled. She gave the helm a spin in the opposite direction.
The boat corrected back toward upright.
Anya pulled the throttle back to neutral. The boat pitched back the other way—more crashing—and Lady Melinda steadied herself, bobbing like a cork in the trough between the swells.
The chair he had been standing on lay on its side near the hydraulic manifold. A fishing knife covered in salmon blood lay on the deck.