The Forbidden Shore

The job is complex. Not brain surgery or rocket science, but a lot of moving parts and pieces that have to mesh properly under wildly random conditions to pull those tasty crustaceans off the ocean bottom. Small mistakes can cost you or one of your crewmates skin, bone, limb or even life if even one little thing goes wrong. Sometimes, you avoid disaster out of sheer luck, and this is when everyone is focused on being safe and helping each other out.

If only one cog in that fuel, metal and flesh machine isn't up to the task, everything becomes exponentially more dangerous. Imagine then, if someone is actively engaged in making things unsafe and that person is the master of the vessel.

At that moment, I had no idea if I was going to make it home.

Given that bone-chilling epiphany, I was definitely not prepared for the course our voyage subsequently took.

At first, things went well, so well in fact, that I could hardly believe our luck. The weather was as clement as it ever gets in the Bering Sea in January. The deck hands were working well together, the equipment was running smoothly and there were crabs.

My God, there were crabs. I had never seen anything like it. With the size pots we use, I've seen occasions when we might get three or four hundred Opies in a pot and I had seen logs from other boats where once in a while, a few five-hundred-ers were pulled, but the run we experienced was beyond all reason and accounting. Six hundred in a pot, then seven hundred, a couple with near 800, but steadily averaging between five and six hundred.

We filled our hold in record time, the most crab I'd ever seen in the Anna, nearly a hundred forty thousand pounds. To top it off, the pack ice was obliging us, with St. Paul's still open, a full sixteen hours closer than Dutch.

So, we were on a beeline to offload after thirty-four hours of the most incredible fishing I'd seen in my young life. We were all stumbling around like zombies, too tired to even eat. As I staggered back to my cabin, I was intercepted by Sean. He handed me a four and a half foot long, six inch wide, milled aluminum board, scalloped at one end, with a rubberized pad on the opposite pole.

I stared at it like it was an alien artifact, absolutely no understanding of what I was holding. Sean took pity on me and explained, "Under the door knob, Peter, at an angle. No one can get in."

Nodding dumbly, I stumbled to my quarters. Only after I closed the door behind me, did Sean's words register. I had been so focused on the task at hand that I nearly forgot my predicament. On top of that, our hauls were so incredibly good, we heard hardly a peep from the wheelhouse loudspeaker. We settled into a routine very quickly and the hours flew by.

Now though, I was holding concrete evidence of my situation in my hands and suddenly, it felt like the whole world was firmly settled on my shoulders. More than anything, I wanted to go up to the bridge and get on the radiophone to Mom, just to hear her voice, but that wasn't going to happen. Dad hadn't left his chair since we left port and showed no signs budging, so I wasn't going to be able to ease my worried mind.

I was suddenly ten times more tired than I was three minutes ago. I set the contraption Sean gave me under the door handle and collapsed into my bunk. I think I actually fell asleep in mid-flop.

I woke up to father snarling over the loudspeaker as St. Paul's was heaving into sight. I splashed cold water on my face and ran a comb though my bed-head, stumbling out to the galley. I was the last one there, but not by much. We ate like the starving wolf pack we were, roaring through three dozen eggs, a two pounds of bacon, three pounds of sausage and two loaves worth of French toast. An F5 Kansas tornado had nothing on us. We devoured every morsel in sight.

Dad was nowhere to be seen, presumably still in the wheelhouse. Our greenhorn again ferried his food up to the bridge. I was wondering if I was going to see him again before the trip was over, Sean's warnings notwithstanding.

Soon enough, we made the dockside at Warehouse St. and offloaded without incident. Dad finally surfaced for the weigh out and collected the earnings - nearly $320K. We got absolute top dollar.

Then we turned around and went out to do it again. And again. Each time, we rolled in crab. It seemed like every pot was canned corn, mostly males, nearly all keepers, again averaging damn near five hundred per pot. We did even better than the first time, our second haul bringing $330K and our third outing closing out our quota and netting nearly $340K.

We were all relieved to be done, relieved that my father hadn't blown a gasket, looking forward to a prosperous start to the New Year. I was even thinking about what I was going to get Mom. It seemed like high time she had a better car, something nicer to drive around when we left for Seattle.

I had relaxed to the point where it seemed like things were going to work out okay. I was figuring my share in my head and the numbers were heady. My share for the Opies was likely to be over 100K! That was more money than I had ever seen in my life and more than I was going to get for my novel on top of that. I had visions of Mom and I buying a house with cash money.

I was stupid.

I was so totally stupid.

I should never have forgotten how ruthlessly cunning my father was. Of course, nothing would occur while there was money to be made. If something happened after we hit our quota though, well that would be an entirely different kettle of fish, if you'll pardon a tired old saying. Dad could exact his revenge for whatever he suspected and reclaim a share of the payout for himself, as my next of kin. Perfect for him.

Like I said, stupid. Totally brain-dead-don't-deserve-to-live stupid. I let the crafty son of a bitch lull me half to sleep. I should have known he'd be spending all that alone time in the bridge plotting and planning, making sure that he had his contingencies worked out and his ass fully covered.

The first day heading back to Dutch was pure routine. All of the usual work had to be done, getting the deck in shape again. The pots had been stacked and were secure. I was looking forward to some sack time when I heard his voice over the loudspeaker.

"Alright, listen up assholes. We got a squall coming in. I want the pots checked one more time. Let's get to it. Stop wasting my time and get your sorry asses in gear, ladies. Move it!"

There's a peculiarity to the deck layout of the Anna. About twenty feet from the bow is an old, slightly raised hatch with a bit of relief from its coaming. It's not a big deal, but it's something we have to work around and it produces a slight distortion of the rows of stacked pots, one row jutting out slightly more to the starboard. The rest of the pots stack flush to one another and we need a bit of extra rigging to stabilize that slight offset of the one row.

It also produces a blind spot for'ard of the offset row. It's just enough that you can't see it from the bridge, or elsewhere on the deck. It's big enough to conceal a couple people, but not much more.

As Gunnar spoke over the loudspeaker, I glanced to see Sean in the hatchway to engineering. He was looking at Hig and glancing up to the top of the stack. Hig nodded once and vaulted up to the high point without waiting and began checking the chains, clearly trying to keep me on the deck. Remembering Sean's advice and the story of Art Swenson, I suppressed a shudder and waved my thanks to Hig. He nodded, sketching off a casual salute and got back to work.

At that point, the loudspeaker crackled back to life.

"Peter - get your useless mamma's boy butt for'ard and check the offset row. Now!"

Figuring out of sight was out of mind, I carefully made my way towards the bow. The wind was already beginning to screech in the rigging and the Anna had taken on a decided pitch and yaw, beginning to corkscrew through the waves. The footing became treacherous and I was glad we would soon be finished.

I rounded the corner to the offset row and into the blind spot.

Father was there, waiting for me.

He carefully put a walkie talkie down, and it was clear that he had somehow tapped it into the PA system.

He hadn't even been on the bridge. He was waiting for me and suddenly I knew that I was likely a dead man.

He stood in front of me with his feet planted wide on the heaving deck. A gaffing hook was in one hand and he was smiling. Oh yes, how he was smiling. He looked smug, satisfied and absolutely insane. Then his face closed down like a granite battlement.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my son, the motherfucker," he said cheerily. The contrast between his happy voice and black, stony visage raised the hair on my neck.

"How nice to see you at last," he said, his voice oozing deceitful bonhomie and false fellowship. "We haven't had a chance to chat since you started screwing that whore, my wife. Anyway, I do so hope you've been enjoying the maternal pussy, because you'll never see it again."

I just stood there like an idiot, with my mouth hanging open. His smile returned, the maniacal grin growing wider as he took in my surprise. But his eyes were frozen pools of blue at absolute zero, totally devoid of emotion and humanity, infinite in depth.

Looking into them, I knew then with total certainty that Hell wasn't hot.

It was in fact cold, so very, very cold.

"Well, Peter," he drawled with relish. "You should be happy. Things are going to be over for you soon and it'll be quick. It's nothing like what I have planned for your whore mother."

I was speechless with surprise and total shock.

"What's the matter, sonny-boy?" he asked with a leer. "Leave your tongue behind in that slut's twat?" he sneered.

"Come on now," he said jovially, "Speak up and tell your dear papa what its like to screw a worthless, cheating cunt. Was it good? WAS IT?"

He suddenly lashed out with his boot, catching the inside of my thigh, just above the knee. I'm sure if I had been planted firmly, it would have blown out, crippling me. But just as his foot made contact, the deck pitched and I was slightly lifted. His blow hurt like hell and knocked me off my feet, but my knee held together. Still, I landed hard on my back, my wind knocked from me. I struggled to get air back into my lungs, instinctively curling and rolling, another blow from his boot striking my back.

"Did you think I didn't know what you and the whore were up to, shitbag?" He'd hissed. "I've seen how you look at her, you sick little fuck. The best part of you ran down her hore leg after I made you, you piece of kukkost!"

He laughed cruelly and mirthlessly. "Didn't think I knew you were running home to mommy to get your dick wet, now did you? Well, you worthless kukk suger, I followed your pathetic little ass back home on the next flight!"

"I saw you two! You disgusting, perverted little dritt!" His voice took on a rising note of hysteria, his laugh becoming nearly a shriek. "Now it's time to say good bye, fuckhead. You'll never see you sweet whore-mother again. She'll go the way of your bestemor! I'll cut off her tits and stuff them up her cunt before I strangle her! How's that suit you, you forraedersk hund? "

He prepared another kick.

I rolled again, this time catching him in the act of raising his arm, gaffing hook held high. I knew that one well-landed blow with it would leave me gutted like a fish, which was no doubt his intent. I fetched up against the edge of one of the pots and knew at that moment that I was trapped.

In desperation, I lashed out with my legs, still gasping for breath and hunched against the pot and arched my back. This caused my body to shoot towards his legs, sliding uncontrollably across the ice-slicked deck. I figured it was preferable to go over the side rather than face the hook. If I went in the drink, it would be over in just a few minutes.

As I slid across the deck towards its edge, I took father down like a bowling pin. He crashed to the deck heavily as I slid across the tilting, slippery surface towards annihilation. The blue-gray, foamy water looked almost inviting and for a brief moment, I imagined that I could see Mom, walking on the stormy waves, garbed as an angel of death, beckoning me towards the welcoming oblivion the sea promised.

Then the deck pitched again, miraculously slowing my progress. I was able to grab a stanchion of the deck railing, my legs and hips dangling over the edge as I hung on desperately. There was another pitch and corkscrew yaw and suddenly, my hips were flipped around back onto the deck.

Still slightly dazed, I scrambled to my feet, my boots performing a tarantella on the now-icy surface. When my father fell, the gaffing hook went over the side. We now faced each other, barehanded. I had no illusions. I knew if he was able to close with me, that I was dead.

Desperately, I threw a quick left jab, catching him on the chin. I was barely holding my balance on the tilt-a-whirl the deck had become, the gale-force wind of the storm now upon us, screaming in the rigging. There wasn't much force behind the blow, but it briefly surprised him, keeping him at arm's length for a few more precious moments.

I followed with another quick swing, setting him back slightly on his heels. With his ape-like arms, he still had a couple inches of reach on me, though.

It wasn't looking very good.

I managed to land one more blow, opening a cut over his left eye, but the deck betrayed me and I over balanced. Dad made the most of his opportunity, landing a heavy blow on the back of my neck, grabbing my rain gear and accelerating me headfirst towards the pots.

"This is it," was all I had time to think and then the world went away.

Chapter 14

To my considerable surprise, I awoke some time later. I could tell from the motion of the boat that we were still in the grips of the storm, but I couldn't tell if it was the waves or my head making my cabin spin around me. I made a half-hearted attempt to throw up and then blackness claimed me again. I wondered briefly if I would be seeing my father in it.

The next time I woke up, I could tell we weren't moving. I had no idea how much time had passed, but we were obviously docked somewhere. Groaning in the darkness, I rolled out of bed with a thump and landed on the floor. It hurt like hell. Mentally, I added probable cracked ribs as well as a concussion to my injury inventory.

Falling out of bed must have alerted someone outside my door, because it flew open. The gangway light seemed intolerably bright, making me feel like I had been stabbed between the eyes with an icepick, but it outlined Hig's unmistakable silhouette. He kindly but firmly put me back into bed, saying, "Rest up, Pete. Coasties are sending a Jayhawk from Dutch for you. It should be here any time."

"Gunnar?" I asked hoarsely.

"No problemo, semi-jefe. It's the circle of life," he laughed grimly. "We'll be recycling his sorry-ass molecules next Red Crab season."

I sagged back into bed, my relief so profound I felt like a jellyfish. Then it hit me; I was in charge now. I had to get off my ass and start making arrangements to get the Anna back to Dutch. I struggled to get up again, but Hig pushed me back down.

Reading my mind, he said, "Not to worry, bud. The Mary Caroline was only eight miles away when we sent out the mayday. Both Sam and Ed Hansson were on board. Sammy's gonna lend us Ed to get back to port. Ed got his Master's certificate last year, if you remember. Everything's nice and legal," he soothed. "Eddie'll get us home in one piece, for sure."

"Thanks for everything, Hig. I owe you."

"You owe me fuck-all, junior. Just be sure to buy me a Bud the next time you're back in Dutch."

Finally getting my brain fully in gear, I asked the question.

"What happened?"

Looking at me without expression, he said evenly, "Pot came loose and took him over the side. Poof. Just like that. Gone. Lucky it didn't nail you too."

Sighing, I laid back into bed. Well, my secret wasn't so secret after all. But now the only person who could hurt me or Mom was gone. I knew in my gut that there was more to my hated father's demise than Hig was letting on, but that was a new secret I could live without knowing.

A short while later, they carefully bundled me on deck and we got into a Snowcat that took us to the airstrip. The helo was waiting. The last person I saw before they loaded my sorry carcass on board was Sean.

His last words to me were, "Art Swenson is resting easy now, Pete."

It wasn't until we were halfway back to Dutch that his appearance registered in my scrambled memory. His right hand had been bandaged and there was a fresh bruise on his left cheek. As I was bundled into the chopper, he had given me the slightest of nods and a flicker of a smile briefly crossed his face.

We made it back without further adventures and I got checked out by what passes for local health care on Unalaska Island. My cracked ribs were confirmed, but the doc there didn't like my headaches and wobbly gait, so it was off to Anchorage on a Medivac flight for a CT scan.

Providentially, I ended up at Providence Medical Center. The loss of a crab boat's captain at sea was news of regional import, of course, but I didn't count on the TV cameras when the ambulance brought me into the ER. Minor celebrity that I was, I could have used a lot less attention. God knows what Mom would think if she saw me on the news. At this point, I wasn't sure if or what Mom might know about what was going on.

The only good thing that happened was that Tony and Amanda came by to see me after I hit the ER. I was whisked off to get my scan and even more x-rays. Apparently the radiologist said all the right things about the condition of my squash, because I was admitted overnight for observation only. Tony called Mom after the results of my scan came back and told me that Hilda was driving her over as we spoke. Eventually, I was released from the clutches of the emergency docs and put in a private room.

I worked hard to stay awake, trying to figure out what I would do with the Anna and her crew, also trying to figure out what would happen with Dad's estate, but it was a losing battle. Concussed brains are recalcitrant beasts and mine was no exception. Everything slipped sideways and out focus and I slept, the last thing I remember being the snowflakes swirling outside of my window in the harsh orange glare of the sodium vapor streetlights below.

When I awoke, it was full daylight. It still hurt to breathe but my headache was tolerable. What made me feel even better though, was the vision I beheld sitting at my bedside.

She was staring pensively out the window. There were dark shadows under her eyes and her hair hadn't been washed or brushed. She was wearing what must have been yesterday's rumpled clothes and her eye shadow was smudged.

She looked absolutely beautiful.

"Hi, pretty lady," I said softly.

Mom jumped in her chair and was at my side in a flash, hugging me fiercely.

"You are in soooo much trouble, you lille drit," she murmured in my ear. "How dare you scare me to death like that, you big, miserable lug! I just about died of fright when Tony called me! I TOLD you not to go back to that boat, but you wouldn't listen, would you, you stubborn idiot? Look what it's gotten you, gotten us!" she scolded, eyes welling.

"Free and clear," I said quietly.

"Pardon?"

"Free and clear, Mom, free and clear. He's gone. We're still here, still together, with everything in front of us now. Free and clear."

Mom was silent for a long, quiet moment and then a she ventured a small smile.

"Free and clear," she said tenderly, running her hand along my cheek. I shuddered slightly at her touch. She leaned over to give me a gentle, deliciously prolonged kiss and then stood, brushing her hair out of her eyes.