Underwater Rodeo: Saga of a Deep Sea Diver

Contents

Part I: The Bering Sea

Part II: Points South

Part III: The Southeast Asia Underwater Rodeo Circuit

Part IV: The Brahma Bull of Bombay

Dedicated to the King Crab Fishermen in the Bering Sea and to the Commercial Deep Sea Divers of the earth’s oceans. Special dedication to Captain Geoff Worth, Chief Officer Gary Bryan, and my friend Second officer Ramon Lladoc, who died aboard the Pacific Protector in a Iranian jet attack while in the Gulf of Hormuz.

To Joe Portelli, without his techinical advice the story would not be finished. In memory of George ‘Doc’ Thomas, US Navy Seal/Medic.

Part I: The Bering Sea

The canvas, lining the hood of the yellow Helly Hansen foul weather slicker, the place where he always pulled on it to shield his eyes from the icy stabbing rain, had long since become a grimy smudge. The slicker and his bib overalls, new three months ago, now wore the stained, scuffed, salt crusted look of a deck hand’s working gear. This one spot though, was exactly at eye level. The grimy smudge spoke mutely to him, reminding him how much he needed it for his survival while working the pitching deck of a fishing boat out at sea. At times, after hours of brain numbing work, the smudge would give him comfort like a familiar old friend.

He glanced quickly at the cheap, but reliable, Casio watch on his left wrist. The smeared quartz face read 02:00.

Damn! he muttered. The rising wind whirled the word out of his mouth and the sleet shattered it into a microcosm of resonance fragmented over the frigid brutal waves of the ice blue sea.

He flexed his cold stiff fingers trying to bring more blood and warmth to his slow responding hands. Another artic wave smashed into the port side of the Wizard’s bow. It sent him stumbling over the crab pot netting, lurching to his right. This was the last string of king crab pots left to load, then he, the rest of the crew, and the Wizard would be through for the season. It was mid-November, the Bering Sea was a nasty bitter place to have to work. Only thirty more pots, only three more hours in this fuckin’ weather, he thought grimly to himself.

He stood on a stack of 140 king crab pots, forty feet above the main deck. His job was King of the Mountain. The first level of the big pots, 7 x 7 x 3 feet, had been muscled into position on their end side, tied down, and occupied most of the surface of the Wizard’s long wood-planked deck. The following pots were laid pancake style and built, row by row, into a large, flat-topped metal mountain.

The framework of the pots were two-inch metal rebar, with crossbars on the two flat sides. Inside the metal framework was the pot’s netting, the cage. Leading into the center of the netting, from two sides, were the ‘tunnels’ that the crab would scuttle into to reach the perforated bait jars that hung in the middle of the pot. The king crab would climb into the tunnel, drop over the lip, and fall to the floor of the pot. The pot of no return.

The job of the King of the Mountain was to tie down each big pot - 850 pounds empty - in three secure locations to the pots beside and below it with four-foot lengths of one-half inch polypropyl line, while the rest of the five man crew brought the next pot rapidly up from the ocean floor, 300 feet below. The tie-down needed speed, he had to be ready to manhandle another pot into position as soon as the hydraulic crane lifted and boomed the next pot up to him.

After sixteen hours of that bitterly cold routine the King of Mountain was tired. His stiff numb fingers struggled in a slow motion effort of tying the clove hitch and half hitch stopper.

Only three more fucking hours! he reminded his drained brain. He staggered wearily over the crab pots’ netting, carrying the crane hook to where he could see Todd, forty feet below, leaning on the crane’s hydraulic lever retrieving the excess crane line to the hook.

The stack was now above the wheelhouse windows. Cole Cronan looked down into the small working area around the crab sorting table, where the other action was taking place. A big wave slammed into the Wizard’s bow and he reeled around on the netting, bouncing like a yellow clad clown on a circus trampoline. He stepped up on the crossbar. A good place to stand to avoid the unstable footing in the netting, except when the metal was iced up, which it was, and slipped off. It didn’t take much common sense to realize that he would be better off lurching around in the netting rather than slipping on the crossbar and bustin’ a leg.

Below, Mike Mayno, the Bear, unofficial second mate, heaved the small grappling hook as the Wizard approached the next crab pot’s pink and blue floating buoys.

Todd Hemmings, unofficial first mate and crane operator, glanced up and spotted Cronan. With a tired half-assed grin on his kisser, Hemmings’ eyes seemed to say, we’re almost finished with this shit.

Bear overhanded the grappling hook line back onto the boat, his big shoulders hunched up, working hard and fast. He snatched the two Norwegian buoys out of the water and slung the three-quarter inch polypropyl line into the whirring brass groove of the hydraulic recovery winch. Brian Johnson stuffed the line coming off the winch into the automatic line coiler. With 300 feet of line to bring up, these heavy duty gadgets were revered almost like gods.

One more pot was on its way up to the surface. Cole Cronan grabbed three more tie-down lines from the pile at his feet, bouncing and stumbling on the netting as the turbulent sea rocked the Wizard’s hull. Hell, he thought in grim amusement, if I ever want to quit this wonderful job of fishing and freezing I could apply for a position as a porpoise rider at one of those fancy sea marinas down in Florida.

When the pot surged to the surface, the line on the haul-up winch slackened and then snapped tight, spraying Mark Topser the ship’s engineer, who right then was working as a lowly deckhand, with a face full of slimy stinging jellyfish streamers. Topser was leaning out to put the hook from the crane into the crab pot’s two-inch polypropyl bridle when he caught the spray. He managed to hook the bridle, and then stomped around the deck in raging pain. Cronan couldn’t hear Topser over the hissing wind, but he knew how much those vile dismembered tentacles stung and severely tempted a deck hand to claw his eyes, which made the pain even more unbearable. There is nothing in the human language evil enough to rightly curse that creatures’ agony producing appendages.

Johnson and Bear opened the end gate on the pot, took out five big king crab, and gently placed them into the removable stainless steel funnel that emptied into one of the Wizard’s large circulat ing fresh sea water holding tanks, below deck. Topser, his eyes streaming tears, hurled the coiled line and buoys into the pot. Johnson and Bear closed and fastened the gate. Hemmings lifted two hydraulic levers, bringing the pot off the deck and extending the crane arm all in one motion. With the pot half way up to the top of the stack, a big wave broke over the side and drenched Hemmings with ice cold water. Cronan could see the words, son of a bitch, framed in Todd’s stunned open mouth. The pot and crane arm kept rising all the same.

Todd Hemmings was like a rough tough symphony conductor, with the crane boom as his baton. He could fit the big wildly swinging crab pots into the tightest of spots. He knew when to allow for the rise and fall of the ship’s bow to propel the pot’s momentum, he would even use the port-to-starboard roll of the ship to slip a pot into its final position. But, no matter how good Hemmings was, he did not have x-ray vision to see through the pot mountain. Using his right hand in silent construction language, Cole Cronan directed Hemmings’ crane movements. Thumb up - boom up, thumb down - boom down, thumb right, thumb left, thumb back - boom out, clenched fist - all stop.

Hemmings lowered the pot into position, it was about two inches short of being lined up with the pot underneath it. Cronan bounced back along the net trampoline a few feet to where Hemmings could see him, and gave Hemmings a two-inch mark with forefinger and thumb, and then thumb back. Todd tapped the hydraulic lever and the pot slid the two inches.

Shit that guy is good! thought Cronan, as he quickly knelt down to tie the inside bottom rebar to the one opposing it. He had to face the bow as he tied the pot. Before he could duck his head, the freezing rain stabbed his face like acupuncture needles. His fingers fumbled the line around the icing up metal and out of countless hours of practice came the two securing knots. He finished tying down the other two spots and then lurched back to a location where Hemmings could see him and the crane hook.

As the crane arm swung away to starboard, Cronan was once again alone on the mountain. The bank of three stadium lights shone out from above the wheelhouse, where the half-ignorant face of Tor Olafson, the interim skipper, nervously angled the Wizard up to the next rapidly approaching set of buoys. Tor always ran the ship one knot too fast for any degree of weather and had the wheel-handling finesse of an arthritic gorilla. The skipper and owner of the Wizard, John Jorganson, had had family problems and it had been necessary to leave for Seattle before the end of king crab season. He had hired Tor, a Norwegian like himself, but it was obvious to the whole crew that Jorganson had never seen Olafson skipper a fishing boat. Not only couldn’t the stupid bastard pilot the boat, thought Cronan, he was dangerous to the safety of the crew. The idea, only semi-serious, of stuffing Tor into one of the crab pots and using him for bait had been kicked around by the boys many a night.

To break the dark surly mood created by Tor’s image in the lights shining into the wheelhouse windows, Cronan turned and gazed out at the Arctic gulls that were swooping and gliding over the frigid Bering Sea, ballet-like in their search for food. The supremely graceful gulls used the area in front of the Wizard’s bow, lit up like Candlestick Park by the five large stadium lights mounted above the forecastle, for their concentrated hunting grounds. The display of aerial ballet was magnificent to Cronan. Even in her raw unforgiving state, Mother Nature has beauty that will cause a bone tired, semi-froze, crab boat deck hand to pause in awe and wonder.

As he gazed out at the beautiful stage show, he thought to himself. Working the deck of a crab boat in scourging weather requires the kind of concentration a professional athlete needs. Instead of draining a three point hoop on a Larry Bird last second game winner, or a Barry Sanders’ 360 spin move and hitting the open lane for an afterburners touchdown, the concentration protects your ass and those working around you from serious accident and produces a Broadway-like choreographed deck working routine. The ice blue Bering Sea was his theatre and the grey Arctic gulls were his audience, smashed fingers, badly bruised body, broken bones his critics. A dead Cole Cronan in the Bering Sea could be his retirement - if he didn’t keep his concentration and shit together. Cronan gave a slight start, surprised at the cerebral experience that had just passed through his cold sluggish grey room.

He had been at sea for nine days, working eighteen hours a day, standing one hour wheelhouse watches in the blackness of morning, and getting four hours of death-like spasmed sleep. A king crab deck hand ate like a horse and burned so much energy that his shit came out like compressed rabbit turds. He had adapted to the routine after the beginning of each season. He had also learned from the routine that one mistake could slap him upside the head so hard it may crush his skull.

The window of time evaporated and another crab pot was on its way up. Cronan tied down the last pot in the back row on the starboard side, next to the wheelhouse. Now another level of pots had to be started in the first row on the bow. As he staggered over the netting, trying to maintain his balance, he forced himself to concentrate through the heavy fog of fatigue. He headed into the biting teeth of the wind and sleet, making his way forward to the bow. Cronan directed the pot into place and tied it down. The pot’s position was on the corner of the front row. To tie the remaining two spots on the pot required that he climb up on the pot, walk over to the edge, step over that edge, and come down with his knee-high green rubber boot onto the rebar below. All of this maneuver having to be done while the Wizard rolled heavily in the twenty-foot waves port to starboard, and bucked bow on into the slamming sea. A prudent deck hand would always hook his other leg under the crossbar for safety before stepping down in nasty weather.

As Cronan leaned over the portside of the pot it was an unrestricted view. Fifty feet below him was a caldron of frigid blackness whipped to a frothing madness. He quickly tied off the line and heaved himself back up. He moved over to the bow side of the pot, hooked his left leg, waited and watched as another big wave exploded off the bow in a fury of power that sent the sea’s icy fingers searching for him. Before the bow dropped down the wave crest, he felt that brief moment of hang time. Now he stepped down, quickly tieing the knot.

Goddamn it! I hate tying this first fuckin’ row! he spit back at an uncaring, unfeeling North wind.

Nine pots later Cronan had just made the second tie-down and was ready for the third, and last, tie-in on the dangerous front row. Time, long cold hours of it, and numbed caution caught him for a moment in their deadly grip. Instead of hooking his leg under the safety of the crossbar, he started with the quick-step routine, used when the weather was calm at the beginning of the season. He dragged his back leg like a drogue anchor, counterbalancing his weight. Just as his right boot left the edge of the pot he realized his perilous mistake.

In a slow motion splitting second, his left heel and calf cranked in searching to hook the crossbar under his knee. He went over the side looking straight down at the surging black sea on the unlit starboard side of the ship.

In a reckless moment such as this the Fates seem to enjoy toying with the pitiful human beings caught in their sport of life. Will you survive, puny creature? Will you enter the dark unknown halls? At the whim of the Fates all creatures dangle in the moment of uncertainty, death or life?

Cronan’s step was only three feet down, but his careless mistake turned dangerous and desperate in that split second moment. What piercing unfathomable sense caused him to realize his mistake at the last moment one cannot guess, but the rogue wave that blasted into the Wizard just at the moment his rubber boot sole hit the thinly iced up metal was terrifying reality. He was thrown off balance to his right, the boot heel that should have stopped his downward motion bounced and slipped off. The moment of truth hit Cole C. Cronan.

Every cell in his being exploded in a yellow-red flash of adrenalin pumping fear. Time stopped beating. The black yawn of death with its icy cold fangs ached for him, moaned for him, opened for him. He fell head first staring directly into that soul shriveling sight.

The achilles tendon just below the calf caught the crossbar, he snapped to a stop like a calf on the end of a roper’s lasso.

Cronan fought for the survival of his being. His right hand clawed for crab netting and quickly pulled him in. His left hand anchored onto rebar. He was holding on for dear life, riding upside down as the Wizard’s bow plunged down into the trough of the big wave . The bow slammed into the trough and began to right itself, with the downward force released he quickly scrambled to upright himself.

He sat in the middle of a pot for a few seconds transfixed by the sight of the next pot being boomed over to where he should have been standing. If he would have fallen overboard he would have been a file thirteen in Davy Jones’ Locker. Three minutes in that muscle numbing water and a man couldn’t hold onto a life buoy. Where he was working, not one man could have seen him fall. The Wizard continued bashing through the rough frigid sea, his shipmates below were getting ready for another pot to come up.

No one would have suspected any problem for at least six to eight minutes he thought shakily, by then they would have steamed ahead by hundreds of yards. The sight of that black artic sea highlighted in darkness made him shiver violently. Sitting on the top of the mountain, Cole Cronan felt very small and very alone.

Cronan that was too damn close!. He heard a small voice pipe up from within.

Hemmings had the next pot almost in postion, waiting for directions. Cronan stood up shakily, his legs felt like applesauce. He gave Hemmings a thumbs up - boom up.

By 04:30 the crew of the Wizard finally brought up the last crab pot for that season. Cronan had tied down six more pots where he had had to climb over the bow edge. Every pot had been an eyes wide open nightmare every time he stepped down to the icy rebar, but now they were finished!

Mike Mayno climbed up and over the top of the pots as Cronan threw down the unused tie-down lines. Cronan and the Bear had the last job of the night, running six heavy chains from port to starboard rail over the top of the pots. On the top mid-section of the pot mountain, they used come-alongs to cinch the chains down as tight as possible. In this kind of rough weather, with heavy seas, the last thing anyone wanted were the crab pots shifting their weight around on deck. More than a few crab boats had gone to the bottom in weather like this.

You can gain a lot of respect for a man by just watching him move thought Cronan, as he studied the Bear steaming across the top of the mountain of pots shredding the atmosphere with his energy. Slung over each of Mayno’s big shoulders was forty feet of chain. Mike Mayno was about six feet tall and weighed roughly 240 pounds. He had black hair and a big black bushy beard. When he smiled it was like watching a volcano come to life. He had strong white teeth that would have made Hollywood envious. His laugh exploded out of him like a thunderclap above the Nebraska Plains. He gave Cronan a slap on the back that sent him reeling and staggering across the netting and crossbars of four crab pots. Bouncing his way back to where the Bear was laying out the chains, Cronan had a grin smeared across his face and a love for the whole fucking universe. The season was finished!

Bear looked up at him and exploded into a laughing smile. Goddamn! I am glad this goddamned season is over! Let’s get these goddamned chains on and get the hell out of this miserable fuckin’ weather!

Forty minutes later they cinched down the last come-along, slamming it home with the six foot pipe on the handle, tied it securely to the chain, took one final inspection of the pots, and then headed inside to a warming drink of well deserved whiskey. Mayno, with his normal nuclear energy, reached the hatch door first, opened it and jumped over the lip into the warm interior. Cronan, a few steps behind, stopped at the hatch door and turned to face the wind and the sea for a moment longer. For some primal reason, he let go with a long low howl at the brutal frigid power that roiled the wind and the sea into a vortex of violent energy. Mayno, grinning an ear splitting grin, reached back to his howling partner, grabbed him by the back of his slicker, and firmly yanked Cronan through the hatch door. Inside, the heat warmed their faces immediately; the sound of laughter and glasses clinking came rushing down the hallway. The rest of the crew had started the end of the season party without them. Cronan pulled the hatch door closed and secured it.

Bear was at the doorway to the steps leading down to the engine room. He assaulted the gangway steps like everything else he did in life, full bore. He had a way of grabbing both handrails and sliding on his slicker forarms down the metal pipes, while his feet propelled him off of every other step. Cronan had tried it once and had nearly broken his leg. Cole arrived thirty seconds later. Mayno already had his slicker and bib overalls off, and was kicking off the second green, knee height, rubber deck boot - at the same time as he ripped his blue hooded sweat shirt over his head. The Bear was the fastest man Cronan had ever seen getting out of deck gear, it was like watching Houdini condensed into a two second frame of time. Cronan sat down on the bottom step of the gangway stairs and soaked all of this in, luxuriating in the end of the season leisure.

There is a pleasure and total satisfaction that comes over a person when a long hard job is finally finished. It is a feeling through one’s whole being that cannot be explained in words, it can only be known through experience.

Mayno jumped into his sweat pants, yanked on his Nike tennis shoes, glanced down at Cronan for a brief moment, then bolted up the stairs heading for a glass of Black Velvet on the rocks. He left Cronan sitting there slumped over with his elbows on his knees and his head supported by his cupped hands. I don’t know about him, thought Mayno, but it’s the end of the season and I am goddamned ready for a drink. I may just drink the whole goddamned bottle! At the top of the gangway steps, he gave no more thought about Cronan. All his instincts were now directed to the galley and the loud shouts and toasts coming from it.

Man, oh man! Goddamn fucking sonofabitch! Am I glad this season is over! I don’t know if I could have gone out on that pot stack again after what happened tonight! Cronan spoke to the engine room. The huge yellow 999D Caterpillar diesel engine battering the air with mechanical intensity so powerful it made his eardrums ring and his skin vibrate, was the only reply.

The big, powerful engine had been solid and strong running all season for them. Of course if it had conked, John Jorganson had a twin engine mounted right behind ol’ 99, ready to take over. In the multi-million dollar king crab season, a skipper could not afford a broken down engine.

The heavy staccato of the huge diesel set the engine room vibrating right down to the bilge plates. The atoms and electrons in the atmosphere of the engine room throbbed with the bruising beating they were getting. The heavy fumes of hot motor oil permeated his sense of smell. The effect of this was to slowly relax every tensed and frayed nerve in his body. He took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and let his body slump some more. After his recent brush with death, Cronan needed some time to relax.

This was the fourth time he had come close to buying permanent property in the Bering Sea. The events of those close calls replayed slowly through his memory like the old Saturday cowboy serial movies. This last near-miss by the dark reaper had shook him to the roots of his confidence.

How many chances do you get out here? he wondered aloud to the engine room. He figured his were running real thin. Shit, maybe it’s time to get out of this game while I’m still alive?

He watched as a trickle of water ran off the pant cuff of his yellow bib overalls and dripped into a small puddle that was slowly collecting around his deck boots. His brain was tired and numb. He sat there awhile not thinking any thoughts, just being there, then stood up slowly and began taking off his wet gear and hanging them up to dry.

At the top of the gangway steps Cronan could hear Tor Olafson’s loud, braying voice carrying down the hallway leading to the galley. Tor, as was his custom, was trying to talk above everyone else.

As the whiskey heated up Olafson’s normally slow firing synapse neurons in his cerebral cortex, he was convinced that he must show these smart asses a thing or two about being a real man and what it takes to be a real fisherman. Of course, with or without the whiskey, this was Tor’s main topic of conversation anyway. The whiskey just aided the volume and the determination of his mulish know-it-all attitude.

Yah yah sure. You tink you vork so hard here. Vhen I was skipper on da Aleutian King vee did more vork in vone day than da Wizard does in two. And vee only vent in for vone meal. Da rest of our meals vee ate while vee vorked. Yah you make it too easy for dis crew, Todd. Yah you should be tougher on dem! Tor felt pretty smug inside, he knew what it took to be a king crab fisherman. This crew wasn’t half bad, but if he were owner/skipper he’d make sure these wise jokers would toe the line, or else.

Of course the boys had heard all of this before, many many times before. They also knew that he was full of shit. Olafson had been the skipper on the Aleutian King for two years. During that time he had broken almost every piece of steering equipment on the ship. The engines had to have a major overhaul during the season. He had almost bankrupted the gullible Seattle consortium that owned the Aleutian King, before he was fired. Of course to Tor’s slow twisted way of thinking, the engine and mechanical breakdowns were all the result of poor quality machinery and sloppy installation.

Hemmings had known Olafson for a few years. When he had first met him, Tor was very quiet and seldom spoke. And when he did speak, it was through teeth that were black and rotted. After Olafson’s first King Crab season, he got his teeth pulled and replaced with dentures. The denture teeth looked like they had been made for a donkey, but Tor loved his new look. Now you couldn’t get Tor to shut up. Johnson had volunteered one night to creep into Tor’s cabin and steal his teeth, the rest of the crew thought it was a great idea. Tor with no teeth meant Tor with nothing to say, which would have been wonderful for everyone’s ears. Unfortunately, Johnson came back empty handed. Tor slept with his damn dentures in his mouth. The boys were pretty down for awhile after that failed sabotage. Shortly after this vain attempt was when the idea of using Tor for crab bait was first raised.

Tor was never quite savvy enough to realize that by giving the men the short end of praise and always bad-mouthing them, the crew of the Wizard went out of their way to steer clear of the loud-mouthed prick at all times.

As Cronan stepped into the galley, Hemmings and Bear were shouting obscenities merrily at one another, just to drown Tor out of the conversation. Johnson and Topser sat back in the deep cushioned booth of the galley and smiled big knowing grins at Cronan that had the warm ruddy glow of whiskey in them.

Cronan crossed the galley and opened the cupboard door that stored the crews’ bottles of booze. He pulled out the bottle of 150 proof Lemon Hart rum. The yellow label, with the big red circle, always reminded him of a sunset in Jamaica. This stuff in a water glass with orange juice made a formidable drink. This was fire water in every sense of the word. He put the bottle carefully back onto the shelf for safety in this rough weather. Johnson and Topser scooted their butts around the bend of the U-shaped dining booth to make room for him. The three of them silently toasted each other, while Hemmings and Bear started to stick it to Tor humorously.

Before Olafson could get started with any of his long winded stories about how good a fisherman he was, Hemmings broke into one of his many stories that he loved to tell and no one of the crew minded listening to.

Hey Bear, you remember Dave Joiner? Yeah well, after the end of the season in ‘74, he and I were over at the Dutch Harbor Inn gettin’ shit faced. Gettin’? Hell we were! Damn, we could barely walk. Somehow we managed to get to Joiner’s boat for another drink. The dock was as dark as a ling cod’s ass hole. One second I was talking to Joiner and the next he and his voice had vanished. I’ll tell ya boys it was more than a bit confusing. All of a sudden I hear this moaning below me. So I took out my lighter and lit the damn thing. There, ten feet below me, was Joiner lying sprawled on the deck of his boat. He had stepped off the dock down to where the ship’s deck should have been. During the time we had been in the bar the damn tide had gone out!

Hemmings had to stop to wipe the tears of laughter out of his eyes, It was a good thing the lucky bastard was so drunk, all he did was knock the wind outta himself when he fell onto a heap of polypropyl line. He just kept saying, ‘Whaa happend, whaa happend?’ Hemmings was laughing so hard he couldn’t finish the story. The rest of the crew were laughing so hard they couldn’t stop Tor from starting one of his stories.

Another drink and twenty minutes later Cronan had to go up to the wheelhouse to stand his hour watch. You were lucky if your rotation for wheelhouse watch came first in the crew rotation, then the deck hand got four hours of straight uninterrupted sleep. He ducked the ledge that overhung the wheelhouse stairway. He had learned the painful lesson of forgetting to duck. Balancing the drink in his left hand, he pulled himself up the steep stairway, waiting for the heavy rise of the Wizard’s bow to give him more momentum. Stepping into the wheelhouse was always a pleasure for Cronan, especially at night with all the indicator dials glowing on the steering console.

The wheelhouse was twenty feet from port to starboard and six feet deep. A row of fourteen big stainless steel rimmed windows ran in an elongated U-shape from one corner of the wheelhouse to the opposite end. It was a relatively safe port-hole in life that looked comfortably out at a storm tossed sea. He mentally checked the ride of the chained-down pots. The third and sixth row of pots were shifting ever so slightly when the Wizard was pounded by some of the bigger waves, he hoped they would hold. He gazed down at the Loran C computer readings, they were holding steady. Looking past the stadium lights on the bow, he searched the waves for any crab pot buoys, set by other boats, that might be in their path. Steaming over polypropyl lines connected to the pots below could cause real problems with the Wizard’s twin propeller shafts. He stuck the rubber night hood onto the radar screen and peered into it. Adjusting the screen to a setting between five and twenty miles he could see two blips at ten miles off, one heading toward them and the other heading in the same direction as the Wizard. All precautions checked for now, it was time to enjoy the scenery. He opened a window at the starboard end of the wheelhouse, plugged in a tape of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, turned up the volume, and settled back to watch the sight of the Arctic Gull Ballet as performed over the Bering Sea. He supplied the musical background, the gulls and the sea provided the performers and the setting. It was an awesome performance.

At 05:50, Cronan opened Mark Topser’s cabin door and shook him awake. Topser’s wheelhouse watch was in fifteen minutes. Topser finally stumbled up the steps into the wheelhouse with a big mug of coffee and grunted. Cronan told him about the third and sixth row of pots and the ships on the radar screen, said goodnight, and headed to his cabin where his bunk was sending out seductive sleep transmission waves. He dropped off to sleep a happy satisfied man. They would sail into Acutan Harbor in ten luxurious hours for a fuel up and on to Dutch Harbor to unload their final king crab catch of the season. Then it was fly home time to the territories surrounding Seattle. Three gut bustin’ months of hard, cold, miserable, painful work was over. The thought curled his lips into a soft peaceful smile. Two hours later the Bear shook him roughly awake.

Wake up goddamn it! That fucker Tor wants us to go out and tighten down the chains on rows three and six. Goddamn him! spewed Mayno.

Cronan stumbled out of the bunk and put on his sweat pants like a car going through a Henry Ford assembly line.

Come on Cronan, one more time up on the stack, at night, in rough weather, under steam. Shit! You can handle it, Cronan mumbled to himself. But he could feel bad luck breathing down his neck with its cold fetid breath.

Down in the engine room, Mayno had his foul weather gear on and was heading up the gangway to the main deck.

Hurry up! Goddamnit Cronan!

Go to hell Mayno and get fucked! He yelled back over the deafening engine roar, jerking on his hood and snapping the neck closed.

There were two ways to reach the rows of pots they needed to tie down; climb along the boat’s lee side rail, which was semi-protected from the freezing wind and sleet, and hold onto the crab pots in your face. That was walking a slippery, frozen, three-inch pipe tightrope, but the hand holds were strong and safe. The second route was to climb up on top of the pots and bounce and stumble down the rows. It had been bad enough before, when Cronan had been up on top and they had been fishing at a speed of two knots. Now they were underway and traveling at a battling eight to ten knots. The Wizard was a 156-foot converted U.S. Navy yard oiler. She had a stern mounted cabin, and was the Cadillac of the king crab Dutch Harbor fleet in her ability for riding big rough waves. However, when a deckhand climbed on top of crab pots forty feet off deck with the ship pitching and lurching at four times the normal fishing speed in heavy wind whipped seas, pulled the edge of his slicker hood out to protect his face from the stabbing rain, and looked across an area of a shifting, groaning, hard humping, crab pot crossbarred obstacle course, it was a sight to make his throat dry up and forced him to swallow hard. Cronan climbed back down the pot stack and took the long way of the icy rail.

Mayno had removed the quarter-inch line and freed the come-along handle when Cronan arrived. He and Cronan reset the come-along, taking a tight bite on the chain in row three. Bear stuck the six foot leverage pipe over the end of the come-along handle, and the two men positioned themselves. They waited until the roll of the Wizard was suspended in the aftershock of the last wave, then as the bow came down they both levered the pipe down hard ramming it home with their shoulders and body weight. As it bit into the metal sides of the pots the heavy chain screamed in agony over the howling wind. That chain was as tight as it was possible to get. They were not coming out there to do it again!

Mayno grabbed the pipe lever and took off on a high stepping run to row six. When he reached the come-along, he squatted down to loosen the tie-down line wrapped around the handle. The handle snapped free lashing out like a rattlesnake strike. It smashed the Bear across the inside of his right knee with an ugly smack. Mayno bellowed as if a red hot piece of iron had been laid on his hide, and buckled into a ball. Cronan took off on a run to help him. Mayno suddenly jumped up, grabbed the pipe, took two steps, and hurled the pipe with both hands in a hammer throw. At the same moment he let loose a primal roar that would have made any bear in Alaska have second thoughts about sticking around the neighborhood. He sat down held his knee and groaned. Cronan watched as the pipe whipped out over the icy sea, like a helicopter blade disappearing into the dark. He knew by Mayno’s action that his knee wasn’t broken.

That was an Olympic pipe throwing record for sure, thought Cronan with grim humor. Shit it happened so quickly, just like all the accidents out here! Man, the Bear is fuckin’ lucky his knee is not broken. He knew that if this would have happened during the season, Bear’s injured knee would have cost him his job. Cronan squatted down and set the come-along, while Mayno clenched his teeth and squeezed his throbbing knee.

Together, Mayno from a sitting position, they finished tightening the chain in row six - minus of course, the aid from the recently heaved leverage pipe. Mayno slung his arm over Cronan’s shoulder for support as they staggered back over the crab pot netting to the stern.

Damn! Bear is one of the best in the business and he almost broke his goddamned knee tonight! The thought kept swirling around in Cronan’s grey room as he crawled gratefully back into his warm bunk. He was starting to feel like a gambler on a Mississippi riverboat who was definitely pushing his luck. Between his own close brush with the Fates and Mayno’s accident, Cronan fell into a worn-out nightmare filled coma.

Cronan woke with a jump, in the grip of a nightmare where he was falling off a tall stack of pots and tumbling slowly, irretrievably, down into a black sea. The back of his head was wet with sweat, his hair matted to his neck. The steel-grey light of day labored through the two small portholes in his cabin. He slowly got to his feet, leaned haggardly on the stout little desk that was bolted to the bulkhead, and peered out a porthole. Heavy grey clouds hung like swollen membranes over the big rolling sea. The early morning mist added to the feeling of trapped oppression. The mist was thick, he could see only a hundred yards off the starboard side of the Wizard. Sitting down on the edge of his bunk he fumbled for his sweat pants and pulled them on with labored effort. He struggled into a T-shirt, jammed his feet into his Topsiders, grabbed shampoo,and headed for the shower.

His sea legs automatically adjusted to the heavy port to starboard roll and the bow to stern pitch of the Wizard as she plowed through the stormy seas just outside the metal skin of the ship. Walking down the narrow hallway to the head, a large wave knocked him off balance, and he careened off the wall. He cursed under his breath.

Shit! The season is over. Why am I in such a foul mood?

He opened the door to the head, closed it, and secured it. Stepping into the small shower he turned the water on hot and let the steaming beads from the shower head soothe him. He had only about three minutes to enjoy the feeling. Tor had decided against taking on fresh water the last time they were in port, now they were low on this precious commodity.

The bastard! I could stand at least twenty minutes of this hot water. That sonofabitch should be hung from his balls! The mental picture comforted Cronan in his raunchy mood.

No one was in the galley when Cronan stepped through the door. It was just as well, the gloomy mood he felt didn’t leave much room for morning conversation. He made a cup of coffee and headed up the stairway to the wheelhouse. Hemmings was standing watch and at the moment peering into the green radar screen intently. He turned and glanced briefly at Cronan, then went back to watching the screen. A few minutes of silence went by before Cronan spoke quietly.

What’s happening Todd?

We’re about fifty miles out of Acutan, weather is starting to break. I hear Bear took a mean lick last night. I’ve told that dumb bastard over and over again to slow down and take his time, but you can’t get through that thick head of his. He was lucky he didn’t break his fuckin’ knee! What the hell’s wrong with you?

Didn’t sleep worth a shit last night, replied Cronan.

Hemmings just grunted and then said, Well you better get some breakfast, then wake up Brian. Tor wants you two to scrub out the bait jars and then wash down the wheelhouse before we come into port. Don’t give me that ratty look Cole, it’s Tor’s idea not mine. Besides, in a few days we’ll be rid of the bastard.

That’s the best news I’ll hear all day!

Cronan stepped past Hemmings and looked into the radar screen. Within the thirty mile radius of the screen’s image he could see five blips converging to a point off the round screen that he knew would be Acutan Harbor.

Cronan opened Johnson’s door and peered into a black hole. Clothing, magazines, and pieces of deck gear were scattered everywhere. The unpleasant smell of stale cigarette smoke and mold wrinkled his nose. He wondered how a nineteen year old guy could live in such a pit.

Hey Brian, wake up! Cronan shook the sleeping form buried underneath the tangle of blankets and sheets. Come on, time to get up.

A white arm slowly rose from beneath the crumpled mass and waved him away.

Cronan shook him again, not quite so gently this time. Roll out, Tor has some jobs for us.

Huh? Whaaa? Day off! Johnson mumbled under the blankets.

Cronan knew from previous experience with Brian, if he didn’t get Johnson to a sitting position he would be back in ten minutes to wake him again. He pulled the covers off the reluctant form and watched as it curled into the fetal position.

Okay, okay, I’m awake. Leave me alone. He rolled over slowly and pushed himself up to a slumped sitting position. He was wearing his standard grubby T-shirt and shorts. In the middle of his crotch, standing at attention, straining at the semi-white cotton, was a nineteen year old cock ready for action.

Well that must have been one helluva sweet dream, chuckled Cronan, finding something amusing for the first time that morning.

Huh? said Johnson, as he reached for his pack of cigarettes. He looked down, saw his young bulging manhood, grabbed the covers,and pulled them over his crotch. Get outta here you pervert, he said with an embarrassed grin.

The two quart plastic bait jars hung like dull translucent Chinese lanterns in the aftermath of a big party. They were strung in pairs along the bow-side of the crab pot mountain; three hundred jars, with bits and pieces of chopped up herring glinting dully in the grey morning light. The smell would have knocked a wino on his butt. Fortunately with the Wizard underway the wind off the bow whipped the penetrating odor out over the sea.

A light rain was falling as Cronan climbed under the protection of the small forecastle enclosure. He squirted liquid soap into the two big stainless steel tubs, and watched, lost in thought, as the water from the hose he held slowly filled the tubs. A feeling he couldn’t quite bring into focus tugged at the back of his mind like a wild beast gnawing on a bone. He tried to shake it off, it bit deeper into his being. He stared up at the sky and studied the gulls wheeling overhead. The water splashing out of the overflowing tub brought him back, and he mumbled out loud, Damn, watch what you’re doing!

He was glad that Johnson was still eating breakfast, he needed time alone. Living on a fishing boat, day after day, there was precious little time or space to be by yourself. The close quarters left very little room for private thought or contemplation of decisions. He guessed that that was what was bothering him. Decision. A helluva word, that one. So easy to think the word, so easy to say it, but so very difficult to carry the word to conclusion. The weight of it bogged down his thinking like a small car stuck in the mud quagmire that some Dutch Harbor residents optimistically called streets. The decision, whether to stay with crab fishing or get the hell out of it, hung over him like a black cape. The decision was eating up his guts, devouring his thoughts. It left him a confused puzzle that he tried but could not piece together. Both sides of his brain seemed to be vying for leader in the multifaceted decision process. One side would triumph the freedom of his life when fishing, confident in the knowledge of the day-to-day routine of being a deckhand on a crab boat, proclaiming the top wages he was earning then seductively reminding him of the sirens’ call to the beautiful addiction he had for the sea. The other side, dark and foreboding, would only produce one cold, chilling, ominous thought - death. Death. There was no easy way around that word. He rolled the blackness, the fear of the word around in his being. Then, so as to get a grip on the aspect of it, he said the word aloud.

Death.

What the fuck are you talking about? grinned Johnson as he swung underneath the forecastle roof. Death? Who died? His cigarette bobbed in his mouth as he spoke. The only death I’m thinking about is killing more than a few beers when we get to Acutan.

Cronan had to laugh in spite of his dour mood. He liked this nineteen year old monkey. Death, he knew, did not intrude its dark thoughts into Brian Johnson. He was young and indestructible right then. The only time Johnson thought of death was when he happened to glance at it in a magazine. But Cole Cronan was thirty-two, old for a deck hand on a king crab boat. Death almost had closed its icy fist around him last night, and it had not been for the first time.

Shit Brian, I was just thinking out loud.

Yeah? Well sometimes you think too much Cole. You should be more like me. Hell, I don’t worry about nothin’. Course if I had your brains, maybe I would. Hey, I thought if I waited long enough you’d have these jars about finished.

I wondered what took you so long, you little shit! I was just pokin’ along. I knew you’d be heartbroken if I finished without you.

Yeah, heartbroken my ass, laughed Johnson. I hear Tor wants us to scrub down the wheelhouse after this. Don’cha just love being on the bottom of the totem pole? He grabbed two jars, threw them into the soapy water and started washing them out. When Brian Johnson washed bait jars, everything within a five-foot radius got wet, and had herring guts splashed on it. Cronan moved to the far end of the other tub.

By the time Johnson and Cronan had finished the bait jars, the Wizard was rounding the head of Acutan Harbor. The seas smoothed out under the protection of the massive rock cliffs that marked the opening of the channel that led to the port. From the vantage point on the top of the wheelhouse, while washing it, Cronan could see the harbor two miles away. The channel, flanked by the buttresses of solid walls of stone, reminded him of some early Viking stronghold. The last time the Wizard had sailed in here had been at the beginning of the king crab season. Then the imposing rock walls had a beautiful mantel of tundra with pretty little dainty flowers of pink, blue, yellow, and red dotting the deep green mattress. It had been a sunny day, with the promise of excitement and adventure. Now Cronan felt like a returning warrior that had had his fill of battle.

The Wizard cruised down the narrow entrance, the sharply rising cliffs were now topped with deep snow. The only break in these massive walls were tiny patches of moss splashed here and there in bright green flashes. The gulls wheeled and swooped over the processing boats anchored in the harbor. Cronan could imagine their eager bright eyes intently watching for any trace of crab being flushed over the side of these big ships. It was easy to see that free food was there for the taking at the Acutan Diner.

Within twenty minutes the Wizard was rapidly closing the distance to the fuel dock. Tor backed off the speed, and threw the gear shift into heavy reverse. Standing on the bow, Cronan grimaced at the sound of the high torque on the engine. He readied the forward hawser for the throw to the dock. Parked on the end of the dock was an old World War II Liberty ship. The ship was about 400 feet long; the cannery that owned it had brought it up years ago and transformed it into a processing ship. The name on her stern, the Delaware Star.

Cronan had looped four coils of hawser over his arm for a throwing distance of thirty feet. He rotated to his right, dropped his shoulder slightly, felt the weight of the hawser reach its correct position, and started to uncoil his body for a throw that would send the four-inch thick hawser sailing out over the port side of the bow onto the fuel dock and into the arms of a cannery worker.

His throw stopped before it started. A hatch door on the Delaware Star opened and out stepped a good looking brunette. After four months at sea a man isn’t exactly shy when he sees a pretty woman pop out of a door on a ship thirty feet away from him.

Hey, good afternoon! What’s your name? Cronan called to the lovely sight.

Hello. I’m Elizabeth.

She radiated a smile that could have melted the heart of a frozen polar bear. Beautiful teeth, white and sparkling. Cronan was temporarily lost in the dazzle, even the heavily laden sky seemed to lighten up. Everything around him was blotted out.

Hey you! Cronan! Trow da bow hawser damnit! Tor bellowed over the ship’s loudspeaker.

The name is Cole Cronan. He tipped his baseball cap. Are you working tonight?

No, I’m not. I’m shooting pool at the Road HouseTavern.

Do you have a date?

No.

Great! See you there! He turned and threw the hawser to the dock hand, who by now was only a few feet away, actually he could almost hand him the hawser.

It was Cronan’s job to throw the bow hawser first, then Mayno would throw the spring line hawser from amidship, followed by Johnson with a hawser from the stern. Mayno and Johnson had seen what was happening and had covered him by throwing their lines first.

By the time the lines were secured and the ship was safely moored to the dock, it was 15:30. The Wizard’s radar had picked up a glitch on the way in and Tor knew someone on another crab boat that he wanted to bring over to have a look-see. Johnson and Cronan quickly volunteered to take the fourteen foot Boston Whaler over to pick him up. Hemmings got the crane in position to pick the small boat off the wheelhouse roof, where it was kept secured. After it was lowered into the harbor, Johnson started it up and motored over to pick up Cronan. When they boarded the radar expert’s boat, they found the man busy. He told them he would take his own boat over to the Wizard when he was finished. Johnson and Cronan happily gunned the Whaler to the old wooden pier of the small fishing village. The radar man being occupied made their getaway from Tor and the ship for a few hours simple.

Acutan consisted of eighteen small Aleutian Indian fishing cottages. A wooden sidewalk, a few feet off the ground, ran a meandering 200-yard course through the entire length of the village. The cottages were painted white and were also built off the ground. A group of Indian children romped with two black and grey Husky pups. The pups, looking like two puffed up fur balls with big blue eyes, bounced around the laughing children yapping happily. The two deck hands cruised down the sidewalk studying the fishing nets and the sturdy wooden Indian style fishing boats placed hull up next to the cabins. For two motorized high tech mechanical deckhands it was easy to appreciate the much more simple gear hanging on the cabins and the long heritage of these skillful fishermen. They walked to the end of the village and stepped off the wooden walkway. A soft layer of new snow lay on the path led to the end of the cliffs that marked the beginning of the small harbor’s channel. It was a relief to be out of Tor’s loud and noisy voice range. The land was quiet and it felt good to walk the earth again.

When they returned to village it was 17:00. There was only one tavern in Acutan, the Road House. It wasn’t hard to find. The only problem for Cronan and Johnson was the sign on the front door of the tavern. The Road House didn’t open until 17:30.

It looks like we’ve got thirty minutes to kill before we can sink a brew, said Johnson dejectedly.

Cronan was staring a hole into the tavern door. Come on, let’s see what’s happening on the other side of that door!

He turned the door handle and it opened. Inside, two men were talking quietly at the bar. The walls were covered with bamboo, giving the joint a Polynesian atmosphere. Well, what the hell, why not? thought Cronan. Here was a tavern called the Road House with not a road in sight, it might as well look like a grass shack inside too.

Two pool tables stood on a raised back level. The bar was long and at the right height to comfortably lean on. The bar stools were in decent condition. All in all, a cozy place.

The Indian behind the bar looked up from the conversation, fixed Cronan with a pair of friendly brown eyes and asked, You looking for someone?.

We saw your sign out front, but we just rolled in off a crab boat. We were wondering if you might see it possible to sell us a couple beers and let us sit quietly ‘til the tavern opens? answered Cronan.

Sure. Hope you like Rainier beer, it’s all we sell. I’m Sam, the bartender.

Rainier is fine, Sam!

Are you two off the Wizard? I saw her pull in a few hours ago.

Yep.

The bartender set two bottles of beer on the bar top. Cronan and Johnson picked up the semi-cool beers, toasted him, and put the beers upright. The cool foamy liquid barely touched the back of their throats.

How about two more, Sam? asked Johnson. It’s been a long season! How come you only sell Rainier?

Well, we used to sell wine, but a lot of the villagers were getting pretty smashed, so the council decided to limit sales to Rainier, he replied with a grin. Now there’s no arguing over which beer is better and no one gets too drunk, works better this way.

Sam moseyed back over to his pal and resumed his conversation. Johnson started talking about his new girl-friend back in Seattle, and how he was getting hot flashes thinking about her lovely body. Cronan was thinking about a lovely body himself, and a hellavalot closer than Seattle. They talked about the crab season, and whatever else happened to come up.

The Indian talking to Sam got up, nodded to the two deck hands, and left. Sam walked over and joined the conversation with Cronan and Johnson. Quite a few crab boats stopped through Acutan on their way to and from Dutch Harbor. There was a short wave radio at the back of the bar. Brian Johnson was nephew to the owner/skipper of the Wizard. He had sandy hair and freckles, was somewhat naive, moved like a nimble monkey on deck, and was well liked by the whole crew. He also had another uncle who was owner/skipper of the Arctic Blossom. Brian asked the bartender of any news about the Blossom.

Yeh, sure do. Artic Blossom put in here last week. I heard on the short wave last night, she turned turtle in the storm. Good thing the Aleutian Princess was nearby. They managed to save all of the crew, except the skipper.

Brian Johnson sat on his bar stool with the bottle of beer in his hand suspended in mid-air. The light from behind the bar cast a brown glow through the bottle. The echoing, fading words of that last sentence held him in a mute spell. He was nineteen, no one he knew had died. How could his uncle be dead? Brian could hear his uncle’s voice and see him joking around at the family picnic just a few months ago. Can’t be, thought Brian, he’s too good a fisherman