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  Hank leaned out the window to those on the bow. “Get fishing. Quietly.”

  “You got it, Boss,” rumbled Mo in his best approximation of a whisper, and hurried aft. Hank heard gear clank almost immediately, and glanced through the back window to see Seth buckling the suspenders of his oilskins as he sprinted over the stacked net to the skiff. Good crew.

  “Boss. . .” Ham, still on the bow, hesitated with the frown that Hank had begun to recognize meant his new man faced a problem. Jody gestured Ham ahead of her. He left obediently, but climbed at once to the wheelhouse.

  Hank paced, eager to fish. “You’re second skiff man, Ham. Better get out there.”

  Ham’s head brushed the wheelhouse ceiling so that he hunched his thick shoulders automatically. It made him look as uncertain as his voice. “Boss . . . Sir . . . ?”

  “What? What?”

  “You know things better than I do, sir. But, other seasons at least. . . ?” He indicated the raised skipper’s chair where the urn with Jones Henry’s ashes had rested the day before and where Jones himself had sat peering ahead for years. “Captain Jones . . . No disrespect, sir . . . I’m really grateful you’ve took me in your crew, I mean, really . . . but Captain Jones made something of he’d never put out his net before six in the morning if it was a Monday, like right now. Don’t ask me why. Like he’d sure never leave port on a Friday, so we’d wait until one minute after midnight into Saturday morning. I just thought you ought to know, being this is Captain Jones’s boat. Was his. Sir. And what with adding a lady who works on deck—Captain Jones would never even let one on his boat. Not like I’m superstitious like the old-timers, sir, but. . .”

  Hank wanted to laugh but found his throat tightening. To gain a moment, he said lightly, “Stop calling me sir. I’m not much older than you.” Further sounds of preparation came from aft. Seth in the skiff and Terry, Mo, and Jody by the winch all looked up at the wheelhouse, waiting and ready. There to starboard leapt a jumper. Time to move, not talk. “Take it like this, Ham. You and I put Jones’s ashes in that water yesterday. Now look at all the fish coming our way. Don’t you think Jones down there’s helping push them toward us? So I’d say he’s okay with what we’re doing. In the skiff if you’re going.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Seconds to let Ham bound to the skiff. Another salmon leapt with a loud splash. “Ho!” Hank shouted. Mo’s mallet hit the release, the hook clanged open, and the skiff glided off in the direction of Hank’s arm. He wanted to dance, indeed, hopped in place. The net, with one end attached to the skiff, swished from deck to the bump of its corks, and payed out between skiff and boat with corks floating a beaded line. All of it was action that cleared the cobwebs.

  His tight gaze stayed where he’d last seen the fish jump, while his arm directed the skiff and its lengthening line of corks. Like breath itself, the way his body felt the motions. From shoulder to knees he nudged the skiff. His hands held the unseen fish in place while he pictured the wall of net beneath the corks slowly encircling them.

  Voices and clanks of skiff-launch came from other boats in the bay. The day’s race had begun! Quick check on his own deck below: Terry straightened gear and shipshaped. Jody at the plunger smacked the cupped heavy shaft into the water with an expert touch, creating the noise and bubbles that scared fish into the net. Poor Mo stood beside her, hands out, wishing to take over the job. She pulled no rank as skipper’s wife—no, she did, or Mo would have had the plunger. Determined to prove she could still crew her weight, and doing so. He enjoyed the sight of Jody reverted to the boatwise woman she’d been before they’d married.

  A first touch of sunlight over the mountains spiked gleams on their yellow and green oilskins. Out in the skiff, Ham’s arms pumped steadily at the plunger. Good man, but heavier and more eager than skilled. Instruct him later to pop that cup deliberately for max effect. (Spare him having Jody demonstrate.) Seth hunched at the tiller both calm and alert, an old hand at it like Hank, even though in recent years they’d worked pots together rather than a seine. He should wean Seth into his own command, he thought, not just Hank Crawford’s deck boss and relief skipper. Release him for his own good despite the need then to find a new mate whose sea-sense bent with his own. It was not the first time the thought had occurred.

  Back on deck Jody had relinquished the plunger to Mo and stood with Terry. The little guy—no taller than Jody though he pulled full weight at work—was showing her how to coil. He spun an arm’s length of line with his hand, flipped it into a natural circle, and dropped it symmetrically on top of the other coils. Made a cheerful joke when she did it clumsily, so that she laughed also and kept at it. Nice man. He alone didn’t seem threatened by Jody’s presence aboard.

  Jumper again, farther from the boat. Whether a single fish or betrayer of a school, it was moving away. Hank circled his arm in the air for Seth to see, then called to deck: “Roundhaul! Coming in.” Seth’s skiff slowly pulled the cork line into a wide circle and headed with it back to the boat. Mo on deck thrust the plunger furiously, while Terry and Jody waited at the rail to receive the skiff’s line.

  The few sets yesterday after the spreading of Jones’s ashes had honed them, and the operation progressed teamlike. Ham leapt from the skiff, where Seth remained, to join Terry on purse lines at the winch. Mo kept plunging. The taut circle of net still in the water had loosened into an uneven float of corks. Seth caught a line from the boat, and gunned his skiff to hold the boat free of entanglement in the seine. Jody first hosed some seaweed from deck, then waited to strap the net line over the power block when the time came. They were jobs that the others would have absorbed routinely, Hank knew as he watched. Jody was one hand more than needed.

  Time to stack. As the net rose dripping through the power block overhead, Ham took center position to distribute web. Mo hurried to the corks so firmly after stowing the plunger that he must have feared Jody would grab his job again. Jody instead headed starboard to the rings, possessively, leaving Terry idle. He shrugged in good humor. Hank de-bated. The guy was smart enough to handle a boat, and needed experience. “Okay, Terry, you take over the controls here from me.”

  Hank retreated to the wheelhouse, odd man now himself, restlessly watching. But when the rings snagged on the shaft—routine problem— he jumped to deck for hands on rope and metal.

  “Didn’t you think I could handle that?” Jody’s tone had the edge that Hank knew could take the matter in directions easy or tense.

  “Gives the old man something to do, honey.” (Why, after all, hadn’t she stayed home with the kids?) He glanced casually. Had his guys caught that edge in her voice? Terry looked away discreetly: yes. Other boats circled nearby, all of them now geared for the day and scouting fish. Two boats hovered within earshot to assess the Adele FTs haul. From the bridge of the Hinda Bee, old Gus Rosvic, former buddy of Jones Henry, watched in silence, as did his crew on deck below. Did they see a skipper in charge, or a fellow run by his wife?

  “Puttin’ the old lady to work, eh, Hank?” called a man Hank’s age and build from the bridge of the Sleepthief Two.

  “Keeps her out of trouble.”

  “Haay Jody.”

  “Hi, Jeff.” Jody continued placing net rings on the pole as they dangled free from the power block overhead. She grabbed each with the correct twist that lined them for the next set, keeping pace and rhythm.

  “Rumor’s all over the fleet, you know. About Jones Henry’s widow? Now that she owns the boat you’re on, the rumor is she’s going to make Jody the skipper.”

  Hank laughed. “How rumors fly. From a joke yesterday, eh, honey? We were leaving the Kodiak dock to bring Jones’s ashes over here, and there was discussion over Jody’s coming along.”

  “Ohh, discussion; yes, we heard. OF Jones never let even his wife come aboard, did he?”

  Jody grinned as she worked without losing pace. “Come back in a week or two, Jeff.”

  What’s that mean? wondered Hank.


  Watching them from the other boat, Gus Rosvic shook his head. Hank knew him well enough to know what he was thinking. An old-timer of the Slav generation from Anacortes. Face all scowl lines and leather under a faded Greek fisherman’s cap. His Hinda Bee, painted mostly gray, looked well kept but as glum as its skipper and as stolid as the husky younger crewmen watching from deck. Gus had hung out with Jones Henry. The fleet joked over the two old skippers, both good at their game, bitching over beers about the Japs and everything else wrong in the world. Too bad, Hank decided. Let him stare. People would have to get used to a woman on deck.

  “Hey, man,” called Ham to one of the crew, Buddy or something. Bud muttered a return but looked away.

  Whether Hank cared or not, he was glad when the Hinda Bee circled and left. Left, in fact, straight through other boats and out of sight. So be it, thought Hank. We’ll keep distance between us if that helps.

  The set came aboard. About a hundred fifty humpies, neither bad nor spectacular. “Ahh, now,” called Jeff. “We made five-buck bets on Jody being aboard. Whether it meant you’d plug the net or water-haul. Nobody thought to bet for in between. Come on, Jody. My fin was for you.”

  “And which of you put five that I’d sink the boat?”

  Jeffs crewmen around him laughed, but not as if it were out of the question. “Come on, Jody, we’re not that superstitious.” The Sleepthief Two moved off.

  The encounters left Hank with a sudden feeling of malaise. He pretended to be hearty as he sent the others in for breakfast rather than set again at once. “After all, we’re on vacation.”

  “You sick or something?” Seth called from the skiff. He tied astern and strode up over the net, then lowered the bill of his cap and threw back his head in a way that had become his gesture. “When did you start calling mealtimes when we’re on the fish?”

  “Gettin’ old and lazy.” In truth, he’d begun to shake from fatigue like the day before, although he concealed it. Still not recovered from the disaster. Jody watched him closely. “I’m going up and look at the charts,” he muttered to cover. “Too many boats now crowding us here.”

  Jody followed him to the wheelhouse. “You look as spaced out as in the hospital. Lie down a while and let Seth—”

  “No, no. I’m fine.” He watched over the water to avoid facing her. The Sleepthief Two, not far away, had just released the skiff pulling its end of seine through the water. “Just give me a few minutes to myself, honey.”

  “Why don’t you stop calling me honey.” She said it lightly.

  “Come on, you are my honey.”

  “Out here today I’m your crewman.”

  Ten years ago, when they had fished together, her name would have been Jody. Three years ago he’d have not seen her point, but now: “Got it. But. . . just give me a little space. Okay?”

  She studied him, nodded. “Got it.”

  When she was gone he hurried to the captain’s chair by the controls, put the clutch in neutral, and closed his eyes for only a minute. A comfortable buzz settled over him like a veil. He woke to the sound of laughs below and the smell of bacon. Close by in the water the Sleepthief Two’s net rose like a sail over the power block, dripping water over the guys stacking it. They’d made a full set, so at least a half hour must have passed, maybe more.

  Boats were everywhere in various stages of seining. He eased the engine into gear and glided gently among them, avoiding their nets. Maybe below they hadn’t noticed. Now, indeed, he needed to find uncrowded water.

  Jody joined him, holding two mugs of coffee. “Awake now?”

  He laughed, rose, hugged and held her. “Did I at least fool the others?”

  “Mo and Ham for a while, I guess. They’re so innocent and trusting, and Mo was busy doing breakfast. Seth knew right away. He’s hot to fish like you are usually. Without me there, he’d have been up here shaking you.” She lowered her voice. “Is Seth getting out of hand? I know he’s always been scratchy.”

  “No problem. Leave that between Seth and me.”

  “Well, I’d say it’s time for him to marry and get a boat of his own. He’s beginning to challenge you too much.”

  Hank tried to lighten it. “Shall I tell him that?”

  She ignored him, and settled on top of the cabinet by the captain’s chair. “Terry, now, simply made a joke of the boss’s nap. He’s good to have around.”

  “Okay, hon . . . Jody. Okay.” Shouldn’t be talking about his guys with all of them just below.

  “It’s a nice boat. Do you think it handles well?”

  Where was this leading?

  “You know, Ham was Jones Henry’s skiff man formerly.” She seemed to speak casually. “Why don’t you let him handle skiff?”

  “And put my senior man Seth on plunger? Come on.”

  “No. Give Seth the wheel. He runs the Jody Dawn for you off season. Let him skipper this. You know you need a rest.” A pause. “I’ll go as Ham’s skiff man. Learn new tricks.”

  Hank was glad that a clearing had opened in the water. It allowed him to gun the engine to a throb that precluded talk, and to peer ahead without facing her. Birds parted gracefully from his bow. The boat rounded a spit, past a beach with board-and-tin shacks. “Setnet camp,” he said, glad for diversion. “Wonder who runs it?” She didn’t answer. Farther along, two bears lumbered through a stream pawing fish. “Look. Bears. Competition.” Silence.

  He reached a cove removed from other boats that he remembered from working with Jones Henry, and reluctantly slowed the engine.

  “Hank, you may as well hear me.” Her voice was deliberate. “I’m going to take Adele Henry’s invitation seriously. You go back to your big Jody Dawn and do whatever you promised the Japanese you’d do. I’ll captain this boat. I want you to break me in.”

  He kept his back toward her to hide his expression, but said quietly, “What of three kids at home, Jody?”

  Her voice remained reasonable. “Adele would love to take them for the summer. Now that Jones is gone, it’ll give her purpose until she pulls her life together. And the salmon run slows in September in time for school, then stops until next June. Besides, Henny’s nearly eight. He can ride aboard and—”

  He faced her with no attempt to lower his voice or mask his agitation. “When my son’s ready to fish, he’s going with me! That’s mine, my job. No harm for you to keep the kids in a fish camp earlier this summer before Jones died. I didn’t like it much, but it was on land and you needed your freedom, you said. But when my son . . .”

  They stared at each other. Her gathered battle expression that he knew well—wide mouth pursed and eyes cool—eased without losing direction. “All right, Hank. Got it.” She took his face in her hands and her voice softened. “I understand. Our sons are yours to teach on the boat.” She kissed him and turned away lightly. “But don’t forget your daughter.”

  He relaxed, started to joke that Dawn could remain her mom’s project, thought better of it.

  “Now,” continued Jody, businesslike, “that leaves breaking me in to skipper this boat for Adele.”

  “Hold on, I haven’t—”

  “Terry’s already taken me down to the engine room and shown me—”

  “Terry did that?”

  “Terry even said he could crew with a lady skipper if it was me.”

  “Terry said that?”

  “Don’t worry, I wrung it out of him. Now, I know my way around boats but I’m rusty. And I’ve never taken command; there’s always been you or somebody else in charge. One thing—I need to understand the skiff part of seining better. Come to think of it, I really ought to go out with Seth instead of Ham since Seth’s the expert deck man.”

  “Like to see you wring him.”

  “Then, of course—especially—I’ll need to spend time with you in the wheelhouse. But do you think Ham would come crew for me? Just for the rest of the summer, of course. It is the boat he knows since he worked for Jones. And I know you took him on out of kindness, extra
man you don’t need.”

  She won’t be home to cook my meals, he thought. And what will the guys say all along the docks? He faced her, trim and determined, and saw the Jody he’d chased and married nine years ago. Be honest: he’d urged and pursued her. She had often refused because she didn’t want to be tied down, the independent woman who crewed on boats as she chose and didn’t want kids. Now she’d raised him three wonderful children, done it with love and care. “Well, hon . . . Jody. I guess we’d better work it out.” He started to consider. Ham could go if he was willing—he was extra for the moment. But she needed somebody more alert than Ham to look out for her. What if he spared Terry for the rest of the summer? If Terry agreed, of course. Decent man with good judgment; he’d see she came to no harm. That would ensure that the engine didn’t die under some greenhorn and drift them onto rocks. “Poor guys in your crew, if you could ever slap one together.”

  “There’s always kids on the dock. They’ll know beforehand who’s skipper. And, incidentally, who says I won’t hire women?”

  Suddenly Hank was ready to laugh. “Poor Jones. He dies, and less than three weeks later the bitches—uh-oh, the witches—take over his boat.” He held out his arms. “You’re the witch for me.”

  “The bitch, too. Don’t kid yourself.” They hugged.

  Her shoulders felt so slight beneath the heavy wool shirt! Impulsively, he shifted his good arm to her waist and started to dance. Instead of resisting she laid her head against his shoulder. They swayed.

  “Hey, Boss,” called Terry as he appeared up the ladder; then, “Whoa, sorry!” as he saw them. “Bet you haven’t seen that Fish and Game boat heading to our stern.” He kept a straight face but his eyes were merry. “Want me to dig up a jukebox?”

  Hank released his wife, smiling. “Routine Fish and Game stuff. They’ll just check our papers. Offer coffee; I’ll be down. Stop staring, guy, scoot!” Terry gave a mock salute and started off. “Oh,” Hank called after. “Might as well get out your licenses. Assume you brought ’em—deep shit if you didn’t.” As Terry’s head disappeared, Jody gasped and cupped a hand over her mouth. Hank studied her. “Oh boy. You don’t have a license, do you?”