3. Nick
Nick
Some kids get storybooks at bedtime, full of illustrated characters and imaginative worlds. Me? I used to help my dad with his Captain’s Log.
Help is a strong word. I mostly watched him write, and we’d read aloud together. He’d ask me if anything happened that he should record, and I’d come up with details like gulls squawking “feed me” and icicles that looked like fruit pops but definitely didn’t taste as good.
No matter how ridiculous my observations were, he had me scrawl them all down. The Coast Guard officers laughed their asses off whenever it came time to go through our records during an inspection.
But that’s how I learned to measure time, temperature, and distance. It was my first introduction to maintenance and leadership. It was a small thing that made every outing feel like a true adventure. Like we were explorers noting our discoveries on an uncharted course.
And during the times it was too dangerous to have me aboard, he’d bought me a leather-bound notebook and told me it was my very own Captain’s Log to keep at home.
Told me to do a thorough job on my entries so that when he got back, he could read up on everything he missed.
Make sure me and Mom were taking care of each other.
My parents both retired about ten years ago now. They moved to Oregon for warmer weather, better access to medical care for Mom’s AFib and Dad’s sea-weathered joints, but I still have that little notebook at home. Something to bring out whenever I long for simpler times.
These days, though, I find myself balancing more than one log.
The written records, and the ones I store only in my memory.
F/V Suoja
October 15, 1845 hours
57°16’N, 159°24’W
NW winds 12-16 knots, seas 5-7 feet, air temp 35°F, water temp 44°F, pressure 29.92 inHg
Completed setting all 170 pots across target grounds.
Sonar showing a nice muddy bottom. We’ve pulled in some great hauls here before and crew morale is high, but water temp is elevated this year. Soak time estimated 48-72 hours depending on weather.
Light snow squalls moving through. Forecast shows otherwise steady conditions through the weekend. Visibility adequate.
No injuries since departure. All systems nominal.
Nicolas Lundvall, Master
October 15
I’ve ruined things with Seth after what happened in the galley.
I could feel how tense he was when I held onto him, and I held onto him for way too long.
He was so shocked, he was frozen on top of me. Staring down at me like he couldn’t believe I’d pulled him in. Like he wanted to know why the hell I was still touching him, why I wasn’t moving.
For the past four years, it’s never mattered how busy we are or how exhausted he is. Seth has always made the time, at least twice a day, to stop in with a cup of coffee.
Except for yesterday.
It used to catch me off guard when we started working together.
It’s supposed to be my job, my priority, to make sure everyone on my crew gets enough rest, enough breaks, enough food to keep their spirits high during these grueling workdays.
My dad instilled those values into me, and I watched him live them with the way he cared for his men over the years.
This work is bullshit most of the time. There’s no sugarcoating it. It’s fucking draining, it’s fucking freezing, and it’s fucking backbreaking.
I’m not the type to shy away from getting my hands dirty on deck. I did my time as my dad’s deckhand, and later his first mate. But there’s no denying that the physical demands of navigation and logistics aren’t as strenuous as hauling pots and sorting crabs.
I’ve never thought of myself as the one who needs to be taken care of, but I can’t deny… it felt good whenever Seth brought me a fresh mug of medium roast and a bite to eat.
I’m pretty sure that’ll never happen again though.
Our interactions yesterday were few and far between.
A shift change in the wheelhouse, ten minutes of exclusively work-related conversation, and a scattering of updates over the crew radio.
Because no matter how uncomfortable I’ve made him, Seth is still one hell of a first mate.
He just doesn’t want to be alone in a room with me anymore. I can’t blame him.
We’ve already had a long day, setting our first pots of the season to soak. It’s been about sixteen hours since I last stepped away from the helm, and my eyes are starting to feel it. They’re dry. Heavy-lidded.
I’m mapping out how long it’ll be before I’m able to get my caffeine fix when a series of footsteps ascends the carpeted stairs that lead from the bridge to the crew mess.
“Captain,” Seth’s voice comes from behind. That perpetually upbeat tone I know so well. “Sorry it took me so long. It’s been a busy one. Wanted Jorg to have a shot on the launcher this season, give him some experience.”
Even though I’m not totally sold, I’m grateful he’s giving us both an avenue to move past my moment of weakness. I hope I manage to wipe the surprise off my face before I turn over my shoulder and see him standing there with a cup of coffee. Acting like it’s all copacetic between us.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re not my waiter,” I say. “How’d he fare?”
“He’s a smart kid. Got lots of potential. If he can learn to shut the fuck up once in a while we’ll be golden.”
That gives us both a laugh.
Seth tosses a granola bar onto the captain’s chair and deposits the mug directly into my hands. His fingers brush mine when I take my gloves off to feel the warm ceramic against my palms.
It’s completely innocuous, but that brief contact is enough to recall the feeling of his hand in mine, helping me up. His hands braced on the edge of the steps as his body came down on top of me. Hard and heavy.
“How are you doing, Cap’?”
“Better now,” I mumble around the rim of the mug. A truth and a lie. “Thanks.”
He smiles, and I look away.
I’m so infatuated with him, the smallest token of domesticity sends me spiraling. Suddenly, I’m picturing him in the kitchen at my cabin, both of us waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. Rich, nutty steam curling in the air as I hook my hands under his thighs and lift him up on the counter…
“New gloves treating you well?” he says conversationally.
This past winter turned my knuckles into chunks of ice, shattering every time I closed them around the wheel. There’s no way he knows how much his gift truly means to me.
I almost wore the gloves to sleep last time, and when I remembered to take them off, I set them down on my nightstand and stared at them like the creep I am.
Telling myself, They’re just gloves. Seth is just a nice guy, and he’s the best friend you’ve ever had. Don’t scare him off, until I finally fell asleep.
“They’re great,” I say. “Really, you didn’t have to do that.”
“Hmm.” He reaches over and grabs my hat, stopping my heart as he rubs the fabric between his fingers before tugging it down further over my ears. “Maybe I’ll have to get you a new hat, too.”
“I can buy my own clothes, Rit.”
“‘Can’ and ‘will’ are two different things. You can make your own coffee, too, but I’m here ‘cause you don’t.”
“You’re here because I can’t operate a hundred-foot fishing vessel on my own. I’m not gonna fall asleep at the helm.”
Seth needs to stop smiling at me like that, or I won’t even be lucid enough to operate a kayak.
He winks. “Not on my watch.”
F/V Suoja
October 18, 2130 hours
57°20’N, 159°18’W
NW winds 10-14 knots, seas 6-9 feet, air temp 32°F, water temp 43°F, pressure 29.78 inHg
First pot recovery completed after 72-hour soak. Averaging 8 legal males per pot. Lower than desired for early season.
Crew worked efficiently to haul and reset all traps today. Plan is to run north and re-launch. Forecast appears relatively stable through mid-week.
All systems operational.
Total catch to date: 9,520 lbs
Nicolas Lundvall, Master
October 18
Seth already smells like the inside of a crab pot.
That should be a turn off. God, it really should. But he also smells like the ocean, and winter, and, when he gets the chance to shower, this intense pine bar soap that makes me want to inhale him like the first waking breath of Christmas morning.
That’s what he smells like when he comes into the wheelhouse to relieve me for the next four hours, and he starts peeling off outer layers like he’s trying to send me into cardiac arrest.
“Ah,” he sighs, kicking back on the bench seat between the stairs to the crew mess and the stairs to the captain’s quarters.
He stretches his arms above his head and his undershirt rises to flash a thin sliver of skin on his lower stomach.
Tanned obliques and a trail of brown hair disappearing behind the waistband of his sweats. “Nice and warm in here, Cap’.”
“Practically the Four Seasons,” I say dryly.
“Just heated up some dinner and lemme tell you, Four Seasons wishes they made goulash as good as yours… or chili, or stroganoff, or biscuits and gravy. If you weren’t the best skipper I’ve ever worked for, I’d say you should’ve been a chef.”
“Well, I’ve gotta keep you guys coming back somehow.”
His smile crooks up higher on one cheek, and all I can think about is pressing my lips to the deep groove it makes. “You know I’d keep coming back anyway, Nicky.”
I’m staring at him again, and I can feel it going on too long. The eye contact is fucking excessive at this point, but I’m trapped in sweet, sticky toffee brown.
“You could always get your captain’s license, you know,” I say. “You’re more than qualified. As much as I’d hate to lose my best guy… you’re ready for the next step if you want to take it. You’d make a damn fine captain.”
What I don’t tell him is that even though I dread the thought of saying goodbye, I almost wish he’d move on.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take, but I do know I’ll never be strong enough to tell him to go. I’ll settle for so much less than the true intimacy I crave.
“I dunno. I’m not a great test taker.” Seth shrugs. “Barely got my GED and all.”