“Yes, b’yes, no doubts you’ve seen things, learned things over time, and no doubts your bits of lore might have some truth,” they had said placatingly, “but it’s not weighty enough to be sorted—not like the research our experts are doing on the trawlers and the factory freezers. No, sir, there’s still lots of fish in the sea. We know because we’re catching them—and it’s what you need to do, too, as we keep telling you. What you need is a better means of catching them, a better way of processing them, and better markets to sell them to. And forget this
blasting boats out of the water
business; you can’t go blasting boats off the water, not when most of them have been fishing out there longer than you have, and not when they’ve families to feed, just like you. But a boundary, yes, you’ve a right to a boundary, and we’re working on getting one, the day is coming, b’yes. Just give us time, give us time.”
“Time,” muttered Sylvanus, tossing his jiggers back out into the water, “time for what? For us all to starve?”
He jigged for near on two hours. Still his catch was far lower than what it ought to have been. Raising his eyes, he checked the clouds—feathered whites, racing a bit hard, but it was a blue sky with lots of light left yet, and the sun nice and warm for late September. Instead of heading home with the belly of his boat not quite fed, he heaved on the flywheel and putted another thirty or forty minutes out on the open waters of the bay, jigging the undersea gully of Woody’s Inlet, searching for the larger blackbellies.
The fates were with him, and he hooked a fish within minutes after tossing his line—not the size he was hoping for, but, hell, he was starting to be appreciative of a tommycod these days. They continued biting, and he felt some of the tension leave his body. Not all bad, I suppose, he thought. Stories drifted daily up and down the bay about the lone fisherman forced into trap fishing, the liners, or the plants. Some poor bastards were forced to move, not just by the lull in fishing, but by their wives and youngsters, too, buying into the bloody nonsense resettlement program the government was pushing more rapidly these days. He shook his head. It didn’t make sense to him, moving people from a smaller place to a larger one— easier to build roads, no doubt, and drive poles for electricity. But not to find fish. You had to go farther along the shore to find fish—a cove or arm or headland where nobody lived—then hunt out different spots, different runs. That’s how they’d always done it in the past, and it made more sense than this crowding families into the one cove and the fishermen out on the same shelf, especially when those already settled there had the best spots. It was not as if you could drop anchor beside somebody else’s boat and start fishing their hole. Nor were there signs planted on the water telling everyone where the plates and ridges and shelves were located, and where best to find a good run and the kind of fish that fed there. Not an easy thing to move and start figuring the belly of the sea around you. Might as well give yourself the best chance if you did have to move, and go where nobody else lived and get yourself first pick.
Some of the morning’s gloom started leaving him as he slowly filled his boat. As bad as things were getting, he was lucky, he supposed. Least nobody else hand-lined in Cooney Arm, which gave him lots of room to move about and lots of holes to fish. Perhaps it was taking him longer on the water to get lesser catch than he had before, but he didn’t mind the extra work, as long as she held out the rate she was—as long as she just bloody held out!
Despite the late hour, the sun grew warmer. He threw off his oilskin, feeling its heat burning through to his skin like a strong liniment. Right arm up; left arm down; left arm up; right arm down; up, down; up, down; right, left; left, right. He yawned, starting to feel the length of the day. Times, he swore, if it wasn’t for the fish hooking his lines, he could pass himself off as a horse and sleep standing up. And perhaps he did sleep, he was to tell himself later, and that’s why he stayed jigging as long as he did that evening. He should’ve known better—he did know better; smaller boats fished inshore, not midshore, not offshore. They fished inshore because there was always time to get the hell home if a bad wind started up, whether it was a full-on blowout, a die-down easterly, or the savage nor’westerly that, without warning, screeched out of a sunny-lit sky like twisters, skidding into the sea, and sending drifts of water ten, twelve feet in the air before they spread out like a black cloud overhead, falling back into the water like a heavy rain. And it was this, the savage nor’westerly, that first got him.
He rode it just fine. Spiteful as they were, there were saving graces in nor’westerlies. Their squalls were isolated gusts, never measuring more than five to ten feet wide when they struck the sea, and they were sporadic; a squall here, a squall there, never more than two striking at once, and then, never less than hundreds and hundreds of feet apart. Which gave Sylvanus lots of room to figure where the next one
wouldn’t
hit. Yet, instead of grabbing a paddle and rowing to where the first squall had just now purged itself, he stayed where he was, pulling in a hooked fish.
“Christ!” he muttered as another squall skidded into the sea a direct line behind him, raising a sheet of water and sending it hurtling toward him and his boat. But hell if he was going to lose this fish! Madly hauling in his line, he hunched down in his boat, wishing to jeezes that he’d had time to haul his oilskin back on. A gale of iced water sluiced against him, drenching him, knocking him sideways. He swore and clenched more tightly to his line, gripping the thole-pins as his boat rocked and bucked like a overwrought ram.
“Son of a bitch!” he swore again. But no matter. His boat was sound, and the squall was gone as quick as it hit, sucking up its venom for another strike some distance away, leaving him sitting on a patch of sea that within minutes was calmer than a duck pond. And the sky still blue.
Flicking aside the fringe of black hair now plastered to his forehead and streaming salt water into his eyes, he finished hauling in his fish and bled it. His hands—his whole body—were becoming chilled from the water seeping through his garnsey into his bones. Tearing off the garnsey, he pulled on an old workshirt from the cuddy, hauled it on over his wet undergarments, and donned his oilskin. The squalls were pitching more frequent than he liked, stirring up water first to this side of him, then to the other, till it felt as if he were sitting on a giant checkerboard, waiting to be hurtled to the wayside.
Time to get the hell home, he silently muttered, then cursed as a black ridge out on the open waters, past Cape Ray, caught his eye—the nor’westerlies were circling about into a full-out blow coming from the east. It was possible to sit through a nor’westerly, if you had faith in your boat, but only fools attempted sitting through a full-out blow in a motorboat loaded down with fish and a half hour from shore. Coiling his lines, he lunged for his motor, cursing at the bloody nemesis keeping him from a decent hour’s fishing this evening. Studying the sky once more and seeing dark clouds moving in from the east with dark fog trailing below, he opened his throttle, avoiding the dead straight route to the head, and steered toward shore instead. In twenty minutes the winds would either be full pitch and levelling off, or building for a stronger blow. Better to be close to shore than caught going through the snarling waters of the neck in a full-out blow.
Ten minutes later and the wind had outraced the fog, bumping his boat along on choppy waters. Half hunkered beside his engine, he leaned his elbow on his knee, watching the cold, galloping winds and the dirty-grey clouds outstrip the warm sunny evening. Dismal. The only time he didn’t like the water was when he was being shuttled about by the easterlies with damp grey sky pressing down on him. The wind was battling harder now, and he nosed himself a bit more in alignment to the shoreline so’s to keep most of the wind at his stern and not be broadsided. It was easier motoring into a wind than having it push at his rear like this, threatening to swamp him with a far-flung breaker. Little Trite popped out from behind a bend, its windswept shoreline bereft of souls, the lamp-lit windows like little suns through evening’s falling light. He tightened his throttle. Good place to put ashore—but, hell, the fish had to be cleaned, and he was a dirty mess, and swear to gawd, he could smell roasted mutton trailing from Mother’s door. Besides, another ten minutes and he’d be rounding the head—but, hell, in this wind the neck would be broiling beneath its breakers. Still, he’d seen his brothers put through in rougher waters than this.
He released his hold on the throttle, steering himself farther offshore. He’d run it. Besides, it might ease off yet. Few minutes later he started doubting himself. A swell rose ahead of him, foaming a sickly white as it slapped against his bow, near cresting his gunnels. No, sir, this was one gale that wasn’t going to reach its peak after twenty minutes’ building. She was going to blow long and hard into the night, and she was building fast. He glanced back and was startled to see the silent wall of grey almost upon him, a tentacle of which crept out, circling cold around his neck. He shifted around uneasily and saw the black, rocky ledge of Old Saw Tooth coming up before him, foaming like a mangy dog through the half light. Jeezes, now, how’d he let this happen? He swore and steadied himself as the wind started picking harder. The bow of his boat rose up on a swell, and he sickened to see that it was part of Old Saw Tooth’s undertow. With a growing fear, he watched helplessly as it took him off course, steering him toward the black, jagged rock ledge. He sank down the other side and was immediately lifted by another, his bow pointed fully at Old Saw Tooth now, a sheet of spray shooting over the molars upon which he imagined his father and his brother clinging, their boat bashing about them.
A hoarse cry sounded on the wind, followed by another, full of warning, and he cried out himself as his bow rose higher, higher, on the swell and he lost sight of land, of Old Saw Tooth. Immediately it crested and he dipped downwards, his innards relieved as Old Saw Tooth reappeared, still some distance ahead.
The cry sounded again, “Hey! Hey!” hard, hoarse cries, and he stared around in fright, searching the sea, dreading the sight of his father’s drowned head bobbing out of the water and screaming before him. “Hey! Hey!” and he rose, shouting, screaming, “He-ey, He-ey,” back into the wind.
Two straight-back figures appeared on shore, racing along the water’s edge, waving frantically with both hands, shouting, “Hey! Hey!” It was the Trapps. Another hard gust hit him. He lurched sideways and quickly hunched down by his engine, cutting back further on his throttle. Grabbing the tiller, he cut her too sharply shoreward and was near broadsided by the wind. He straightened a bit, smelling for the first time Old Saw Tooth’s foul breath of rotted kelp and gull shit. He steered farther toward shore, fighting from veering too sharply. Another hard gust, another swell, rendered his rudder useless, and he could see Old Saw Tooth’s palate. Jesus Christ, and he was full of crazed disbelief at how he’d let this happen, at how sudden, how bloody sudden it all was.
“Screw you, you bastard!” he roared, and seized by fear, he shut down his motor, jarred his tiller as far leeward as he could, and grabbed his paddles, plunging them into the sea. Minutes. He was minutes from Old Saw Tooth’s maw. He plied on his paddles with the might of a madman, his shoulders tearing against their bones. Another swell and his boat rose awkwardly on her side. He was fully broadside to the wind now. “Turn! Turn! Turn, my baby, turn!” he roared at his boat and was fisted in the face by a slather of sea froth burning his eyes and filling his mouth. He spat and cursed and kept rowing, blinded, knowing nothing of his course now. He dipped powerlessly down the hollowed sea and wiped at his eyes, seeing for one sweet second his bow veering shoreward. A groundswell. He was being nudged by a groundswell. With a cry he grabbed back his paddles and, half standing, plied them with a fierceness that near broke his thole-pins. Another man! Christ, for another man to start his motor! Now, now, he needed his motor! He plied his paddles, frightened to let them go.
The shouts on shore grew louder. “Here! Here!” He stretched out his arms and pulled, his hands gripping the oars like the talons of a great bird—twice, thrice, and then he dropped the oars and lunged for his motor. Jabbing the start button, he lunged onto the tiller, shoving it ninety degrees shoreward. He felt it, felt his boat take him, moving him—not the sea now, moving him, but his boat. And his rudder, he felt it, too, dig into the sea. She was taking her course; his boat was taking her course. His bow turned full side to the wind as he plunged through the lengthening swells. Good, good, rather drown upon a sounder than be smashed against your brazen molars, he silently screamed at Old Saw Tooth. Almost ashore now. Almost ashore. He’d wait another minute before cutting his motor and running aground. Another minute and he’d cut his motor. He could almost see the whites of the Trapps’ eyes. He jabbed off the motor and grabbed the thole-pins, bracing himself. The keel of his boat dug into the beach rocks, and he lurched forward, painfully wrenching his shoulders. The Trapps were immediately beside him, one on either side, up to their knees in water, taking hold of his gunnels and dragging the nose of his boat ashore. He leaped out and sank to his knees, near kissing the rocks. But, no, he’d save that for later, he thought, staring up at the grim-faced Trapps staring down at him. Climbing weakly back up on his feet, he nodded his thanks.
They nodded back and dragged his boat up on shore. Finding strength, he held on to his gunnels and hauled with them.
“We’ll keep watch on her,” said one of the Trapps, as the other climbed aboard and threw out his anchor. Ensuring the drag-line was tightly tied to the stern, they dragged the anchor just above the landwash.
Sylvanus stood watching. It surprised him how weak and quivery his legs felt.
“That’s good. She’ll be fine there,” he said as the brothers wedged the anchor between a couple of big rocks. He nodded his thanks. Closest he’d ever been to a Trapp, aside from the odd passing in boat. Good-looking bunch, for sure, their faces clean of hair, their features nice and smooth. But there was a grimness to their jaws, as though they were locked onto a maddening thought.