Brothers

BROTHERS
Judy Goucher


Every stormy morning begins before dawn at Chicken Point. The salt rusted trucks line up along the overlook and weather creased faces peer through the gloom. Each man, still warm from his bed, weighs the power of the sea against the lure of the money the crabs will bring to his family. For days the storm has raged and tossed the boats against their moorings like they were but toys. The rains have scoured the river banks and poured silt and debris into the roiling cauldron. As the first rays light the bay below, drowsy eyes widen and the fire in the belly begins again. The first engine starts and nothing moves slow.
The whine of the winch is almost constant as each captain rides his skiff from the dock down to the rolling water. The insignificant skiffs are tossed about as they are rowed the course to the fishing boats. There is plenty to keep a man busy as they wait their turn. Bait, crab boxes, rain gear, water and enough food to keep a man going until all the pots are emptied must be loaded and safely stowed. The captain will not turn back just because a man forgot his lunch. The powerful running lights come on one by one and pierce the water laden air. Each boat carries life jackets and survival suits, but no man will tolerate being hindered by these devices when there is work to be done. The sea is occasionally littered with survival equipment that was meant to save a life, but didn't.
The Second Wind, with captain and two crew, is the first to part the lead colored waters. Each man knows his job and no words are wasted. There is bait to ready and gear to organize before the first pot line is reached. The reassuring drone of the engine joins the never silent sound of the ocean.
As they leave the protection of the bay and round the head, the boat climbs the face of the first wave. The captains judged this a fishable day, but the sea is still angry. The deckhands have long ago learned the captain tolerates no less than top performance despite any residual effects from excessive alcohol the night before. Sam leans over the side and gives the sea his breakfast. No one glances his way. He wipes the debris from his red beard with the back of his left, gloved hand as his right hand reaches toward the box of bait he was preparing in one continuous motion. His thick fingers close around the knife and he pries apart the still frozen bait.
John pushes his dark hair out of his eyes and wishes he had gotten a hair cut while he had the chance. As he moves toward the stern of the boat, his rain pants catch on the corner of a crab box and he stumbles. His mind flashes back to his first year on the boat when a moment of inattention caused a misstep and a fall overboard. He remembers never feeling so cold as the water filled his rain gear and he clawed his way to the surface. Nor, has he ever felt so alone as when he glimpsed the boat pulling away. Luckily, his captain was quick and turned the boat before he was lost from sight behind the swell. He was plucked from the water and flopped onto the deck like he was a big fish. The sea took his courage that day. He still loves running against the wind and the money keeps him coming back. But there is an empty place now that he sometimes has to try to fill where his courage used to ride easy.
Captain Craig drapes his lanky frame against the cabin and steers the boat as he stretches his hip. He used to try to ignore the aches and pains, but his body requires maintenance now. His blue eyes alternate scanning the instruments and the water for his buoys.
"First buoy up", he shouts.
They approach from down current and the human machine turns on. As the captain slows the boat to about 4 knots and coasts toward the buoy, John stands ready to hook the buoy and put the rope in the crab block. The tension is always there as the winch winds the rope up, waiting to see how full the first pot will be. As it breaks surface and the water streams off, the grins stretch wide.
"Money day", the captain hollers.
No time to celebrate, the boat never stops. John and Craig reach down to pull the pot over and the crabs cascade across the deck. The legal sized males are thrown into the fish hold in the center of the deck. The females and undersized males are tossed overboard and any questionable sized males are tossed in a box to measure later when there is more time. The pot is re-baited and plunged back in to sink to the ocean floor. The captain makes a directional correction as the next buoy bobs closer and three pairs of hands keep moving.
Crab history documents that the crabs seem to follow a seven year cycle. After a really good year there is a decline in the number of crab taken, followed by a subsequent increase until at about seven years there is another year to celebrate. No one seems to know where the crabs go or if this is just their normal reproductive cycle. The fishermen just try to follow experience, intuition, and luck to drop their pots where the traveling scavengers are most likely to find them as they crisscross the ocean floor searching for dead things to eat.
As the last buoy slips back into the water, the captain throttles up to and heads for the next line. The questionable sized males are sorted, the deck is cleared, and the bait is made ready for the next line. Plenty of money left in the hold after the sorting is done. The clouds are clearing, the sun hits the deck to warm cold hands, and the sea has calmed. The kind of day that keeps them coming back.
As the boat planes through the swells at about 9 knots, there is a thud and the boat violently stops dead in the water. The captain is thrown against the dash and the surefooted deck hands are sprawled on the deck. The engine continues it's futile roar and water can be heard rushing somewhere into the boat. Blood trickles from the side of Craig's face as he turns and cuts the power. John and Sam struggle to their feet.
"What the hell", can be heard erupting from all mouths.
Sam dives for the survival suits and everyone struggles into the cumbersome gear.
"Get all the pumps going", Craig commands as he reaches for the radio.
"May day, may day, Second Wind at 41 degrees, 10.00 minutes north, 124 degrees 12.00 minutes west, taking on water, require immediate assistance. Repeat, may day, may day, Second Wind at 41, 10.00 north, 124 12.00 west, require immediate assistance."
Then he drops the radio and heads for the hold, eyes scanning the empty sea for what stopped the boat. Already the bow is angled down, heavy in the water. The cabin is filling up fast.
The pumps are up and running, but not keeping up with the water rushing in. Clothes, boots, buckets, lunchboxes, debris of all kinds are swirling around, some of it being sucked toward the intake hoses. Everyone grabbed what they could and tossed it onto the deck. Then the water covered the battery and the pumps stopped. There was nothing to stop the water as the bow of the boat sunk lower and lower. Suddenly the water gushes out of the cabin door and flows overboard. The men grab whatever they can as it floats by and fling it toward the stern or into the crab hold. The outflow from the cabin door diverts enough water to allow the engine compartment and the fish hold thresholds to stay above water. The boat stabilizes and wallows low and uneasy.
Then the chop chop of the Coast Guard helicopter is heard heading their way and all faces turn skyward.
The helicopter hovers off to starboard, and a rescue rope can be seen dangling from the doorway. The man in the doorway motions them to jump into the water for a rescue. Craig shakes his head and makes a pumping motion in the air. The helicopter crewman shakes his head and again motions to jump for rescue. Craig repeats his signals and the crewman disappears. Within a few minutes a second helicopter arrives and hovers above the boat, causing a wash of wind and water to batter the boat and men. A rope lowers and whips violently above the men. Tom grabs the rope and steadies the thrashing as the pump is attached and lowered. The package is ripped open and the pump is soon pouring water over the side, but it's not enough. Craig jumps up and motions for another pump. A second pump is lowered and set up and the water pouring from the cabin starts to ebb. Then, the second pump seizes up and the water gushes forth again. Craig, again, jumps up and signals the failure and for another pump. But, the crewman just shakes his head, shrugs, and disappears.
The captain turns his blood, salt, and water streaked face and surveys the sea around him. There are six boats from the fishing fleet huddled around them as if to hold the waters back a little and two helicopters in the air. His eyes, again, scan the empty sea around the boat and stop at starboard. Moving to the rail, he peers through the dark waters. Something big was down below the surface, as if waiting patiently, for what?
"Hey, Craig, I'm coming aboard".
No time to ponder as Craig twirls around and sees a boat approaching to port. Hands reach across the waters and pull the boats close and a friend jumps the gap.
"What can I do to help"?
"Try to get all that crap out of the cabin where it won't get sucked into the intake hoses and stowed somewhere out of the way."
His crew hollers that a third helicopter is approaching. As the helicopter hovers and readies to lower the pump, the wash of wind and water are so severe that the first pump is flooded, sputters, and stops. The captain signals the chopper to back off. Once again the water surges and pours out the door. The pump is dropped to another boat that is able to come close enough to toss the pump and it is set up. The water slows, but the two pumps are not enough to equalize the constant flood of water. Then one of the pumps clogs and a deckhand wades in to pull a sock off the intake hose. Efforts are renewed to empty the cabin of all debris.
Then John sees the Coast Guard Cutter roaring towards them. They know the cutter will have a big pump and they brace for the bump as the boat comes along side.
"Easy there, it wouldn't take much to sink me," the captain hollers.
"What do you need", asks the fresh faced young Seaman.
"I need a big pump, the little ones are not enough".
Finally, with the big pump going, the water going out starts to exceed the water coming in and the cabin starts to empty. One of the small pumps is diverted to the engine room and water there is mostly emptied. For a moment the frenzy slows as all eyes watch the tilting boat riding a little higher in the water. One of the fishing fleet pulls closer.
"Hey, Craig, I got my wetsuit aboard, I can go down and check it out",
"Let's get going", quickly responds Craig to this unexpected opportunity. "Stay away from starboard, there's something down there."
Despite multiple protests by the Coast Guard, the friend is soon in the water and diving beneath the boat. All eyes watch where the water parted to swallow him, waiting for a clue to the mystery. As his head breaks the surface and he grabs the port side of the boat, everyone crowds forward to hear.
"The hole is about the size of my fist. It was a huge root wad, half the size of the boat. It hit dead center and is still just wallowing around down there off to the starboard side. It's weird. Usually those just slide by the bow and you never see them again. If we had something to plug the hole, I could stuff it in and you could pull from inside."
"I have a nerf football", someone offers.
Within minutes a rope is tied around the football and the diver heads back down to thread the rope through the hole. The deckhands grab the rope and pull the ball into the hole and hold it tight. It held, but water continues to come in around the edges. John grabs some gunny sacks and stuffs them around the ball. Then both men push with their feet as they pull on the rope to keep it tight. The gush slows to a trickle and the pumps gradually empty more water. Though it still rides low, the boat levels out some. Craig heads down to the engine room to check the engine.
The Coast Guard cutter pulls along side again, waiting to organize the tow to port. Then there was the sound of a sputtering and the engine roars to life. Eyes widen all around. The grinning captain appears from below and says, "maybe I won't need that tow after all".
All systems are checked and the return to port is discussed. The radio didn't work, so the Coast Guard tosses aboard a portable unit. The captain quarters the boat to port and turns his face to starboard watch for the root wad. There is a bump and another bump and then the dark shadow can be seen rising a little and sliding along side and behind the boat as many root wads before had done. Soon the shadow disappears and Craig gives a thumbs up to the Coast Guard escort. He throttles up and tests what the low riding boat will handle and begins the five hour journey to dry dock . The adrenaline slows down a bit and the men know they will be tired to the bone that night.
The Trinidad fleet lingers in silent salute. They all know that they have played a part in a small miracle that day. As their thoughts and boats turn to the crab lines yet to be run, more than one captain smiles a little at what it took to ensure that the Second Wind would not bring in the top load of crab that day. It was a rare day, indeed, for the brothers of the sea.