Mother Lode

Mother Lode

by

Bob Bernstein

(originally published in Offshore Magazine)

While Bluefin pounded her way on a southeasterly course, through the open end of Maine's West Penobscot Bay, the little urchin tender being towed astern pitched and yawed like an animal gone wild. For the tenth time in as many minutes, Jim Noble checked it through the after wheelhouse windows. He didn't want to lose the skiff - have it break lose - or worse, see it dive for the bottom. It wasn't even his; he had borrowed it from a friend. And if that wasn't enough, he had instructed his divers to put their tanks and gear in the tender's stern in order to keep its bow up. Now, if the skiff took a bad wave and sank, he'd not only owe his friend for it, he'd have to spend the day recovering the buoyant dive gear, or pay for that, too.

Jim lit a cigarette, drew in deeply and held his breath a moment, then exhaled. He blew the smoke toward the broken starboard window of the wheelhouse. The wind, whistling by at twenty to thirty knots, created a venturi that sucked out the smoke. Three, maybe four thousand dollars, he thought, that's what the skiff and gear would probably cost me. He turned around to check it again, watched as a big wave smashed into its port side. Five gallons of spray went up and over its gunwales. Another five gallons got dumped inside. Damn, he thought.

The radio crackled. It was getting some interference from the video depth sounder. A new problem, he noted, added to the two leaks in the cabin roof he had recently discovered, and the broken window, and the charred bench seat that got burned when Rossi left his cigarette on it. Rossi, what was he going to do about Rossi?

Noble turned as Larson, one of the divers, stepped into the wheelhouse. He had a cigarette going, too, and opened the port window slightly to let the smoke out. Spray hit the window and turned into mist as it squeezed through the small opening. Noble could feel it in his nostrils. It smelled clean and alive and he liked it, though he knew how bad it was for the circuit boards in his electronics.

"You think we should haul the skiff in and bail her?" Larson said.

Larson was almost half Noble's age, shorter by a few inches, and stockier. His shoulders came down straight to a wide torso and thick-set legs. Strong, young, seemingly fearless. He had blond hair cut short, a blond shadow of growth on his face, and an easy smile. Noble liked him. He helped out on the boat, cleaned the deck, kept a watch on things - like the skiff - and made sure that wear and tear was kept to a minimum. He seemed to care. All in all, he and Rossi were like night and day.

Noble looked back again. "We'll be in the lee soon. It'll be fine 'till then... I think."

Larson looked aft, nodded, then turned forward to peek into the fo'c'sle, where Rossi was.

"What's he doing?" Noble said.

"Rifling through your cabinets."

Noble glanced down forward to look for himself. He saw Rossi inspect a food bin, pull out a couple of Noble's candy bars, unwrap them, and throw the wrappers carelessly on the cabin floor. Noble lifted his head to look out the windows. "I'm getting awful tired of his shit." He spoke quietly so Rossi couldn't hear.

"I know what you mean," Larson said.

Noble leaned toward the hatch and yelled into the fo'c'sle. "Hey, throw those wrappers out. I'm not your mother."

Rossi's hostile voice came back up the companionway hatch, louder than necessary. "I will! Where's the god damn garbage can?"

"There is none," Noble yelled back. "You told me to take it off the boat. Remember? You said it took up too much room. Put the garbage in your pocket, or your gear bag."

Two seconds later, Rossi came up the steps. He was a tall, wiry kid, with an angular face and bony shoulders, less rugged than Larson, but strong, like a steel whip. He went over to the broken window on the starboard side of the wheelhouse, slid it open, and threw out the two candy wrappers. When he closed the window, Noble saw chocolate smudges on the glass.

"You know," Noble said, "it's against the law now to throw garbage like that in the ocean."

Rossi lit a cigarette. "Arrest me," he said.

"No, I mean it. I don't throw crap in the water anymore."

Rossi raised his hands. "Well, that's you. Besides, I don't see any cops around here."

"That's not the point." Noble shook his head. "And wipe that off, please."

"What?"

Noble pointed to the smudge. "The chocolate."

Rossi looked around the wheelhouse for something to use. "I don't see any paper towels," he said. "Figures."

Noble shook his head. "Jeez, you're a pain in the ass." Noble reached across Rossi and wiped the window with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The chocolate smeared further and Rossi laughed.

"Just 'cause you're a friggin' slob doesn't mean I got to be one." Rossi flashed a smirk at Larson. Out of the corner of his eye, Noble thought he saw Larson smile back.

"How much further? We almost there?" Rossi said.

Noble checked the chart. "Yeah," he said, disgustedly. "Suit up. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"You going to put us on some urchins this time, or what?"

Noble glared at Rossi. "Look, Rossi. This isn't rocket science. And it isn't half as hard as cod fishing or scalloping, either." He shook his head. "Jeez! You just don't get it."

"What don't I get, Jim?" Rossi said, sneering.

"You young bucks come up here thinking it's the gold rush. Well it's not. It's commercial fishing, no better, no worse. And me and my ancestors have been doin' it for two hundred years. Herring, urchins, what's the difference? Hell, I know guys making two million gross just seining for herring. That makes diggin' for eggs seem like flippin' burgers at McDonalds...."

"I ain't flippin' no friggin' burgers," Rossi said, "and I don't give a shit about no lobster bait. I'm an urchin diver."

"Join the club. You're just one of two thousand divers working the coast this year. I hear ten new divers every day. Everywhere we go - everywhere - we see other boats, three, four, sometimes as many as a dozen boats. You think the damn urchins are different on the ledges we're fishing than on those the other guys are fishing. You're waiting for some friggin' mother lode. Well, it ain't gonna happen. Those days are over. Everything's already been picked through a dozen times. You got to go down there and be selective, be a good urchin diver. You got to find the one's with roe, and dig those, and leave the rest. You can't just take everything you see. Sure, there are still days we'll each make five or six hundred dollars. But you got to be happy with two or three, too. That's still a good day's pay."

Rossi's face flushed. "I got friends that are making six hundred to a thousand dollars a day...."

"That's what they tell you."

"It's god damn true. There are boats making three times as much as we are, which means they must be doin' something you're not. You said yourself you didn't expect to make more than six hundred dollars. Hell, man, I'm expecting to make a thousand a day."

"How long have you been diggin' urchins?" Noble said.

"That doesn't matter. The point is that you're not getting us on 'em."

"The point is that you don't have the experience. You've only been four or five times. Even in the best spots, you never bring in more than ten or twelve trays of eight or nine percent stuff, while everyone else is bringin in ten or twelve percent. That should tell you something."

"Yeah. It tells me that you don't know what you're doing."

Noble had to force himself to remain calm. "Rossi," he said. "It's not worth it for me to take a diver out who gives me a ration of shit on my own boat, no matter how good an egger he is, and you're not even a good egger. Fact is, I don't need to take anybody's shit."

"I don't need it, either. I can find another boat."

"Hey, be my guest."

"Don't worry, I will. And don't think I haven't been looking."

#

Jim anchored Bluefin on the leeward side of some barren islets. He maneuvered the boat between several shoal areas with exposed ledges and dropped the hook. It grabbed quickly in the mud and the boat spun around with the wind and tide, which, at present, was heading in the same general direction. There was quite a tide running, too, and a fairly heavy chop. Jim figured that the three of them would be in for a hell of a work day, because this was one of those places where little problems begot big ones. Of course, what choice did he have. Even from his vantage point on deck, he could see several other boats nearby, all digging for urchins.

Larson and Rossi got their gear into the tender, seemingly oblivious to the wind and seas. Noble passed a grapnel and one hundred feet of line to Rossi. "What's this for?" Rossi said, grabbing hold of the crate full of line.

"Shit happens," Noble said, and climbed in.

Rossi threw the grapnel under the foredeck. It clanged against the aluminum side of the boat and made Larson look up. He was busy bailing the skiff of all the sea water that had accumulated on the trip across the bay.

Noble stepped past the two divers, toward the old Evinrude.

"What are you worried about, anyway?" Rossi said, "We're the ones taking all the risks?"

"Really," Noble said. "You're in a drysuit. What the hell happens to me if I go overboard? How long do you think I have in the water?"

"Five, ten minutes, if you're lucky," Larson said, dropping the pump and taking a seat on the gunwale.

"Yeah, well we could get an embolism. Anything could happen to us down there." Rossi said.

"Damn. You're in five to fifteen feet of water. Sure, you could embolize. You could drown. But you don't have to be much of a diver to prevent either of those things from happening. Worse that can happen to you is you get hypothermic."

Noble pulled the starter cord on the outboard. It coughed. He pulled again, and again, choked it, then pulled again. It started. He raced the throttle, then let it idle.

"Actually," Noble said, yelling over the whine of the Evinrude. "You know what the worst thing is that can happen to you?"

"What?"

"For me to run you over, lose you, or just forget to pick you up."

"Is that a threat?"

Noble raced the outboard. "Shove off," he yelled.

The ledge the three were working was a long, skinny rock, with a dogleg. Its leeward side was almost as rough as its windward side, because, for some reason, the wind was swirling around and over its exposed surfaces. Jim maneuvered the skiff to the up-current end of the ledge so the divers could dig while going with the tide. He dropped Larson off first, as usual, threw him a bag, then stumbled forward over the tanks and fish totes to assist Rossi. He zipped Rossi's suit, helped him don his tank and pack, made sure his mask was sealed properly, then eased him back on the gunwale.

"You guys have to work close to each other, otherwise I can't tend you as well," Noble said.

Rossi nodded with his regulator in his mouth.

"And don't creep around the other side of the ledge. There's a swell building and it's too rough over there."

Rossi pulled the regulator out. "It ain't too rough for me. I can handle it," he said.

"But I can't. Not in this boat."

Rossi shrugged.

Noble climbed back to the outboard. Since it wouldn't idle he had to restart it every time he took his hand off the throttle. Now it took a couple pulls before it came to life, which it did reluctantly. At low speeds, it seemed to only fire on one cylinder. And at high speeds, it coughed and spurted like it was going to spit a valve at any moment. The machine didn't give Noble much confidence. It never did. That was the reason he brought the grapnel and anchor line, in case he lost power altogether and got caught drifting away in the wind and tide.

Noble drove back toward the ledge; he had drifted a quarter mile away while helping Rossi. When the boat was within sight of Larson's bubbles and buoy, he gave Rossi the signal. Rossi fell backwards into the water and Noble tossed him a bag. He watched Rossi dive, followed the buoy for a few seconds, then went to check on Larson.

Noble knew this was his only free time, because soon he'd be dealing with full bags and he'd have to hustle his ass off in order to haul and empty them, and keep the divers supplied with new ones. He drifted around Larson's buoy, waiting for it to start bobbing up and down - the signal for a new bag - and thought about eating sushi in a fancy New York City Restaurant. Noble liked sushi, though he didn't order much Uni anymore, for obvious reasons; he couldn't see paying three dollars for a teaspoon-full of roe when he usually had a tub or more of it on the boat. Of course, like the captains of the other Urchin boats, he delivered his product whole and alive, in its natural state, one thousand to two thousand pounds at a time. The hope was that each test or shell - called the whore's egg by local fisherman - contained half a shot glass or more of firm, orange or yellow roe.

Larson's buoy started bobbing up and down and that meant he needed another bag. Noble glided over, threw one on top of Rossi's bubble cloud, grabbed hold of the buoy rope tied to the full bag, and hauled on the line until Rossi's catch of spiny urchins was close aboard. He propped his feet on the gunwales, listing the little boat toward the wind, and lifted the seventy to eighty pound bag into the boat. As he did, he felt a couple of spines drive into his knee, and a couple more under the nail of his right middle finger. It was par for the course, and he accepted it like he would any other minor inconvenience. By tomorrow, he'd have a couple new festering sores. He'd squeeze them and what was left of the spine would pop out. There was no sense in trying to pry them out now, or ever. Eventually, he knew from experience, they came out on their own.

Noble positioned an empty tote and dumped the contents. The salty, clean smell of living ocean filled his nostrils. He drew in a deep breath and smiled, and quickly shuffled his gloved hands over the urchins in the tote until they were level with the top. He grabbed five urchins, randomly, and set them on the short washrail of the boat. With a large dive knife that he had stuck into the wooden motor mount, he chopped each urchin in half and inspected their insides for color and content. Satisfied with the roe, he picked the best of the lot, lifted it to his mouth, and sucked out an egg sack. It had the sweet, nutty flavor that he knew so well. He lifted the test again and drew out another sack, straining the shell pieces out with his lips, then raised his eyes to look around the ledge. Rossi's buoy was bobbing.

At 11:30, the three fishermen were back aboard the Bluefin. They had stowed twelve totes of fairly decent urchins and were luxuriating themselves in the relative warmth of the forward cabin. All morning, Rossi had complained about the spot Noble had put him on. Every time he came up - either when a bag didn't reach him fast enough, or when he ascended for his second tank - he whined and cursed about something; his back pack, his suit, the location. "This place sucks," he had yelled. "My friggin' suit's leaking." And: "There's nothing here." But Larson had filled seven totes to Rossi's five, and he had wanted to stay, saying that it was as good as anything else they would find that day. Larson also had the good sense to realize that moving and re-anchoring the boat would seriously cut into their dive time.

"Something's burning," Noble said. "Smells like an old sock."

Larson looked at Rossi's back. The lanky diver was standing against the propane heater, trying to dry out the back of his sweatshirt.

"Looks like you're on fire," Larson said, calmly.

Rossi jumped forward and ripped off his sweatshirt. The nylon in the back had charred. "Son of a bitch," he said, examining the damage. "That's it. I'm not going back. I'm soaked and freezing and this place sucks."

Noble bit into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and washed it down with a slug of luke warm coffee. He swallowed hard as a bubble of anxiety tried to rise in his throat. Rossi was copping out of his responsibilities, just like Noble figured he would. It was the second time in a month that the lanky kid had found an excuse not to dive his last two tanks. The same thing happened on the Dogfish Island shoals two and a half weeks ago. Noble let him slide, then, without a word of complaint. This time he wouldn't.

"You're going to go back in and dive one more tank, you shit-eatin prima donna," Noble said. "I didn't come all this way to have you crap out on me after two tanks."

"The hell I am," Rossi said.

"What are you going to do then?"

"I'll stay on the boat and cull. You can give me ten percent."

Noble finished his sandwich and downed the rest of his coffee. He packed away his garbage and thermos and rose to leave.

"The hell with you, Rossi," Noble said. "No. You won't cull. You won't get ten percent. You'll stay on the boat and do nothing. You'll forfeit your five totes to the boat, sit here on your sorry ass, and wait for us. When we get back to Rockland, you can pack your gear, clear out your bunk, and get the hell off my boat. I don't want to see you again."

Noble didn't give Rossi a chance to answer. He jumped up the steps to the wheelhouse. At the after bulkhead, he lit his last cigarette. The smoke felt hard in his throat, but good in his lungs. Why did he even bother with Whore's Eggs, he wondered. Every year it was the same. He'd get into it late, and the price would drop, or the egg counts would turn to crap, or the Japanese stock market would collapse. Something would always turn the fishery to shit. If you didn't get screwed on the product, you got screwed by one of your mates.

Larson came up the steps. He raised his eyebrows, tilted his head, and sighed. After a brief pause he said: "He's really pissed."

"What am I supposed to do about it?" Noble's voice sounded louder and angrier than he wanted it to.

"Hey, I didn't do anything."

Noble took two quick drags on his cigarette and tossed the butt out the window. He was suddenly tired, aware of the pains in his shins and hips, the knots and stiffness in his knuckles. He sensed the creases and lines in his face as if they had become cavernous, and glanced at the wrinkles in his hands, the swollen sores, the busted cuticles, and the blood blisters. He felt old.

"Sorry," Noble said. "I didn't mean it that way."

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know."

"I'll dive an extra tank, if I can. Rossi 'll loan me one."

"We'll see."

"You don't want to go back, do you?"

"I'm thinkin' about it."

"I was afraid you'd say that.... Listen Cap', I'll give up part of my share if we stay. I know you work on a fifty fifty split when you only have one diver, and since that's what we'll be doing...well... we can go sixty forty on the seven totes I already got, and fifty fifty on the rest, if that 'll help."

"I appreciate that."

"... because I really have to make some money. You know?"

"Yeah. Ok. I'll think about it. Give me a couple of minutes."

Larson nodded, then stepped below. Noble opened the wheelhouse door and walked out on deck.

The wind had freshened from the southwest and Noble could see a distinctive cloud line in the same direction. Front moving in. He gazed to windward of the nearest ledge, the one they had been working around, and saw feather white seas on the other side. Every so often a swell would roll over and break on a section of dark, craggy granite. Froth and foam and spray would burst into the air, then stream back into the ocean through the rock weed and barnacles.

The door opened behind Noble and he turned to face whoever was coming out. Rossi was standing, half in and half out, with his arms wrapped around his mid-section, shivering. The two men stared at each other for a minute.

"I'll go back in," Rossi said, finally. "But I'll only do one tank."

"Don't do me any favors, Rossi," Noble said.

"I'm not. I'm doin' it for me, and Larson. Mostly for Larson, so he can make his sixty percent."

"That's mighty generous of you." Noble said.

Rossi turned for the cabin, but stopped when Noble began to speak again.

"I don't want you dying on me down there," Noble said.

"Like you really care.... Don't worry about me. I can handle it. I've handled a lot worse. I used to fish on the Alaskan Queen in Alaska. Compared to that, this is a cake walk."

Noble frowned. The Alaskan Queen, he thought. What was it about the Alaskan Queen? "All right then," he said. "Suit up. We'll leave when you and Larson are ready."

Noble eyed Rossi as he closed the wheelhouse door, then a loud thumping sound caught his attention and he turned toward the ledge. A large swell had broken on the rocks. Spray flew fifteen feet in the air.

#

Larson and Rossi sat sullenly, holding the gunwales firmly for balance and staring at their flippered feet and the bare aluminum bottom of the skiff, while Noble, standing defiantly against the seas and spray - one hand massaging the Evinrude's throttle and the other holding his hat from blowing away in the wind - guided the tender back to the ledge. At one point, Noble saw Rossi look at him with a sideways glance. There was a kind of recognition there, as if Rossi was seeing him as someone else, or seeing something he hadn't noticed before. For the life of him, though, Noble couldn't tell if Rossi saw something he admired or despised, as if, maybe, he was repulsed by the notion of finding something admirable in the grizzly Maine fisherman.

Noble dropped the two divers in the same general vicinity. Larson stayed in one place, presumably digging as fast as his stocky arms would allow. Rossi hit the bottom and started swimming, first toward the end of the ledge, then for the outside corner. Finally, Noble saw that Rossi's buoy stopped. Apparently, he found a bed worth working.

Forty five minutes later, Noble had stacked eight totes, five for Rossi and three for Larson. He worked flat out, heaving and grunting, and hadn't had time to think about anything but keeping his balance and tending his divers. He operated on pure instinct, using muscles honed and strengthened by years of commercial fishing. But now he stopped to look around and noticed that the wind and seas had worsened, enough so that it was time to consider calling it a day.

Noble looked for Rossi's buoy and couldn't find it. He pulled the starter cord on the outboard and it got stuck. It hung limp and tattered. Without any wasted motion, Noble quickly popped the cover and wound the cord back in manually. After replacing the cover, he yanked the cord again. He felt a muscle in his shoulder twinge from the effort. But the motor started. Before it had time to stall, he put it in gear and guided the skiff toward the corner of the ledge.

Rossi's buoy was around the windward end of the ledge, in the rough water. Noble decided that he had no choice but to check on him. He took one more look at Larson's buoy, saw no change, and hit the throttle. Noble maneuvered the skiff in a wide circle around the ledge. He laid the bow head-to the seas, which caused the little aluminum tender to rise and fall, repeatedly, with a tumultuous pounding. Finally, around the outside of the ledge, he picked his spot and turned in one of the large troughs. In the middle of the turn, one of Larson's totes fell into the water. Noble cursed.

Noble headed in, toward the ledge, with the stern facing the oncoming seas. It looked good, for awhile, and then several gallons of sea water poured in over the transom. It filled Noble's right boot and sent a chill straight up his leg to the small of his back. Suddenly, Noble knew there was precious little time to find Rossi and tell him to get around to the other side. But when he spotted the buoy, it was well into the swells, bouncing off the barnacle covered crags.

And then he saw a streak of blue in the transparent part of a swell. It rose like a speck of dust in a hurricane and slammed into the rocks. Rossi's tank.

Noble acted fast. He realized he had no choice but to attempt a rescue from the ledge, not the skiff. With little regard for his own safety, he spun the boat around to the leeward side of the ledge, losing two more full trays in the process, and rammed the bow of the tender into one of the deeper crevasses in the rocks. The force of the collision knocked him off his feet and he felt a snap in his wrist as he fell forward into the remaining totes of urchins. He jumped from the skiff, holding the grapnel in his hand, and immediately landed in waist deep ocean water. The cold was so intense that it sucked the breath from him and squeezed his chest shut. For a moment, he thought he would have a heart attack right there, but then a wave hit and his desire for self-preservation and survival took over. He pulled himself up and scrambled over the crags, slipping on rock weed and clawing at barnacles with his hands and fingers. The barnacles cut him, but they were something to hold, something to grab while waves tried to push him over. He was soaked now from head to foot, and struggling for breath, and he knew deep down inside that his life was slowly slipping away, calorie by calorie.

Waves pummeled Noble when he reached the windward side of the ledge where he last saw Rossi's tank. He wiped his eyes, grabbed a breath, squeezed stinging sea water from his eyes. There. He saw him. To the left.

Noble fell and stumbled over the windward side of the ledge until he was near enough to grab the back of Rossi's pack. With a strength born from desperation and fear, he dragged Rossi up and over the rocks, out of the worst of the oncoming swells, then he collapsed, frozen and half dead, face down in the rock weed and sea foam and barnacles.

#

He was in his High School locker room, after a football game. The smell of his sweat and the sweat of his teammates mingled with the soapy, hot water smells of the shower room. The steamy odor comforted him and disagreed with him at the same time. He heard accolades, his teammates talking to him, congratulating him, screaming and yelling about being State Champs. Yes. He remembered. He had carried the ball for forty five yards in the final seconds, for a touchdown, and then run a two point conversion for the win, with one second to go. Victory had a distinctive feel, a flavor. He could taste it in his nostrils. It tasted of sweat and soap and warm beer and cheap champagne. And he felt it on his body, in his hand, and on the soles of his feet: Cold, clammy tile, and the chill of shower-water evaporating from his wet skin. Close the damn door. It's freezing in here.

The fluorescent lights shone dull, but he felt like a blazing sun. He was happy, deliriously so.

"Cap'! Wake up Cap'!"

Noble opened his eyes. He was in the fo'c'sle of Bluefin, covered in blankets and sleeping bags. The propane heater was set on full. It sounded like a jet engine. The small windows on the trunk cabin were glazed over and dripping. Everything was wet and cold.

He looked up. Larson stood over him, pale and fear struck.

"Cap'. Jeez. I didn't think you were coming back."

Noble tried to talk. Rossi? But nothing came out. Pain. His throat hurt.

"No," said Larson, "don't talk yet. Rossi shoved a snorkel in your throat and resuscitated you. Son of a bitch said he was afraid of getting Aids. You believe it? Aids?"

Larson laughed. It was a nervous laugh.

"Shit. I didn't know what to do. Rossi tipped you over and pumped your back and you spit up about a gallon of water, then he shoved the snorkel down your throat and gave you mouth to mouth. Holy shit, man. I didn't think you were coming back. You were stone cold."

Noble lifted himself up on his elbows with some help from Larson. He hurt, especially his hand. "What happened?" He asked with great effort.

"I'm not sure. I had my bag half-full, and then the bag felt like it was being ripped out of my hands, like maybe you grabbed my empty instead of the full. You know how that happens sometimes? Only this time it pulled me right off the bottom, so I let go of it and came up. Man, I was ready to give you some shit. I could of embolized. But then I came up, and I saw you headed full steam for the ledge. And wham! You smashed right into it, and the impact almost catapulted you right out. I saw you hike out across the ledge and so I went after you. I thought you went nuts."

Larson caught his breath, and as he did Noble realized that Bluefin was moving, steaming with a following sea. They were headed back.

"Rossi at the helm?" Noble said.

"Yeah. He says you saved his ass."

"I don't remember."

Larson snickered. "Not the kind of thing he'd lie about, or care to admit."

Noble forced a smile, tried to think back. "I didn't pull on your buoy line." he said.

"I know. It was the lower unit on the outboard that caught my buoy line. That's what dragged me off the bottom. Damn. What a break."

"How'd we get off the ledge."

"I got there and found you half under water. You had Rossi by the back pack, in like a death grip, and you had your right hand, the one that's all mangled and busted- up, wedged between these rocks. How you got it in there and held on.... I don't know, but without you being anchored by your hand, the surge would've taken you both into deeper water....

"Anyway, Rossi was unconscious when I got there, but he started coming around about the time I got your hand undone, the one in the rocks, that is. The other one was like a vice, which worked out best because I was able to drag both of you to the skiff by just hauling on you, by the bad hand. I inflated Rossi's suit, and just played the seas and surge, and surfed you both back to the boat. I had a hell of a time launching it off the rocks, and getting that damned motor started, but I managed. Then we got back and Rossi came around and you were looking like something out of Zombies from Hell. That's when Rossi grabbed a snorkel and started blowin' you up like a balloon."

Larson took a deep breath, and sighed. He grabbed a cigarette from a pack on the galley table and lit it, took two quick drags and held it out to Noble. Noble reached out with his good hand a took the smoke. He put it between his lips and let it hang there. "Go and take over the helm from Rossi," he said. "Ask him to come down."

Larson nodded once and left. A minute later Rossi stepped into the fo'c'sle. He had cuts and bruises on his face and hands.

"You look like you've been in a fight with a bunch of cats," Noble said.

"I save your friggin' ass and that's the best thing you can say to me? Well, I got news for you. You look a lot worse worse than me."

"I'm sure I do.... " Noble stubbed out the cigarette in a bottle cap. "So, is this true?" he said.

"Is what true?"

"Larson told me you stuck a snorkel down my throat."

"He lied.... It was my pecker. Brought you right around, though."

Noble started to smile, but checked it. "You're full of it, Rossi. That little pencil-dick of yours wouldn't choke a chipmunk, and my throat feels like I've been eating whole urchins."

"Yeah, well. I was afraid you had Aids."

"You can't get it that way."

"Says you."

Noble shrugged. "Fine. I don't want to argue about it."

Rossi lit a cigarette, took a drag, and leaned against the galley stove.

"What can I do for you, Captain," Rossi said. He used the salutation, 'Captain', for the first time since meeting Noble and starting on the Bluefin.

"I heard this story once," Noble said, "about this kid on the Alaskan Queen. He was a real S.O.B., you know. Turns out he threw a knife at a girl in the processing room and the captain found out about it. Locked him in the bow thruster compartment for sixteen days, turned the thruster's powerplant on every hour on the hour, a 6V-92 Detroit. You ever hear one of those?"

Rossi didn't answer. Instead, he blew a smoke ring that wafted through the cabin.

"This kid," Noble said, "he was all alone in this tiny compartment. They pissed in his food, in his water, treated him like garbage. When he asked for a bucket to shit in, they gave him one with jagged teeth sawn into the top."

"What's the point?" Rossi said.

"You were on the Alaskan Queen. You ever hear this story."

"Yeah. I heard it."

"Well? This kid? Did he really try and kill that girl?"

"Nah. He was probably just trying to be cool with a knife. Trying to impress her."

"Sounds stupid."

"Yeah. Real stupid."

"Same kind of stupid that would make a guy creep around the wrong side of a ledge and get into some breaking swells?"

Rossi shook his head, slowly. "Different. Throwin' a knife at a girl like that is J.D. stuff. Goin' around the ledge... that's just... foolish adventure."

"You know, Rossi. That kid from the Alaskan Queen disappeared when that ship made port. Nobody knows where the hell he went."

"Why should anybody care?" Rossi said. "Kid was just a no-name jerk."

"I suppose."

Rossi shuffled his feet. "That all, Cap?"

"Almost."

"What else, then?"

"I want to know, Rossi." Noble said. "What is it makes you such a bad ass? You still got that 6-92 ringin' in your ears?"

Rossi's body stiffened, but he remained dead pan. He blew another smoke ring and watched it float away, then let a thin smile crease his lips. "They thought they could break me," he said, finally. "Make me give in. They were wrong... I never give in."

Noble lifted his battered frame a few inches and propped his back farther up the forward bulkhead, trying to get more comfortable. It didn't help. Bluefin's diesel engine droned through every plank and frame in the boat, and now he felt the vibration like a hive of bees buzzing in his chest. When he spoke again, his voice had a tremulous quality that diluted its strength and conviction. "I still want you off my boat," he said.

Rossi turned for the wheelhouse, then stopped and lowered his head as if something under his scrutiny on the fo'c'sle deck had become infinitely important. "Yeah, no problem," he said. "You and I would probably end up killin' each other anyway."

Rossi left the fo'c'sle without looking back. A second later, Noble swung his legs out of the bunk. He stood somewhat shakily and took stock of himself. After he had decided he was fit enough to take command of his boat, he changed out of his wet clothes and into some dry sweats. Priding himself for not having fallen over in the process, he picked up a one of Larson's cigarettes and lit it by one-handing a bent match from a soggy matchbook. He took a drag and felt a harshness in his throat. With his cigarette hanging from his lips, he raised his good hand and massaged his neck. Suddenly, the irony of Rossi's last statement hit him. Smiling broadly, he grabbed his jacket and stepped toward the wheelhouse.


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