bright orange balloon
floats hung from the sides, protecting the freshly painted hull. The
skiff was tied off on the port bow, making room for the massive purse
net that lay heaped in the stern like some captured beast.
Working
outward from the boat, I began to look for signs of life along the
dock. Out of season, and late in the afternoon, most of the boats
were buttoned up tight. Every third craft or so had a For Sale by
Owner sign.
Six
berths down from the Lady, I came upon another Limit Seiner—the
Haida Queen, Ketchikan, Alaska, docked bow in, two crew members
straining mightily in opposing directions on a pair of pipe wrenches
as they struggled to break loose the threads on a piece of corroded
plumbing. The older of the two, gap-toothed,'his matted hair held in
place by a red bandanna, explained that they were down in the lower
forty-eight only for repairs and knew nothing from nothing. The
younger guy, his right eye reduced to a slit by an enormous purple
bruise, kept his mouth shut and his one working eye glued on Red
Bandanna.
At
the far end, out where the dock forms a long T, two yellow-clad
figures—a guy and what must have been his son—meticulously wound
miles of mended mono-filament onto the gill net drum. Struggling to
keep my feet clear of the rapidly disappearing net, I spent five
minutes dancing the Highland fling, ascertaining that, as near as I
could tell, neither of these two se habla'd any known Indo-European
language.
I'd
worked my way halfway back on the other side before I spotted an open
hatch on Ocean Spirit, a green-and-white wooden forty-five footer in
serious need of work. Checking the deserted dock, I followed boat
etiquette and lustily called out to those on board. The two net
winders stopped what they were doing and gawked, but there was no
response from aboard the Ocean Spirit. When further halfhearted
shouts got no results, I stepped on board and found an older guy in a
short-brimmed black cap and greasy striped overalls sitting on the
top step staring
glumly
as a pair of electricians worked below-decks.
"I
yelled," I said when he looked my way. "I heard ya."
"I
was wondering if you had a minute."
"With
these two sons a bitches"—he poked a thick finger down
below—"a minute's worth about sixty bucks. If I could find any
experienced hands, I'd do it myself. These bloodsuckers—" He
interrupted his tirade. "Wadda you want?"
"I'm
working for the Sundstroms."
He
marinated this message for a minute.
"Damn
shame about those kids," he said finally.
"I'm
trying to get a line on some young girl who's been hanging around the
terminal for the last couple of months."
He
rose from his perch, dusting off his palms. He was even wider
standing up. He closed most of the distance between us.
"You
said you were working for Henry Sundstrom?"
"I
am."
"He
knows you're down here, then?" I told him about Heck. The bad
news seemed to relax him.
"You
know Henry was down here a few weeks back,
asking
about the same thing." When I didn't respond,
he
continued. "I'll tell you the same thing I told
Henry.
I usually don't pay no attention to the wharf
rats.
They come; they go. They're all the same to me.
Most
of 'em ain't worth salt. But little Norma, her I
remember.
Never seemed to have enough clothes on,
always
shivering, walking around hugging herself,
little
nipples looking like they was gonna poke a hole
in
her shirt."
He
waved her memory away.
"Not
enough sense, to get in out of the cold, if you ask me."
"Seen
her lately?" "Nope."
He
quickly poked his head down the hatch.
"You
don't need to replace all that, Abdullah—just redo the connections
and junctions and then use the old cable."
"No
meet code," came the response.
"Son
of a bitch," he fumed. "Got all these damn codes made up by
hummers downtown who ain't never sailed anything more than a goddamn
rubber ducky. Stuffs so damned complicated it's gotta be installed by
an engineer, none of who I understand a friggin' word
floats hung from the sides, protecting the freshly painted hull. The
skiff was tied off on the port bow, making room for the massive purse
net that lay heaped in the stern like some captured beast.
Working
outward from the boat, I began to look for signs of life along the
dock. Out of season, and late in the afternoon, most of the boats
were buttoned up tight. Every third craft or so had a For Sale by
Owner sign.
Six
berths down from the Lady, I came upon another Limit Seiner—the
Haida Queen, Ketchikan, Alaska, docked bow in, two crew members
straining mightily in opposing directions on a pair of pipe wrenches
as they struggled to break loose the threads on a piece of corroded
plumbing. The older of the two, gap-toothed,'his matted hair held in
place by a red bandanna, explained that they were down in the lower
forty-eight only for repairs and knew nothing from nothing. The
younger guy, his right eye reduced to a slit by an enormous purple
bruise, kept his mouth shut and his one working eye glued on Red
Bandanna.
At
the far end, out where the dock forms a long T, two yellow-clad
figures—a guy and what must have been his son—meticulously wound
miles of mended mono-filament onto the gill net drum. Struggling to
keep my feet clear of the rapidly disappearing net, I spent five
minutes dancing the Highland fling, ascertaining that, as near as I
could tell, neither of these two se habla'd any known Indo-European
language.
I'd
worked my way halfway back on the other side before I spotted an open
hatch on Ocean Spirit, a green-and-white wooden forty-five footer in
serious need of work. Checking the deserted dock, I followed boat
etiquette and lustily called out to those on board. The two net
winders stopped what they were doing and gawked, but there was no
response from aboard the Ocean Spirit. When further halfhearted
shouts got no results, I stepped on board and found an older guy in a
short-brimmed black cap and greasy striped overalls sitting on the
top step staring
glumly
as a pair of electricians worked below-decks.
"I
yelled," I said when he looked my way. "I heard ya."
"I
was wondering if you had a minute."
"With
these two sons a bitches"—he poked a thick finger down
below—"a minute's worth about sixty bucks. If I could find any
experienced hands, I'd do it myself. These bloodsuckers—" He
interrupted his tirade. "Wadda you want?"
"I'm
working for the Sundstroms."
He
marinated this message for a minute.
"Damn
shame about those kids," he said finally.
"I'm
trying to get a line on some young girl who's been hanging around the
terminal for the last couple of months."
He
rose from his perch, dusting off his palms. He was even wider
standing up. He closed most of the distance between us.
"You
said you were working for Henry Sundstrom?"
"I
am."
"He
knows you're down here, then?" I told him about Heck. The bad
news seemed to relax him.
"You
know Henry was down here a few weeks back,
asking
about the same thing." When I didn't respond,
he
continued. "I'll tell you the same thing I told
Henry.
I usually don't pay no attention to the wharf
rats.
They come; they go. They're all the same to me.
Most
of 'em ain't worth salt. But little Norma, her I
remember.
Never seemed to have enough clothes on,
always
shivering, walking around hugging herself,
little
nipples looking like they was gonna poke a hole
in
her shirt."
He
waved her memory away.
"Not
enough sense, to get in out of the cold, if you ask me."
"Seen
her lately?" "Nope."
He
quickly poked his head down the hatch.
"You
don't need to replace all that, Abdullah—just redo the connections
and junctions and then use the old cable."
"No
meet code," came the response.
"Son
of a bitch," he fumed. "Got all these damn codes made up by
hummers downtown who ain't never sailed anything more than a goddamn
rubber ducky. Stuffs so damned complicated it's gotta be installed by
an engineer, none of who I understand a friggin' word
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