CAPTAIN BORN

Weary from flying to this remote outpost in the Aleutian Islands, I jam my hands in my jeans pockets. My coat inflates in the gusts, and I shiver. Appearing through sea spray, the Bering Harvester, pride of the fleet, turns into the bay. This fishing boat is my second home. I’ve spent three good years on board.

A few days ago, a call to Mom’s house in Salt Lake City cut my Utah ski vacation short.

“Hey, Jack, we need an engineer. Can you make it?”

I thought, why not? It’s got a new skipper and crew, but it’s still an awesome boat.

As the king crab vessel approaches the dock, the crew, dressed in bulky orange exposure suits to ward off the extreme cold, throw lines the circumference of my forearm. Scrambling in tennis shoes, trying not to slip, I grab the frozen lines, barehanded. My palms sting and my fingers go stiff, but I’d never complain.

I shout a quick hello to five deckhands as I toss my rubber duffel bag over the rail. It lands near the stairs to the wheelhouse. I spot Chip, who was the new kid three years ago. At twenty-one, he’s become a top deckhand.

Shaking his gloved hand I say, “Hey, Chipper. Good to see you. How’s it going?”

He hesitates and glances sideways. “Okay, Jackson,” he says, using my nickname. “We’re making money, dude.”

Leaving my bag, I bound up ice-crusted steps to the wheelhouse. Snow swirls around me as I enter, and a sour, locker room smell hits me so hard, I hold my breath. Empty plates and crumpled papers clutter the counters. I can barely see through the grime on the windows. This isn’t the same vessel, my home, always a high-liner, a top boat.

In the command chair, the captain talks on the radio in boxer shorts and a t-shirt. His massive gut rubs against the console, and his butt cheeks sag off the edge of the chair. He glances my way, making no effort to wave or nod, and it dawns on me that he’s the source of the stench.

The captain carelessly drops the microphone on the counter. “You must be Jack,” he says. “We’re taking off in a minute. Better get in the engine room. The last engineer was a piece of crap.” He turns away without even shaking my hand.

I leave the way I came, grateful to breathe without fighting my gag reflex. My bag on one shoulder, I walk aft toward the stern and carefully descend ice-covered steps—steps that should be cleared. Huddled under an overhang, all five of the crew are smoking, and we exchange names.

A pimple-faced kid informs me he’s Sean, the Captain's nephew. With a cigarette in his lips, he nods proudly over my shoulder. “Check it out: 220 crab pots. I stacked ‘em all myself.”

Wary of pots piled unevenly, I barely muster a half-smile. King Crab pots are seven-by- seven feet. Empty, they weigh more than 800 lbs. To stack them safely takes years of experience.

I duck into the empty galley. An overhead light is burnt out, and dirty dishes cover the counters. Down the hall, I flip on the light to the engineer’s quarters and groan at the greasy coveralls, candy wrappers, and sweat-stained sheets. There’s no time to clean up.

I drop my bag and head to the engine room, but Chip stops me. “We’re taking off right away,” he says with apologetic eyes.

I can tell he wants to say more, but the boat starts moving. I have to get to the engine room, now, so I don ear cups to deaden the clamor of machinery and slide down the ladder. Even in the dim light, I see the soot from a cracked exhaust pipe clinging to oil leaking from the engines, coating the floor and equipment in black goo. I want to cry.

The Bering Harvester had been the Cadillac of vessels. It sparkled bright white with shiny aluminum floors. Now slipping on grimy walkways, the engine room feels like a dungeon. I want to grab my bag and run. A dirty boat is an unsafe boat. Inhaling deep to bolster my courage, I grope in dark cabinets to find flashlights, but all three have dead batteries.

Reluctantly, I put on a greasy headlamp. Surrounding me are four diesel engines, huge pump systems, electrical generators, fuel systems, fresh water pumps, refrigeration compressors, hydraulics, and tool boxes. Everything I touch is coated in a dark, slimy film. Scrubbing with degreaser will take weeks to get the engine room back to the way I left it.

Ignoring my revulsion, I check the fuel–how much, and is it clean? I inspect oil levels, the engine temperature, compressors, and pumps. I secure all the valves controlling the critical ballast, assess the freshwater supply, and make sure the backup generator is working. After tuning up the equipment, I climb the stairs, wiping the handrail with a rag as I go.

The crew are in their bunks, yet the galley still reeks of old food. I take the long stairway up to the wheelhouse to see if I can get a read on my new captain. Instead, Sean sits at the controls, on watch.

“Where are we headed?” I ask.

He pulls out his earbuds and shrugs. “I dunno. My uncle told me to go this way.”

Gritting my teeth, I turn my head. This captain has no idea how to run a boat. I go below before I say something I’ll regret.

In my smelly room, I pull off the soiled sheets and toss out a sleeping bag on the mattress. I’m exhausted from two days of flying and rescuing the engine room. Sleep comes instantly.

A beeping phone startles me awake. “Something's wrong,” says the captain’s whiney voice. “Check the engine room.”

The boat goes weightless off the top of a wave, like an elevator dropping. I swing my body out of the bunk and get tossed on the floor, against a wall. Gaining my feet, I grab onto the railing, fumble along the hall, and down the ladder—but no machinery appears out of place.

My stomach revolts with the boat’s constant tossing on the rough sea, and I run up to the deck to puke. Wiping my chin, I see a wall of crab pots stacked thirty feet above my head, rocking and swaying. Pots slam against each other on each roll of the boat, and terror grips me.

Crab Pots shouldn’t budge when they’re tied together right. This stack should ride as if it’s part of the boat. I lose what’s left in my stomach and rush to the wheelhouse.

In his boxers, the captain barks, “Hey, what’s wrong in the engine room?”

Gagging on his sweaty stench, I choke out, “Engine room is fine—the stack is loose.”

He rotates his chair and looks out the smeared window. “They’ll be okay. We have twelve hours to get where the fishing is good. Just take care of the engine room. That's your department.” Turning to his radio, he lets me know the discussion is over.

My mouth goes dry. A captain’s word is law. Those crab pots could tip the boat. We could roll over and die. Sweat beads on my forehead. Staring at the loose pots, I lurch a dry heave.

“Hey, if you—” the captain starts.

Shots like gunfire interrupt as the chains holding the pots in place burst apart. Freed of constraints, the top half of the stack sways out over the edge of the boat. The shifting weight heels us sickeningly sideways. I bolt downstairs to the crew’s quarters and slam open their doors. “Move it, guys,” I yell. “We got problems.”

“Chain the stack down,” the captain’s voice pounds over the loudspeaker in the crew's quarters. “Do it right this time.”

“The stack is jumping too much,” I tell the five sleepy-eyed men. “It’s impossible to get chains on. We have to get the pots off. Let’s go tell the captain—”

“No way, Jack,” says a dazed Chip. “We don’t tell that Captain nothing.”

“He better listen, or this may be our last trip.” I leave to stomp back up the stairs.

“What are you doing?” the captain shouts at me. “Get those chains on.”

I swallow bile and try to explain without yelling, “We have to kick the pots overboard, then haul and re-stack them.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he says, fat neck bulging, his face beet red. “Chain up. You’re wasting time.”

“Captain, the stack is coming apart. If more chains break, it’ll roll us over.”

He points a thick, flabby arm outside. “Get on deck!” he bellows.

As the crew scrambles to get into their deck suits, the loudspeaker booms, “Okay, pussies. We’ll dump these pots and re-stack them. Make it fast.”

Chip is the first to stagger outside. “I don’t know how you did it, Jackson, but let’s toss some pots,” he says with a smile.

Seawater heaves across the deck, and ice-covered pots glow in the floodlights. The crew and I struggle to remain upright, clinging to railings and pipes, any handholds as the three-story monster flops and leans above us. The crew swings hammers to clear the ice on deck. Chip and I study the stack and plan our horrid task ahead.

“Chip, you’re the best. No mistakes, kid,” I tell him.

Grabbing a baseball bat from the gear locker, he grins and slips a knife between his teeth. “Hope my hands hold up, Jackson.” His thin gloves offer little protection, but are more flexible for gripping the ice-caked pots. He winks as he wiggles his fingers, like a kid saying goodby.

Chip steps out on the deck and begins climbing the wall of netting and steel bars. Swinging the bat with one hand, he pounds the ice covered web, clearing spots to hang onto. His other arm clings to rusty steel bars. Kicking footholds into the ice, he strains for his boots to find traction. Battling for each handhold, he inches higher where the motion wickedly intensifies — slamming, bucking, jumping.

He slips, losing his footing, and hangs by one arm. The bat drops. Lightning quick, he traps it with his leg. His swinging arm flops at his side with fatigue, but he grabs the bat again and continues to bash at the ice and to climb.

I slip across the frozen upper deck and reach the controls to the crane. In this storm, getting the hook on the cable to hit my target will be like shooting basketballs at a moving hoop.

On top of the stack, Chip works a pot free from the ice with his bat. I swivel the head of the crane within a foot of his hand, and he snatches the swinging hook, clipping it to the pot. Grabbing the knife from his teeth, he cuts the ties. Like a whip, the stack jumps. Freed of constraints the pot leaps, aimed at Chip. He dives, face down on top of the heaving stack, clinging for life.

A hellish block of steel and ice rushes at his prostrate body. He clutches the steel bars and webbing, bracing for impact. I yank hard on the crane controls, and the pot swoops over Chip, clearing him by inches.

I land the pot on the launcher, a wide table built of steel pipe. Unhooking the crane, the crew deploys the first pot into the water, tossing the buoys and line to mark the location. We all cheer. We can do this!

Standing rock steady, straining at the crane controls for fifteen hours, every muscle aches with cold and exhaustion. The last pot goes overboard and everyone cheers. Without food, drink, or bathroom breaks, the six of us vanquished the beast.

My toes are numb, but relief floods my soul. We’ve survived.

The deck speaker blasts: “You girls took forever. Stack ‘em right from now on.”

That voice. That disrespect. It’s my life-changing moment. I’m going to become a Captain.

I’ll respect my boat and my crew.

And I’ll do everything I can to keep them safe.