"Dance Of Death"
But, you have to go for it anyhow, no matter how undesirable the circumstances; you can't sit around waiting for perfect conditions, Jeb knew that much. No one is to blame, everyone on board has to work together to get the job done. However, there's one rule of the sea Jeb had mastered a long time ago: if things go right, the skipper gets the credit; if not, it's the crews' fault.
Action on deck had temporarily come to a screeching halt while Jeb and the kid tried prodding the cork line away from the stern using aluminum poles called plungers intended for, well, plunging into the water. As a general rule, you do not want to get the net, or anything else for that matter, tangled in the wheel; that is one hell of a faux pas. One end of a plunger is shaped like an elongated, open cone; its impact when 'ponged' into the water creates air bubbles and noise; the air bubbles are supposed to mimic a sea lion or a seal, and the noise is just noise. This occasionally helps to redirect the catch, in the present case, salmon, into the net's field of containment. They had not been used for that purpose thus far on this trip. Accordingly, it had occurred to Jeb that the skipper either really knew his business or believed that the fish were aware of who he was and so, overcome with despair, had surrendered unequivocally.
The quickly rising breeze coming off the Strait was helping to seperate the boat from the net. That was the good news; the bad news was that they were getting closer than was comfortable to the rocky beach. With a few furtive glances, not unnoticed by Jeb, the skipper realized the predicament, which only served to knuckle him down tighter than what might be considered his norm. This flash of insight triggered a train of thought in Jeb beginning with the nature of black holes and the annihilation of all space and time, to the inevitable compression into empty nothingness and poof, no more boss. The skipper apparently used this compaction technique as a means to harness the forces of Nature, creating a high-voltage energy vortex; his will be done. He probably hadn't taken a shit for six months, reflected Jeb.
The cork line was more or less where it was supposed to be, at least it was out of harm's way. So they regrouped to pick up where they had left off. The skipper kicked the power block into high gear; Jeb tried to match it, but the lethargy remained. He was falling all over himself trying to keep up. A sour disapproving glance from the power-that-be caught Jeb right between the frontal lobes. It had a magical effect. The only way he could treat someone convinced of his own superiority with contempt was to not be worthy of it himself.
Suddenly, he found the missing clutch, let it out quickly, spun wheels, and was back on the road. He felt light, agile and refreshed as he grabbed handfuls of mesh with a certitude reminiscent of his lost youth. The genie was out of the bottle.
However, he wasn't attacking with the zest and vigor of a reborn novice eager to please; no, it was more like the excessive brightness of a lightbulb just before it burns out. Whatever it was, Jeb's concentration underwent a quantum leap; there was a sureness and efficiency to his now smooth movements. That everpresent exoskeleton of resistance that had grown to cover his skin some years ago vanished. He was actually enjoying himself for the first time since he had set foot on this tub; the release of tension and open strength it brought with it struck a familiar chord that he had nonetheless not experienced for longer than he could remember.
Things recast themselves. They were no longer unwieldy and cumbersome work tools, monsters threatening to overwhelm him with their indifference and disdain; they became props, and the other men, extras in a play of which he was the main character. He knew physical pleasure, the simple joys of movement and detachment from cares and grudges and resentments. Time slid sideways across connected moments that existed in a present that was all presents. He could see beneath the surface of the camouflage the skipper had fabricated to surround his fears. This perception carried with it feelings of sorrow and remorse.
Jeb laughed dryly, shaking his head slowly, at the craziness of Life, at the script he felt forced to live, at himself for feeling sympathy towards the otherwise despicable, and at the ultimate unimportance of everything. The kid, startled by his laughter, abruptly turned his way, peering more deeply than Jeb would've believed possible. But this chimera of substance and vulner- ability vaporized under Jeb's gaze, to be replaced by a look of confusion mixed with a little fear.
"Get the lead out, boy; we're burnin' daylight!"
Three more loops, now going the other way.
Wrestling his duffel bag through the mass of strangers to the outside parking lot, he spotted Bruce almost immediately, he was hard to miss. He looked like a cross between the guy on the pack of zig-zag papers and a wolf stalking its prey. Throwing his bag into the back of his pick-up, he worked his way into the cab, carefully spreading the heap of trash on the floor. What would've passed for normal conversation at any other time was placed on a back burner. He wanted to know what to expect when they arrived in town; Bruce filled him in with his usual subjective viewpoint; he had his own priorities.
"How's your mom doin'?"
"Oh, she's OK. My mom was a little shaky. They were married for seventeen years, you know. That's a hell of a long time by today's standards. When she got to the hospital he was already dead... a heart attack. He had diabetes for years. He hated it, being laid up.
"So what gives here and let's change the subject." "There's women all over the place. Jesus Christ Almighty; there's more women in town right now than ever in the past ten years combined! I'm makin' megabucks drivin' cab, doin' tours around, out the road, package dills. You know the boat Bob crabs on? Well, they're tied up over at the Sealand dock. They set up a cleaning station there; he's the cook, that's all he does, three meals a day. That's where I've been eatin.'
"Everybody's working, even Little Willy, except Ron, he won't have anything to do with it. Violates his sense of morality or principles or some such shit, I don't know about Ron; he worries me. This is the big chance to clean up. All the times we've been so fucking broke, now's our shot, and he gets religion; God almighty, what an asshole."
"Have you been out on the Sound? Have you seen it? We flew over the ship, they got containment booms wrapped around it but it's too fucking late. There's another ship tied next to it; I don't know what he was doin.' Man Oh fuckin' man. There's this glob oozing its way southwest towards Green Island. "I've been through Valdez Narrows a million times with icebergs strung clear across to Bligh Reef. Never had any trouble. Some of those bergs were bigger than the boat I was running. I'd have a guy on radar, then lose him behind a berg. I couldn't tell a berg from a boat on the radar.
"The Exxon Valdez has got to have way more sophisticated radar than what we had on that fifty-eight footer. So how in the hell..."
"You weren't driving a supertanker, for one thing; that's how in the hell. Those babies gotta be doin' fifteen knots comin' out of the Narrows just to maintain steerage. There's not a lot of room to maneuver in there; they don't respond like a jet-ski, you know."
"But, Jesus, I lived in Valdez, used to hang out at the Pipeline Club. Those tanker guys would be sittin' there gettin' shitfaced for hours. Then they'd jump in a cab and go over to the tank farm, get on their ship, and head out, drunker than skunks. What a bunch of bullshit.
"They had a third mate runnin' that thing, a THIRD MATE. In the Sound, the skipper or first mate, at least, should be doing the driving. When they get passed Hinchenbrook and out into the ocean, hell, let a deckhand do a wheel watch. But inside, what the..."
"It don't matter now who the hell was driving. It happened, it's happening. It's up to us to capitalize on it. Don't shake your head. Why not? When will guys like us ever get another chance to score like this? The fat cats are always makin' it and always looking down their noses at us deckhands. They wouldn't make shit if it weren't for us guys. So, fuck, don't pull a Ron on me. Get real and get rich. We don't have the luxury to be moralistic. You wanta stick your nose up at this opportunity, then you're as much of an asshole as that Ron.
"Think about this: if you had some leverage, some real bucks, you'd be able to have something to do with that daughter of yours. She's in Valdez, right?. This is your fucking chance, man. The big Kahoonah has landed on the deck. Slice 'im and dice 'im and sell 'im on the open market. Am I right or am I right?"
"That's what I like about you, Bruce. You never have any ulterior motives; what you see is what you get."
"Thanks. I think." "How much time you got before work?"
"Are you kiddin'? I work when I want. I put in sixteen hours yesterday."
"Well, let's go to the Alaskan and get drunk. I just got here; I gotta clear first."
"All right, there's my bud, now we be talkin'. Wait'll you see these babes."
The two-block long main drag looked like a summer saturday at Coney island. They had to park up on second street. It would've been a fine welcome home party, the bar was packed and he knew quite a few of the characters present, but, the incredible number of gold-rush types still flocking into town depressed him. Ordinarily, the town would be buzzing with preparations for longline season. That would be the main subject of conversation; people would be jockeying for and jumping boats, trying to find the best place to be for the long haul; beers could be had in exchange for tying gangions right there in the bar or in a room upstairs; the energy level would be way up in anticipation of fish to catch and money to make; deckhands, having holed up during the long winter, people whose presence in town had been forgotten, would be coming out of the woodwork. It was actually a very exciting time and marked the official end to the winter.
But now, it was all gone. Nobody was even thinking about fishing. There was excitement, to be sure, but it rankled the seaman's sense of well being, striking a discordant note. He suspected what some of the more mercenary souls saw as good fortune. It covered him with a dank sense of foreboding.
Squeezed in at a large round table reserved for locals, sipping on his first beer, he felt isolated and dismayed. This is not going to be just a break in business-as-usual, he thought. This is going to be a death knell to a way of life and to the community. It had been held together almost since its inception by fishing. There were cliques and rivalries like one might find in any small town, but when help was needed, it was freely given. Now, with the influx of carpet baggers, lawyers, government people, and the extravagant torrent of buy-off money held out like a bunch of carrots, the baser and more reprehensible drives and behavior we humans are capable of would emerge to supersede bonds of trust and loyalty. Friends would become enemies, back-stabbing and deception would become common currency, some would lose what they had held most dear to reach for the golden leaf.
He was witnessing and participating in a celebration of the demise of his home. Beer was not going to be enough this day. As if on cue, Bruce strode to the table and placed a glass of whiskey in front of him.
"Welcome home, bud," he said; the exuberance in the air resonated through him. Bruce was a devout pragmatist and a genuine survivor of the first rank. The seaman knew that in his heart of hearts he was deeply upset and angry at the spoiling of the Sound, but Bruce hardly ever wasted time questioning fate or brooding about matters over which he had no control. It was not his fault, what had happened, and it no doubt saddened him, but he'd be damned if he was going to let any golden eggs slip on by. For this he could not be blamed; he had paid his dues, and then some.
The seaman awoke at daybreak, a habit his body had gotten into after years of sea duty, to find himself on a floor of where, he was uncertain. It was moving, swaying gently to and fro, and creaking like an old wooden boat adrift. He assumed the effect resulted from his unfocused condition and let it go for now. Except for his leather boots, his prize possession, he was fully dressed. He layed still and held his breath, listening carefully, another habit he had gotten into; there were no sounds so he deduced he was not in town. He tried to remember the events of the previous evening, but, true to form, his brain refused service. His mouth was so dry he had to check it with a finger to see if it was covered with something. Anticipating retinal damage, he raised his eyelids a millimeter at a time, waiting at each increment to adjust, then continuing on, waiting for the inevitable pain to set in.
He rested on a plywood floor, a soda-box crate stood nearby holding a kerosene lantern and a much abused ashtray. On the floor beside it was a partially full bottle of Wild Turkey. Mercilessly, there were no windows within sight; thank God for small favors, he thought.
He gently rolled to a sitting position and leaned back against an unoccupied couch he spotted through a rust covered hole in his head where his left eye used to be. Either it had recently contained a body, or he would have to spend some time examining his decision making processes. He still didn't know exactly where he sat in relation to the rest of the world, but at least it was quiet. His body ached in the usual places, more from the miles he had put on it than the night's sleep on the hard floor. Consequently, he quickly dispensed with any further audit. He was alive, kind of; that was all he needed to know.
Groping in his jacket pockets, he withdrew a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter he had not previously owned. He never bought lighters thinking of them as public domain. His mouth could not be drier, so, with the logic of drunks since before time, he reached for the bottle of Turkey to wet his whistle. That done, he fired up a smoke, placed a hand on the couch for support, and rose to the occasion. It was time to reconnoitre.
In front of him, a few feet to his left was a piece of weathered plywood hanging on a couple of rusty hinges masquerading as a door. He deduced that it had once lived outside free and wild but now was serving a purpose for Mankind. In the corner of the room, next to the couch, was an air-tight as cold as a state trooper's heart. He approached the door and was just about to reach for the small hole along one edge that ostensibly worked as the doorknob when he heard footsteps outside. Instinctively, and for no rational reason, he froze. Accompanied by voices, they came up a a brief flight of stairs and, without hesitation, the owners of the footsteps and voices burst into the room.
"Hey, sleeping beauty awakes. How the hell are ya'?" bespoke the first vision of disrepute going by the monacle of Ron S.. The sound of his voice broke the sound barrier. Behind him, Bruce, carrying a case of beer, didn't pause to take in the reunion but rather brushed his way passed Ron to collapse on the couch.
"Let's get a fire going, Christ Almighty, when are you going to get electric heat in here, Bruce? I'm cold," continued Ron as he inspected the air-tight for contents.
"As soon as the 'lectric company runs a line out here. You want a fire, help yourself."
Ron retreated outside. Bruce confided that he was still pissed off at Ron but that if he wanted to take the moral highground, fine, his loss. By the time Bruce had the case open and a cold beer in his hand, Ron was back with an armload of kindling and a few gnarly chunks of spruce. The seaman knew where he was now. He grabbed a can of breakfast and plopped down next to Bruce while Ron busied himself building a fire.
The first swig of beer put him right back on that layer where the present was all. From that perspective, he zeroed in on the problem at hand in a mode he felt appropriate. That is, he figured the only way to deal with a destabilizing situation that would no doubt mushroom into a completely new social order, after the requisite transitional phase of disorder, was to be slightly intoxicated.
Ron, finished with his fire starting duty, grabbed a can of beer, then squatted on the floor assuming his version of a lotus.
No one spoke for a full minute while they let the feelings of friendship space congeal around them. There's always a certain awkwardness in the air at first when friends reunite, the get-reacquainted-by-osmosis- period. This normalcy was tweeked and compounded by the invasion of the outside world in a rather dramatic and time-stream altering way; it could not be denied. How to adapt the friendships at this critical juncture, like a war had broken out in the homeland, was an unwelcome distraction that nonetheless had to be addressed. The pattern had always existed solely in the present; so they wasted no time on trying to resuscitate the old.
Ron was rocking to and fro like he was chanting, only soundlessly. He broke the ice. "Bruce is whoring himself out to Exxon, did he tell you? Driving journalists and government scum, and oil company assholes. Capitalizing on the death of Prince William Sound. No integrity. You gotta believe in somethin,' Bruce. Their money is dirty."
"I DO believe in somethin,' Ron, like croppin' cotton while it's high. There's a hell of a lot of money floating around here; somebody's gonna funnel it into their pocket, might as well be me. That's what my bud's gonna do, ain'tcha?"
The seaman took a long pull on his beer, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I don't know, I don't know, I have to get into town and find out what's going on exactly. I don't know. Ron's right in one respect,..., but so are you, Bruce. I don't know."
"Well, you're crazy if you don't. With your boat operating experience, you could get a contract, or run somebody's boat who has one, or more. We're talkin' hundred of dollars a day, maybe thousands. For doin' practically nothin,' like sittin' at the mouth of some bay doin' radio transfers, or ferrying people around on a gillnetter.
"Kenny got a seven thousand dollar a day contract collectin' grey water on station. Seven thousand PER DIEM. They're going to refit his whole boat besides when the show's over. They got some outfit managing the cleanup dill, but Kenny got his directly from Exxon itself. He was gettin' ready to go longlining when it happened. He let everybody go, his whole crew, except for his son. He didn't hesitate, and he didn't bother to think about THEM. He's an opportunist, he is. That's how the big guys do it, always have. Look out for number one, period."
"Kenny's a whore," Ron said bitterly, as he rose to check the fire.
"Fuck you, Ron. Don't get in on it, I don't care. But don't be comin' around me later on down the rode looking for a loan," Bruce stated flatly, tossing his empty can across the room to bang on the wall.
"Infidels! They're all a bunch of fucking infidels. Tromping around on sacred ground with blood soaked boots and hearts of stone. Like maggots crawling through dead meat. I hope the bears get 'em. That'll show the sons-a- bitches where the hell they are. Lowlife pieces of shit."
"The beaches are already covered; there's nothin' anybody can do about it now. Somebody's gotta clean it up. Exxon did it, let them pay through the fuckin' nose. What's wrong with that?"
"It'll never be cleaned up. They can't do it; they don't have the means or the knowhow. This is all just a show for the media, for the dumbfuck masses. It's not cleanupable. Exxon knows that and I know that and you oughta know it too. Money can't buy self-respect, Bruce."
"No, money buys time, Ron. Time to do whatever you want, freedom, that's what money can buy. The fat cats don't never have respect for guys like us anyway. So let's buy them, lock and stock and they can wear the barrel."
"What do you care what the fat cats think? They're all a bunch of ignorant self-centered assholes. The fat cats are the ones who caused this mess in the first place, it's the way they do business. I came here to get away from those mother fuckers, and now, look what they've done!"
"You're thickheaded. It's over, Ron. Paradise lost. We've been invaded; the whole world knows this place is here now. It'll never be the same. It's over." The seaman felt his insides constrict slightly at the tone of this conversation. It was already happening, he thought. A civil war, brother against brother, over oil money. The same cutthroats who, by sheer negligence and greed, had caused and were causing the destruction of their home and way- of-life were dividing and conquering. What he was watching and hearing was symptomatic, fractionalization of a society, dissipation of allegiances, straining of relationships. Reducing and degrading respect for self and unself by appealing to mob instincts. He could see no recovery, hypocrisy would undermine the fibers of self-reliance and acceptance. Social disintegration then restructuring, but what, if anything, would survive into the new order? Could they, as a community, return to the old ways? Or would the complex pattern of relationships reconfigure unrecognizably, leaving the past behind forever? There would be winners and there would be losers and there would be lingering bitterness.
He could find no words; all he could feel was anger and resentment at what he believed would be an irretrievable loss. At this he was no stranger.
He reached for the Turkey, took a swig, then handed the bottle to Bruce. The bourbon loosened his tongue; there were too many choices, all bad, from his point of view.
"Let's not let this thing get in the way of friendship. It's going to do a lot of damage that way, you know. We're all survivors here, let's not lose our heads. We've been living outside of society forever, so that won't be much of a factor. It's a wave, a wave of destruction; we need to ride it out like good seamen."
The fire crackled in the air-tight; the room warmed. They sat and drank, saying nothing, self-absorbed.
Gunshots suddenly ripped through their meditations. No one jumped. Another shot, sounding like a rifle maybe a hundred yards away.
"What in the fuck...? started the seaman.
Bruce and Ron laughed with secret knowledge. Tension in the room broke; nothing rebinds estranged friends faster than a mutual outside consideration, like a natural disaster, or gunshots. "Tommy's got a new toy," Ron said, smiling. Tommy lived in an old school bus down near the lagoon. Just the thought of him was enough to remind the three of how sane they actually were and on what ground they stood.
Ron had risen to stand by the stove, warming his ass. "Ah, fuck it, Bruce. I don't care what you do. We got nothin' to base this on."
Turning to face the seaman, he said, pointing and shaking his index finger, "As for you, bub, there's a chess game up at my place with your name on it. Whenever you feel ready, that is. Take your time, I know you must be scared. It's all right, I'll make it painless. I'm going to go paint, I'm going to go paint the Sound before it's gone."
With that Ron left. Bruce was already fumbling with his tape player before the door closed. Sounds of 'SADE' filled the space. With a minor flourish, he materialized a joint from the air itself.
"Ready for some hangover medicine? Let's smoke this and head into town, get something to eat. I know you need coffee. Here, that's my lighter you got there, clepto, fire this sucker up," he said, as he handed over the joint. The seaman decided to feel his way through this whole mess. No matter what he resolved to do based on rationality, he knew he would regret it.
"I got one question: does this cabin sway in the breeze or am I hallucinating?"
"Yea, there's no foundation, it's nailed at each corner to four trees. When the wind blows, they sway back and forth and so do the cabin. Cool, huh? Like being on a boat. And yes, you are hallucinating; your life is one long hallucination. Smoke."
Hundreds of billions of galaxies occupy the Universe. Of these, our galaxy, the Milky Way, is a spiral of average size composed of a hundred billion suns. Our solar system presently resides somewhere in the Capricorn arm, about a third of the distance to the edge. Of it, the planet Earth places third from the center. On its crust is a parcel of property known as Prince William Sound. Three major communities have beach-front property here: Valdez, Whittier, and Cordova, with a combined population of less than 10,000. On this day in April of 1989, the entire Universe had decided to visit.
The restaurants were jammed so they went to the Alaskan for beverages instead. The crowd was amiable but appeared intent on various missions from God, in this case, the god of money. The air was filled with talk of deals, both good and bad, of deals that had soured, of deals that had been missed by inches, and of deals yet to be.
Immediately following the spill, those who were able and ready jumped into their boats with volunteer crews and raced to the scene to do whatever they could to thwart and circumscribe the impending disaster. They were heroes, awestruck and shocked at the magnitude of devastation about to be unleashed on their home. This impressive and uncorrupted atmosphere of community action, nobly motivated, expired to die a depreciated death as though it too had become enveloped in the sticky dark brown crude. Exxon began handing out contracts, outrageously huge contracts, to whoever held his hand out. All you needed was a boat, and the more boats you had, the more contracts you could get, hiring others to run them.
Gold-rush fever took over; greed supplanted altruism; family superseded all ties with community. It was easy enough to rationalize: fishing for herring, bottom fish, shrimp, and salmon would not take place this year. And no one was willing to speculate on the future; the degree of destruction to fish habitat could not be assessed reasonably at these early stages.
Jokes were already being made that a spill should be arranged periodically to boost the economy at down times. People were flocking in from all over of the world: Australia, France, Japan, even New Jersey. It was difficult not to get caught up in the festival atmosphere in spite of daily news that its sponsor was busy killing wildlife and ruining beaches, salmon spawn areas, and tidal zones; and that this killing zone was expanding and spreading out beyond the Sound to the Pacific Ocean and the Kenai Peninsula, a great gooey plague leaving death and destruction in its wake. And the people celebrated, not all of them, but enough, this 'Dance of Death' to a worldwide audience.
Some owners of commercial fishing boats, previously looking forward to long seasons, were now in a position to realize millionaire-hood with appreciably less effort and no expense. It was the chance of a lifetime, never likely to come again. So they went for it, balls to the wall, like sharks at a feeding frenzy.
Lawyers were throwing up shingles wherever they could find an empty storefront, alcove or hole in the wall. Fishermen who had never before heard the term 'class action' were enthusiastically spouting legaleze like they had just discovered the secret language of the gods. In the middle of this pile were those who felt sick at what they saw as a bribe, but, what the hell, everybody else was climbing on, and the job would still get done, somehow, so, what the hell. A few of the recipients of the most inflated contracts confessed to confidantes, always a risky business in a small town, to having been expressly told by Exxon's people not to divulge what they witnessed to any journalists or government people. Exxon's PR machine was evidently working hard to try to keep a lid on the unlidable. It was debatable what was more disheartening, the spectacle of mass destruction and death, or the efforts by Exxon to, control public opinion, evade the image of an indifferent and purely mercenary multinational corporation, and, focus the limelight on a scapegoat.
We are very, very rich, and we are here to help you, just keep your mouths shut and take the money. "... your peer group." Bruce had been trying to talk above the din of other voices and juke-box noise.
"What?"
"I was saying, listen would ya,' there's guys all over town looking for skipper types, that's your peer group. Bear dropped his herring contract to get on with Exxon. He's got three other boats and he's looking for people to run 'em. Go talk to him."
Herring season had just begun when the disaster struck. Historically, it had been an extremely lucrative fishery. A purse seiner could make tens of thousands of dollars in one set, if the roe count was right. It would not be happening in the Sound this year, maybe not in the future either, no one knew. There was no precedent on which to base any forecasting.
Crewmen from herring boats and longliners were jumping ship as fast as they could pack and leap. There were no misgivings or remorse, no guilt. Skippers were firing crews left and right to take contracts, so crewmen felt zero loyalty. It was every man for himself; the streets to Exxon's local headquarters, fronted by an oil cleanup management outfit that shall go nameless, were lined with gold.
The seaman sat at the bar, ignoring the tumult around him. He was absorbed in another world entirely. What could be going on in Valdez, he wondered, if this circus was happening here?
He couldn't help but overhear a fresh-faced new arrival to Alaska deriding how stupid he found fishermen to be. He was bragging about how much more he knew than the ones he'd met and yet, he complained, they made more money than he ever did during summer vacations from some university back east. It just wasn't right, he went on.
Diffuse waves of uncertainty and disorientation flattened to coalesce into a single vibrant chord. The seaman remembered why he had left that boy's world. He knew that such shallow arrogance and naive conceit was not exactly rampant, there were many college kids who manned the crews of seiners in the summer, for one, but it was the direction he had been heading. And, it had been common enough among the upper echelon to eventually force a choice in allegiance to emerge, an allegiance to human worth based on a whole other set of values, values that had to do with such things as character, acceptance, strength, compassion, and the courage to do what was right in spite of everything, or because of it.
Abruptly, he stood, placing both hands on the edge of the bartop. "What's up, doc?" Bruce asked, looking somewhat concerned.
After a pause, "Nothin,' I need to go for a walk is all, check things out, I'll catch up with you later." With that, he finished his beer, turned on his heal and strode briskly through the noisy crowd to the sidewalk. He pulled up short at the curb. People were all over the place, a few he recognized and waved or nodded depending on the degree of familiarity. After a full minute of taking in the parade, he made his way down to the harbor to walk the docks.
He couldn't guess at the number of boats from out of state. Washington, Oregon and California, to be expected, but there were also boats from as far away as New Bedford and Panama. He walked to the end of one finger and sat down, feeling like a stranger in his own adopted town. An almost overwhelming urge to leave filled him with its peculiar sense of lightness and freedom; but he had done that once too often in the past when things had gotten tough, so he quickly and ruthlessly tossed it aside.
An argument broke out nearby on the deck of a power scow. Appreciating the distraction, he leaned into it. Apparently, the skipper was having heated words with a crewman about to take his leave. Something to the effect that the ship jumper would never work on his boat again, and that he had no respect for commitment, and good riddance, and so forth in the same vein.
When the smoke had cleared, the seaman, recognizing the scow as local, approached the fuming yet somewhat dejected skipper standing in the middle of the deck, lost. He was a large, powerful looking man, so the seaman stepped lightly. He spoke softly, as though to someone berieved.
"I understand you might be in need of crew?"
The skipper turned sharply, a ferocious expression canceled all escape routes. Both men stood stock still for a spatial time, taking one another in. Finally, the skipper pronounced, "That's right, you have good ears, what else do you have?"
"A reason to live, or at least I thought so before I stepped over here."
The skipper laughed at this impertinence. The seaman felt relieved; things could have very easily gone the other way.
"Here's the situation. I have a herring tendering contract I don't intend to break. The Sound is closed which is why I'm in port. But it's opening in Cook Inlet in a few days and after that, Togiak. My two crewmen jumped to clean beaches or birds or kiss ass or some shit. Tenderers are dropping out too, so the competition is down; there's a chance we can make some money. Have you ever tendered herring before?"
"No. I've tendered salmon here in the Sound and the flats for five years, running my own boat. And I've longlined for ten; trolled and seined for a few. I've worked and done my share of wheel watches on power scows too. I'm no greenhorn."
"You had your own boat? Where is it now?"
"Gone but not forgotten. I lost it along with a lot of other stuff up in Valdez."
"I hear ya.' Say no more. Well, tendering herring is no big deal. You just gotta be fast when shit starts happening; and no mistakes. How are you at giving your word?"
"Giving it's one thing, keeping it, another. It's always been my downfall, and why I'm not rich."
"OK. I'll take that as an affirmative. I have to tell you that I'm an asshole to work for, and I promise you'll see country you won't ever want to see again. Ever been to Toksook Bay?"
"Nope, never even heard of it."
"Good, you'll hate it just fine. It never gives you a break, and if you screw up, you're screwed up. I would like to leave tomorrow, if that's convenient. We're fueled; all we need are groceries. My brother-in-law and my girlfriend are coming along. Don't ask. Be here tomorrow before ten. That's ten in the morning. OK?"
"Sounds delightful. OK. I'll be here. Thanks."
"We'll see if you thank me after it's over," the skipper laughed. He walked back to the bar entertaining his usual doubts, misgivings and mixed emotions. What the hell was he getting himself into? What was he passing up? Bruce was right about leverage. There was money to be made right here in River City. Why go to no-man's land with an admitted asshole when he might be able to sit the season out running his own gig?
He had no answers, at least not any that assuaged his longings. Not even his shadow self would offer any counsel; that alone made him suspicious. Maybe he was aching to do more penance? Or put the object of his desire even further away? Or maybe he just wanted to get out from under all the bullshit to do something real and clean and meaningful?
He had pledged to himself that he wouldn't approach the current quagmire with anything resembling reason; and yet, here he was, trying to understand his motives and surmise the consequences thereof. He couldn't help it; he had stopped trusting his feelings some time hence; but reason offered no clarity or reassurance. He was on his own; and for better or worse, he was going for it.
When he got to the bar he was relieved to find that Bruce was gone. He reclaimed the same stool he had left only moments ago, it seemed. The crowd had thinned out considerably; must be feeding time at the trough, he mused. Withdrawing into himself, he fell into that familiar comfort zone where night and day were indistinguishable. It was a safe place to be; he imagined that nothing more could harm him when there. He could brood and pretend and make plans that would never be. It was his own personal insanity, a private world that only he knew about; everything else seemed so public and tarnished and worn. He fabricated innocence where none existed.
He sensed, rather than saw or heard, someone take the stool next to him. He had been looking the other way, through the window at the passersby.
"Are you from here? I arrived yesterday and this town is so strange. You look like a fisherman, are you?" came a voice sounding like dewy rose petals on a spring morn.
The seaman turned to gaze into the cheerful hazel eyes of the smiling blonde woman sitting next to him. He blinked and caught his breath. It was a knee-jerk reaction. Immediately he felt self-conscious for having done so; and then felt self-conscious for having felt self-conscious. His mind cascaded involuntarily. He deftly stepped sideways, metaphorically speaking, to let this psychic house of cards that was growing like a malignant out-of-control crystal crumble to the hard wood floor.
She smiled at his attempt to cover his tracks. He felt vulnerable like a butterfly pinned to a diary. This is not a slut or a coke whore, he told himself without benefit of words. Talk, say something, anything, be light, nothing heavy, don't force it, relax, be yourself, be nobody, empty your heart, be witty, no, don't be pretentious, want for nothing, SAY SOMETHING!
"Yes,..., I am." He had thought to sound serious and mature, congenial but not overly solicitous, suave yet not oily; but he couldn't help but break into a wide teenager grin at the end. He was overwhelmed and he knew it and he didn't care one iota if she knew it. It was too late to be cool; he had never been very good at it anyway.
The sound of his voice seemed strangely unfamiliar. But it worked to reveal and expose a deep stagnant chord that had not been strummed since before the Great Dissolution that sent him on his odyssey. It was like a withered arm suddenly being asked to throw a football a hundred yards without even a warm-up. The rusted gears desperately sought to come alive; but all he could do was unabashedly show his appreciation for the mere fact that she had chosen to sit next to him. For some reason, that seemed to be sufficient.
Kindly having waited for him to collect himself, she went on, "I'm from Charlotte, North Carolina? I'm very disturbed by what's happened here. You must be extremely upset at this calamity; it's heartbreaking, all those otters and birds covered with oil. Oh, it makes me so mad. I can only imagine how it must make you feel."
He drank in the sound of her voice like every cliche you ever heard about a man dying of thirst; it soothed his nerves in mysterious ways at once sensuous and inexplicable. He had never imagined he would want a woman to just talk, about anything, anything and nothing, but here he was, trying to think of something to say that would give her reason to continue.
"Charlotte? What's it like in Charlotte?"
She smiled at his obviousness, apparently finding it pleasing and not at all dismissive. She warmed even more, her aura oozed into the battered and desolate fringes of his metallic boundaries. He could smell the sweetness of her skin from a foot away; and her full lips, he watched them expectantly, reveling in their every move, feeling rushes of pleasure as they did. He had never seen another woman sip soda through a straw in quite the way she was doing it.
He fought to remain open; the pressure to collapse and withdraw into himself everpresent, specters of his lost life dancing on the periphery of his awareness. He would have none of it; it was a remnant, a crippling injury that would not heal or go away. Rage and bitter resentment dallied at the edges, shedding unforgiving light on the warmth he now felt, leaving lingering traces of their cold, damp passage as they rose and fell in a futile attempt to take control. They talked about everything and nothing for the better part of an hour. He was remembering words and phrases he had forgotten he ever knew. He was inspired, and brooked no nonsense within the confines of the bubble of space he forcefully generated to enclose them. She excused herself finally to return to her hotel room to make an important phone call, she said. They arranged to meet for dinner. He stood when she did and helped her with the light jacket that had been draped over her lap. He was pleased at her height, long trim legs in tight jeans, hair down her back almost to her butt. He watched her leave, every step. It was exhilarating.
Out of sight, he turned to face the huge mirror on the wall behind the bar. His face looked unfamiliar to him, softer toned and ten years younger. This is a gift from the gods, he thought. He sat for a long time, pleased with himself, refusing to allow the minor problem of the oil spill to dislodge his concentration, or interfere with the anticipated rendezvous. Nothing else mattered now, nothing. This was a gold nugget in a sea of shit.
Finishing his beer, smiling like the Cheshire, he strode vigorously out of town to the Cove, weaving through the horde of strangers with the expertise of a big city dweller, covering the two miles effortlessly. He could be anywhere now, in any city, in any town, in any part of the world. These were just people, who knew what they did or believed in, it was none of his business.
When he arrived at Bruce's tree house, there was a rowdy party going on; The Dysfunctional Society of Alaska, Cordova Branch, was apparently having its annual picnic. People he hadn't as yet visited welcomed him back, toasting to the madness that surrounded them. He told no one of his delightful encounter; he knew on what level this news would be appreciated; and he would not have her degraded.
Enjoying the moment, temporarily detached from the tidal forces of the past, he suddenly pulled up short. Oh my God, he thought, I have to leave tomorrow. Jesus God in heaven almighty, what have I done? WHAT have I DONE? This shift in gears did not go unnoticed by Ron S..
"What gives, big guy?" Ron asked blearily.
"Oh, nothin,' just the end of the world. Truth, beauty and the American way. Fuck, shit, piss, and, might I add, FUCK."
"Ahhh, I can see, my friend, I can see. Something good happened, and then something bad came in on top of it to steal it away. When are you going to stop that shit. It's a habit, forget the past for awhile, forever, let it go."
"It's not that, not what you think, although the first thing you said was right on. I met this beautiful woman in town, see, and I made a deal to leave tomorrow to go herring tendering out west. Fuck, man. This is another trick of the gods. Always fucking with me, always, when are they going to let me be? Huh,..., Ron,..., what am I, some special experiment. The worthless bastards."
"Hey, now, be careful, they hear all, you know."
"I don't care, fuck 'em.
"Well, I got a date this evening so I'm going to go over to Larry's, see if I can get cleaned up, change these clothes. I don't know, I'm disgusted. But I'm not going to let it interfere with tonight. No siree."
"I'm glad you're goin' tendering; get out of this snake pit. Fuck those Exxon assholes; they've ruined everything," he said, raising his voice at the end provocatively.
Ron was about to go off on a drunken tirade; it was time to leave; sparks would be flying soon. He grabbed his duffel from the back of Bruce's truck parked out by the road and hitched a ride into town with the next beer-run. He was decidedly unhappy with the turn of events; but it felt perversely to be normal, for him. He toyed with the idea of lying his way out of the tendering gig. But true to form, he was attacked on two fronts simultaneously. One informed that all he had left anymore was his word, his only valuable in a cynical world. The other let him know, with that creepy sense of the supernatural at work, that if he did what he really wanted to do, all hell would break loose, and the worst that could happen would.
He bailed out when they made their stop at the first liquor store they came to. Larry lived with his two small children on the other side of town, so he had to walk the main drag again. This time the crowd didn't appear so guiltless or friendly. He shook it and forged on, occasionally bumping into an acquaintance. But the Fates were working overtime today.
Don't make promises you can't keep, he reminded himself. Or don't make promises, period. Everybody else is cutting out for himself; how do they do that? How are they able to just decide to take their lives into their own hands and to hell with what anybody thinks, to hell with the consequences? They're leaving one unsure situation for another equally unsure but with promise of greater reward. But isn't that the lifestyle; isn't that how I've been living all these years? I thought I got out from under all this soul searching bullshit?
It's like, there's this thin film separating me from that freedom, that selfness; a force field covering a threshold, a portal, a doorway, right in front of me, all the time, and yet, I have to abandon something, I don't know what, in order to do it. You have to pick your spots and take risks in the big game; and this big game is called Life.
He walked gruffly down the side of the street between the parked vehicles and those driving on the road. He had no patience for the sidewalk fair. He needed room; and he intended to have it. No one got in his way. He felt like fifty pounds of cement in a five pound bag.
He was passing the Alaskan when he heard a voice directed his way. His new-found skipper was trying to wave him down. He stopped, the skipper was on the sidewalk in front of the bar, the seaman stood in the street with his black canvas duffel bag strung over his left shoulder. The sun was shining in the eyes of the skipper; it wasn't high noon, but it felt like it.
They eyed one another for a long second; they come that way sometimes. The seaman felt the air around him stiffen; he breathed deeply and opened himself to it; it went through him and around him. He could walk, he told himself; he could just turn and walk on down the road right this second. But that second wouldn't come.
"We've got a slight change of plans," the skipper croaked out, as though he was having trouble controlling air flow, "I've been trying to find you. I want to catch this evening's tide; otherwise it's uphill all the way to Kennedy Passage."
The seaman's heart dropped a good six inches. There it was, laid out, the crossroads of insanity. All he had to say was, No, I've changed my mind; I was too hasty and suffering emotional confusion at the time; I need to think about things before I jump into anything. In any event, I simply don't want to, period. But he didn't.
"OK. When do we leave?" was all he asked.
"My girlfriend's gettin' groceries right now," the skipper said, more strongly, finding his confidence renewed, "when she's done she'll come down here and we can go down to the boat, put 'em away, untie, and go."
The seaman was nailed; he didn't like it; but he had given his word. Nonetheless, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being manipulated by some programmed principle. A principle among similar principles that were, at least partly, responsible for the existence of the shadow, and for what he saw as cowardice and weakness on his behalf.
To be a slave to anything is wrong, he told himself; then why does it feel like a mark of honor? 'I will do what I say I'm going to do.' That is the sentiment of everyone I've ever respected through history. It has to mean something; no matter how difficult or undesirable it might be. But it's 'I will do what I say I'm going to do' with the emphasis on the 'I.' I, me, I, me, I, me.
He was on the verge of breaking out from his script, from his confinement on a page of somebody's novel; but the leap was too great, too risky, too uncertain. He still had not sufficiently analyzed his past. He was not yet ready.
Somewhere along the line, he shifted into his seaman head, walling out all land-based concerns. He thought about her, the woman he had met that day. Should he leave a message at her hotel? Could he expect someone like her to still be available when he got back in two months? Not bloody likely.
He went through the motions with his new skipper, and, after securing the boat for sea duty, as the sun was beginning to set, they headed out after it.