14. Nick
Nick
“This is a National Weather Service forecast for the Eastern Bering Sea and Bristol Bay.
Small craft advisory in effect. Northwest winds thirty-five to forty-five knots, increasing to forty-five to fifty-five knots.
Seas sixteen to twenty feet, building to twenty-five to thirty feet by early evening.
“The deepening low-pressure system is now tracking northeast at twenty knots. Mariners are advised to seek safe harbor immediately. The following zones are under storm warning...”
I brace myself against the control table to keep my legs from fidgeting as I listen to the forecast repeat for the third time in a row.
Fuck.
There goes the plan.
Twelve hours. That’s all that stands between us and the same storm that was supposed to ravage the peninsula. There’s no way to travel back to Unalaska without running directly into the foul weather, but we might be able to make it back to the Pribilofs if we push hard.
By the looks on Seth and Perry’s faces, they already know the verdict.
Shit’s about to get rough, and there’s not a thing we can do other than zip up our jackets and deal with it.
I’m half-dazed as I switch frequencies on the radio, but Captain Ericsen’s voice snaps me out of it.
I’ve known him since I was my father’s bait-boy—a well-tenured fishing captain out of Dutch Harbor.
Around my dad’s age, without the slightest inclination to give up life at sea until the day he dies.
“Anybody out by the Savings Area, forget making it back to Dutch tonight.” He gives a flat laugh. “I’ve got forty-knot gusts out here already and the swell period is shortening up. Get yourselves somewhere and sit tight ‘til this bastard blows through.”
“Fishing vessel Justify, this is fishing vessel Suoja. What are your coordinates?”
“56.4 degrees North, 162.8 degrees West. Hope the hell you’re nowhere near me, Lundvall. This shit’s for the big boys.”
I don’t tell him that I’m even farther north than he is, and we’re about to get slammed by the same storm he’s in the middle of. “Aw, why? Having a hard time hitting quota with our leftovers, old man?” I say with a smile.
“Ha! Nevermind. Sending this fuckin’ ice your way, kid.”
I turn the volume down, switch back to the weather channel to wait for updates, and look out the window at a view that confirms the forecast.
In what little daylight is left, the sky has drained of color. Grayish purple, with a sickly yellow glow outlining heavy clouds.
The swell has changed too. Nothing I’d call high yet, but choppier than what we were dealing with yesterday. The bay’s gotten itself into a heated argument with the open ocean, and neither one of them are backing down.
“Change of plans,” I tell Seth and Perry, turning the volume down on the VHF.
“I need all hands securing the pots. We’re too far out to make it back to Dutch Harbor, but we’re going to shoot for St. Paul.
It’s about to get a hell of a lot rougher from here on out though.
I want everyone in their cabins as soon as the deck is lashed down. ”
“Yes, sir,” Perry says.
Seth nods to him. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute.”
This time, there’s no sly grin or whistle. Nobody’s looking forward to the grueling hours ahead.
One moment, Seth is my first mate. Diligent and unflappable. But as soon as Perry’s gone, he pulls me in and whispers in my ear. “It’s gonna be okay.”
No one has ever, ever said that to me before a storm out here, and I’d never dream of expecting it.
It’s my job to make sure everything is okay. Until now, I’ve never known what it’s like to have someone making sure I’m okay.
I hug him back, and I give him what I’ve never been able to give to anyone. My deepest fears. The guilt that always lies in wait for me to make a poor judgment call so it can say, This was all your fault.
“It was my decision to push us out this far north,” I say.
“And we’ve been killing it out here. If you wanna hunt crabs, you’ve gotta meet them where they’re at. I promise you, we’re all gonna appreciate the paycheck you’re netting us.”
I’m not ready to let go of him, but I do because I have to. It’s time to get the hell out of here before the winds pick up.
Seth heads down to the deck and personally oversees the lashing down of all our equipment. One stack of pots coming undone during a thirty-foot wave could send us all into the ocean.
I watch through the wheelhouse windows for a moment as he moves with innate authority, the crew falling into step around him, awaiting his instruction.
The engine chugs along while I keep an ear peeled to our team communications. Listening to everyone rattle off their work and Seth, confirming last checks.
“Pots, secured.”
“Deck hatches, secured.”
“Scuppers clear.”
“Crew cabins, secured.”
“Galley, secured.”
“Engine room, clear.”
“All clear, Captain.”
Those last three words should settle me, especially when it’s Seth saying them, and for a little while, they do.
But as the hours pass, I can feel the energy building. Maybe not at first, but there exists a point in every storm where the effect snowballs. Each swell lifts the bow a little higher and drops it a little harder than the last.
I’ve got tunnel vision on the path ahead, one hand on the wheel making small, unconscious adjustments as the GPS tracks our position. A wall of turquoise on the navigation screen without a speck of land in sight.
Outside, the sky darkens. The reflection of the heavy clouds has turned the water graphite gray.
In the background, the marine radio comes alive with activity as other captains check in. Each report is worse than the last. One captain signs off mid-sentence and doesn’t come back on. Maybe a bad connection. I don’t let myself think about the other possibilities.
The forecast updates. Robotic in its delivery. As emotionless as the brewing weather.
“...This is a National Weather Service forecast for the Eastern Bering Sea. Small craft advisory in effect. Hazardous seas and icing conditions worsening. Winds increasing to fifty-five to sixty knots by early evening. Seas twenty to thirty feet. Mariners are advised to seek safe harbor immediately. The following zones are under storm warning...”
Forty knots. The system has nearly doubled its speed. I chew on those numbers, and the answer they spit back is not one I want.
We’re not going to make it to St. Paul.
I pick up the mic and take one breath. Just one.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday—Coast Guard Sector Juneau, Coast Guard Sector Juneau, this is fishing vessel Suoja.” I read off our coordinates from the GPS, then repeat.
“Five souls on board. Storm conditions deteriorating rapidly, system has shifted directly into our course. We are unable to reach shelter in time. Requesting advisory and asking to be logged.”
Static. Then:
“Fishing vessel Suoja, this is Coast Guard Sector Juneau. We have logged your position. What is your current vessel status and intended action?”
“Vessel is sound. Intending to heave-to and ride it out.”
“Copy, Suoja. We’ll be monitoring Channel 16. Update us if your situation changes.”
I set the mic back in its cradle and radio to Seth. “Rittenburg, Rittenburg—Captain. Can you meet me in the wheelhouse?”
“Copy, Captain.”
He can already tell something’s wrong when he comes through the door and sees me swinging the bow around, repositioning us to meet the waves at forty-five degrees and pulling back the throttle.
“Change of plans. Storm’s shifted, we’re meeting it head-on. May only have an hour or two before conditions worsen. Make sure everyone has their survival suits on. We’re gonna have to stay on top of ice removal, and this one’s gonna be a bitch.”
We’ve weathered some shit conditions together before. Enough times that I know we’re both more anxious than we’re letting on. For the good of the crew, but also, for the good of our own mental states. A storm like this drains you. You have to go into it full-energy, full-focus.
“Wouldn’t be crab season without at least one bitch of a storm,” he says. “That’s my favorite part of the job. Counting how many ice chunks I can chisel off before a mondo-wave knocks me on my ass. My record is thirty-six.”
I crack a smile for him because I’ve been there myself.
Chipping away with my dad at the helm, barking orders with an aggression he only possessed we were in the middle of rough seas.
My dad’s never been afraid to tell me he loves me, but I always felt it most when he was yelling his ass off.
Desperate to not lose me to something he couldn’t control.
“Tell the guys we’ll all go out after we make it back to Dutch. I’ll buy the first round.”
Seth smirks. “Might take more than one round if you want ‘em to forget about this shit.”
“No kidding.”
I rub at the twinge in my chest, not quite able to reach it as the next swell crashes over the bow in an explosion of white spray. In the distance, thunder booms, heralding a splinter of lightning across the sky. The first real gust shudders through the rigging.
When all this is over, I’m going to need a few drinks myself. Right now, I need to stop thinking about the voice that cut off on the radio and never came back.