The Forbidden Shore

Chapter 2

Dad makes the lion's share of his money crabbing, but like most everyone else here in these parts, he does other stuff in the off season to keep his cash coming in. So, in the summer we use a smaller boat Dad owns to ferry "sports" fishermen from the lower 48 out to the halibut and keep busy. Relatively speaking, it's a good break.

At just under 90 feet, the Anna Katarina is one of the smaller boats that crab in the winter. I don't need to tell you what that's like. Everyone's seen those reality shows, but they don't even come close to describing what it's like working for Dad in the Bering Sea in January.

We go through a lot of crew, pretty much turning everyone over every couple of years. Dad works his men to death and underpays them to boot. In the six years I've been working on the Anna Katarina, I've been bullied, coerced and shoved into the role of Dad's deck boss, simply because we can't get anyone else of experience.

So, we have more than our share of greenhorns, slackers, malcontents and men on the run. It makes for poor performance, poor catches and a barely decent living in what should otherwise be a prosperous business. We've been doing okay the last 18 months since I became deck boss, not because I'm that great at it, but because I'm able to be a little bit of a buffer between Dad and the deckhands. That means I get most of the abuse, but I can deal with it.

There were times when I was younger, working summers on the Anna, where I would come home sore all over, covered with more cuts, bruises and scrapes than I could count. When Mom patched me up, I'd just tell her that I'd fallen, or some other BS. But she knew, oh yes, she knew, even though she never said anything.

She didn't have to. I might infer it from her carefully neutral expression, but she could never hide the sadness and unspoken apology in her eyes.

The one time she ever confronted my father about it, he got nose to nose with her and casually pushed her onto the sofa, saying, "Mind your fucking house, woman. Boy's gotta be made into a man. Kid's damn near useless anyway, needs to grow a pair and learn how it's done. That's my job and none of your goddamn business how I go about it. Cross me again and you'll regret it," he'd hissed, the devil in his eyes once more.

I never blamed Mom for not standing up to him, though. She's only about 5'8" or so and slender as a reed. Dad could have killed her outright with just one punch and he was certainly mean enough that I could see it happening. So Mom kept her peace and I kept mine too.

In point of fact, Dad is just the kind of guy who would use a loved one to get back at anybody who dared to stand up to him, so the last thing I wanted was for Dad to take out any anger he might have had at me, on her. Even so, Mom was always there for me and I adored her for it, for her unconditional love and quiet courage and her belief in me, that I was a decent guy and wasn't going to turn out like my feared father.

One day, when I was fourteen, I found Mom crying in the bathroom, head in her hands. Unusually, Dad was home, a stripped turbine having forced him ashore. As usual, he took his frustration out on her. He was a master of verbal abuse and in actuality, had rarely ever raised a hand against Mom, but he had the harshest tongue I ever saw in a man. He knew just how to cow a gentle soul like Mom and flay her with cruel insults.

I hugged Mom and just sat with her until she was able to compose herself. When her tears stopped, I asked, "Why is Dad so mean to you, Mom?"

I can still remember every word of her reply. It was the first time she had ever spoken to me as an adult, without any hollow reassurances or feeble excuses for Dad's behavior or his long absences.

Harking back to the beloved Norse mythology she used to teach me when I was little, she said, "Your father has a black, angry heart. He's like a ravener, a berserker of Ragnarok. He lives for the pain he gives others and loves arguments and confusion. He feels chained to his existence, just as Loki was chained."

"But I am no Sigyn," she'd added coldly. "I do not collect the serpent's venom in a cup to protect him. I do not shield him from the anger and hate that the world reflects back on him. Some day, a curse will fall on him, just as it did to Loki. Then where will he be?"

"I wish I had Mjolnir, Mom. Then I could be like Thor and teach him a lesson," I said bravely.

Mom startled at my reply and then grabbed me roughly by the arms, staring at me intently, fear in her face.

"Never, ever cross your father, Peter. He is a dangerous, cruel man and will not care one bit you are his son, if you anger him. It might even be worse because you are his family. Promise me," she pleaded, looking away, tears of worry in her eyes.

"Promise me never to confront him. I couldn't bear it if he hurt you. It would break my heart, kjaereste sonn," she pleaded, hugging me to her breast with a shudder.

Now, I suppose most guys at that age would have been embarrassed to be held like that by their mothers, but it didn't bother me. Mom and I were close because of Dad. We relied on each other for comfort and support.

At that time, my older brother, Sig, was already six months gone. Dad was expecting him on board the Anna the day after his graduation from high school. That didn't happen. After he walked off the auditorium stage with his diploma, he gave Mom a hug and kiss, clapped me on the shoulder, gave me a suffocating bear hug and told me to watch out for her.

Then he took a suitcase out from under a tarp in the pickup bed and walked straight to a waiting taxi.

"The airport," I'd heard him tell the driver. Less than an hour later he was in the air, bound for Anchorage. A month later he wrote Mom, telling her he had enlisted in the Coast Guard. He progressed quickly up to E-3, working the station at the Columbia River Section, down in Warrenton, Oregon. He writes to Mom fairly regularly, but we haven't seen him now for over ten years. Mom misses him a lot, but understands. She says he swore to her that he wouldn't set foot in Homer again as long as Dad was alive.

Of course, from that point forward, Sig was dead to my father as well. Predictably, he took out his anger at my brother's perceived treachery on Mom and me. To this day, Mom still has to hide his letters to her.

We don't talk about my baby sister, Astrid, at all. She died at the age of four, almost seventeen years ago, from acute lymphoblastic leukemia. She passed in the middle of King Crab season, while Dad was fishing for Blues up near St. Matthew's Island. Needless to say, he didn't make the funeral. It was just me, Mom and Sig. I guess he didn't have much use for females, beyond creating more sons for him to work to death. When little Astrid departed this world, she took a good chunk of Mom's heart with her.

Anyway, I never begrudged Mom's need to hold me or be close. If I'm going to be totally honest, I think I would have to admit that it was after that bathroom conversation with Mom that I began the slow, inexorable process of falling in love with her, even though I didn't recognize it at the time.

Once aboard the Anna, I quickly learned to read Dad's moods, recognizing when his temper was most frayed, how to dodge the worst and make myself scarce when I could. I learned my assigned jobs, not because I was afraid of the beatings, but because it was what I had to do. I never figured that I'd do anything different than what most everyone else in the family had done. Mostly though, I stuck around because of Mom. I didn't want to leave her alone with Dad.

I was afraid for her.

Looking back on it, I guess I learned a lot in the time leading up to my 24th birthday, because the funny thing is, Dad's a hell of a seaman. In the wheelhouse, riding 30-foot seas and fighting 60-knot gales, he's in his element. The black-hearted SOB knows where all the fish and crabs are, too. He's forgotten more tricks on finding his catch than most guys remember from a lifetime on the water.

But in spite of his skills, he never does truly well, since his crews are usually the dregs. I do what I can to keep things going smoothly, but my real priorities are elsewhere. That's not to say I'm not careful with my job, though.

As deck boss, I'm responsible for the safety of all the hands when we're hauling catch. If they don't get taught their jobs properly, if there's not enough supervision, people can get seriously hurt or killed.

In the fifteen years leading up to my eighteenth birthday, Dad had lost three crew overboard and had some half dozen or so medical evacuations by helicopter. I'm proud to say that since I've taken over the deck, we haven't had one incident. I've recommended firing a few layabouts and dangerous idiots but strangely, Dad has backed me on those decisions. He may be a malign thug, but he's nobody's fool. Fewer accidents mean more crab in the hold. It's that simple for him. Nothing else matters.

Chapter 3

Unbeknownst to Dad, since I turned eighteen, I had been writing in my spare time, something that grew out of Mom's longstanding encouragement. Probably as an escape, I was a voracious reader growing up and I had discovered an aptitude for storytelling during my English classes as a sophomore. My teacher, Miss Hester, had let Mom know. With their support, I worked on my writing skills, showing them my work. Needless to say, we concealed all this from Dad. God forbid that one of his sons would not make a living on the water, worse yet, using his head.

Almost five years ago, I had started a novel, semi-autobiographical in content. It was a pretty conceit, a modestly educated high school graduate thinking he had lived enough to justify such a story, let alone write about it, but a little less than six months ago, it was finally done. I had written it for myself, a dark outlet for my worries and frustrations and growing despair over my future.

I had shown it to no one.

Looking back on things, I can see that I unconsciously buried some dark confessions and longings in that story, things that in real life, I kept even from myself, lest I hurt and alienate the one person in my life that mattered more than any other. When I typed the last page of my self-therapy, I put a printed copy in a box, taped it closed and put it in the back of my closet.

The writing gave me a temporary surcease from my unhappiness and my barely acknowledged and poorly understood desires. Once finished, I then moved on, or so I thought.

What I didn't know at the time was that Mom was secretly reading it as I finished the project. She put a copy of the manuscript in Miss Hester's hands. In turn, she had passed it onto a classmate living in Seattle, who had an in-law who worked for a major publisher. Some time around the end of September, the story found it's way to the desk of an assistant editor who was looking for new talent. The editor then began the process of backtracking to find the unknown author and subsequently, as we were hauling in the last pots of the Red Crab season, a letter I was unaware of began making its way towards Homer.

Dad had actually hit his quota that December, for the first time in quite a while, and we found ourselves steaming through sporadic, ferocious snow squalls into Dutch Harbor five days shy of Christmas. As you might imagine, in our family, the holidays were a custom more honored in the breach than the actual celebration, Dad usually struggling right up to the end of the King Crab season to get what he could in his holds.

This time though, I was going to go home to spend it with Mom, crabs be damned. I had stayed on for a day and a half at Dutch, supervising the setup of the Opie pots as usual, making sure that they were prepped and ready to be loaded on board and then hopped a flight back to Homer, by way of Anchorage. I was damned lucky with the weather. At that time of the year, the airport can be closed for days at a time. Dad was unusually magnanimous, only haranguing me for a half hour or so when I told him my plans.

I think the only reason he didn't completely blow a gasket was because he felt like celebrating and was going to have a bit of a bender while I was gone. This represented a new low, as he was avoiding going home fully for the first time I could remember. In the past, Yuletide would usually find him home for five or six days, not that things would be happy and cheerful in the bosom of his family.

I knew that any binge he embarked on was likely to be a long, solitary and angry epic, because I couldn't think of a single fellow captain who would drink with him. Anticipating a bad outcome, I had my taxi stop at the police station on the way out and I gave the good folks there a heads up. Dad's legendary temper had gotten him in enough trouble in the past when sober, so I felt obligated to do my part to protect life and property in the Harbor vicinity.

What with the imminent arrival of all of the TV idiots for the start of Opie season, I was sure Dad would be spoiling for a confrontation, especially if he was in his cups. I gave the local LEO's our phone number in Homer and told the deputy on duty that I'd be back in four days to bail him out if anything untoward occurred.

Conscience clear, I made my way to the airstrip, calling Mom just before I boarded. Seven long and boring hours later, I found myself on the tarmac at home, eyes watering from a steady 30-knot wind blowing across Kachemak Bay. By Alaskan standards, it really wasn't that uncomfortable, around 25 degrees, but between the 4 pm sunset, a few swirling flurries, a heavy, scudding overcast and the marine humidity, the cold found its way into my bones with disconcerting ease. I was soon sorry I had left my heavy parka back at Dutch.

Surprisingly, Mom was there, waiting for me, in the company of our nearest neighbor, Hilda Halstrom. A few quick steps had her in my embrace and I gleefully swung her feet off the ground, raising her to eye level as I kissed her forehead.

"Jesus, it's good to see you Mom! I've missed you so much!"

Serving up a kiss that seemed to accidentally glance off the corner of my mouth, Mom blushed like a schoolgirl and sighed happily.

"I've been counting the days, Peter. I honestly didn't expect to see you so soon, you know," she confessed, putting her arms around my neck. We just stood there, grinning like fools for a full minute, just drinking in the sight of each other while Hilda looked on, smiling warmly.

After a five plus seasons working the pots, Mom felt like a dainty paperweight in my arms. It seemed like I was hardly holding anything, until she kissed my cheek one more time to get my attention.

"Peter," she said quietly, "You can put me down now."

"Peter!"

"Wha... hunh, Mom?" I stuttered, lost in her eyes.

"I said you can put me down now, you big lug," she scolded affectionately.

"Ooops, sorry Mom," I apologized sheepishly. "I forgot. You're so light, I hardly notice when I hold you."

"Besides," I added gallantly, "Why would I want to put down the prettiest girl between Juneau and Anchorage?"

Slipping her arm around my torso, Mom leaned into me, propelling us towards the terminal, our hips bumping as I reflexively put my arm around her waist.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Peter," she scolded me, "Flirting with your own mother like that."

Nodding good-naturedly at her admonishment, I said, "When have I ever NOT flirted with you, Mom?" Grinning, I turned to Hilda for confirmation and support.

"Peter has always been the sweetest talking young man in Homer, Chris, and well you should know it," Hilda laughed. "He's started making goo-goo eyes at you when he was four years old, and he hasn't stopped since."

"If he spread around one tenth of those honeyed words elsewhere in town, he'd have been, uhm, loved to within an inch of his life by all the women who want to jump his handsome bones," Hilda chuckled, giving me a surreptitious wink and batting her own eyelashes theatrically.

"Hilda!" Mom exclaimed, scandalized. "This is my son we're talking about! This is Petey!"

"More's the pity, Chris, more's the pity."

"Jesus Kristus," Mom muttered. "My best friend is trying to seduce my own son, right under my nose!"

Desperate to redirect the conversation in a less embarrassing direction, I broke in, "What brings you down here, Hilda? Are you expecting someone as well?"

Mom quickly replied before Hilda could say anything, speaking in low, tight tones.

"The truck broke down last Monday and there's not enough money in the account to pay for it."

"What's the problem, Mom? Won't Bert let you pay on installment like last time?"

"Bert's done with that, Peter," she said flatly, letting out a gusty sigh. "You know he charges a little bit of interest for the favor, which I've always been happy to pay, but last time around, your father found out about it. He nearly got into a fight with Bert over a lousy extra twenty dollars, he was so upset. It took three people to keep Gunnar off him and even then, I had to rush down to the shop in person to persuade Bert not to file charges."

"So, that's not an option any more," she concluded somberly. "Hilda was kind enough to give me a lift so I could welcome you home properly."

"Thanks, Hilda," I said appreciatively. "That was above and beyond. It was great to be able to see Mom getting right off the plane."

"Nonsense, Peter," she said dismissively. "It's the least I could do for my best friend and her handsome son."

While we walked through the terminal and to the parking lot, I kept my arm around Mom. She seemed happy to stay close, leaning her head against my shoulder as we made our way to Hilda's SUV.

Squeezing me tightly, Mom spoke apologetically, "I'm sorry that you couldn't give me any more warning you were coming, Petey. I hadn't planned to do anything fancy, since I didn't know if or when you'd be coming home. The cupboard's a little bare," she concluded mournfully.

Reading between the lines, my face tightened in a grimace of disappointment and anger, but I squeezed Mom back reassuringly, after carefully blanking my expression. Dad was as tight-fisted with his money as he was generous with hurtful words and insults. He doled dollars out to Mom from his business accounts as he saw fit, and if Mom went without new clothes, grocery money or emergency funds for things like the car, well, tough shit.

I knew that some time in the next few weeks, some of the King Crab payout would trickle down to Mom, but exactly when was solely on Dad's whim. This time, I figured it might be longer than usual. He'd still probably be pissed at me for taking a few days off, and since I was seeing Mom in those begrudged days, he'd likely take his anger out on her.

Fortunately, I had anticipated such an occurrence and was prepared. Sitting in my jacket pocket was my share of the Red Crab money, a cashier's check for close to twenty five thousand dollars. It's customary for crab money to change hands as quickly as practical once the catch has been offloaded and weighed.

Dad hated it, but he had to play and pay by those rules. He might occasionally get away with jerking the crew around for an extra day or two, but if word got around that he was shorting his own son and erstwhile partner, he'd be permanently crew-less in short order. So, I had my check in hand and was prepared to put it to good use.

Long ago, I had gotten a belly full of the short leash Dad had placed on Mom and this time around, I was finally going to do something about it. After I threw my duffel in the back of Hilda's beat up Xterra, I slid into the back seat next to Mom, saying, "Hilda, do you mind if we make a couple of quick stops on the way back? I need to get to the bank before it closes and I want to speak to Bert."