hour went by without hearing from Johnathan. Russell had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that something more was involved in Johnathan’s delay; any easy excuse or explanation did not ring true. He paid attention to his sixth sense. Over a lifetime it had rarely betrayed him. He knew what he had to do. He did not know the best way to go about it. He could notify the Coast Guard, ask them to take a look. It was mid evening by now and growing dark in the Alaskan twilight. He could not have sat on the dock. Waiting was not his style. The Coast Guard might begin to search in daylight but Russell was not going to hang around for them to get started in the morning. He asked Dino for his boat, Rivers End (or what the men in the camp called Livers End ) to take a look for himself. Dino’s boat could make 20 knots; Dino would want to go with him. But Russell wanted to go alone. It was better that way. He decided not to ask him, but just take his boat.
He reached into a trailer for a hooded sweatshirt and a slicker. He walked a couple hundred yards to the cannery’s loading dock on the river. The tide was going out. An early rising half moon pushed up from the horizon. The mud-bottomed river flowed twenty feet below the dock. Slimers with billowy hair nets under their caps and rubber aprons leaned against stainless steel tables heading and gutting sockeye with sharp knives and sliding their bodies down a slick ramp where they were being packed in bins under ice; the salmon would leave the dock by truck for a processing plant that would flash freeze the fish before being flown overnight to Tokyo. The workers quietly concentrated on the speed of their knives and the nozzles that washed away the slime. The fish gleamed like chrome in the glare of sodium lights.
Almost as an afterthought, but knowing how close Johnathan and Andy were as brothers—Andy was the first person whom Johnathan called on the single sideband radio to ask him advice when the Debra D nearly capsized, and Andy, who was in the general area at the time, threw the throttles to the firewall to get Time Bandit over to the Debra D as fast as possible in case his brother needed to be rescued—Russell decided to call Andy and tell him. He checked his wristwatch for the three-hour time difference. And he dialed. Andy’s wife, Sabrina, answered, and Russell exchanged pleasantries but he had an edge in his voice he could not hide. When Andy came on, he told him. Andy breathed out a long sigh. Russell could imagine him scratching his head. He had experienced this before, probably many times, with Johnathan getting into trouble. He asked what Russell planned to do, saying, “I can’t get there, Russ. You’ll have to shoulder this yourself.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Russell. “I just thought you’d want to know.”
“I do. By the time I get there he’ll be found or…”
“I’ll find out what happened,” said Russell.
“Call me one way or another every couple of hours,” said Andy. “Good luck. And Russ? Thanks.”
He Was Our Lodestone
Johnathan
I am still drifting on the Fishing Fever. But not like I was, and that could be a good sign. I may be in a slack tide, between flow and ebb. But tidal streams, currents, and the wind could be propelling me slowly to the southwest. Without a depth sounder, in the dark, I will not know if I am close to shore. I might have drifted out of the influence of tides in the Cook Inlet and into the Gulf of Alaska, where the rips are treacherous.
The wind has kicked up. The sky lowered in the last couple hours and is darkening now. A front is moving through from the north and west, where weather originates in this part of the world. One phenomenon that explains why the Bering Sea has the most unpredictable and violent storms on the planet, is that frigid weather fronts blow down from the Arctic as warm fronts press up from the Pacific. They collide on the north side of the Aleutian chain, which is the Bering Sea. The
He reached into a trailer for a hooded sweatshirt and a slicker. He walked a couple hundred yards to the cannery’s loading dock on the river. The tide was going out. An early rising half moon pushed up from the horizon. The mud-bottomed river flowed twenty feet below the dock. Slimers with billowy hair nets under their caps and rubber aprons leaned against stainless steel tables heading and gutting sockeye with sharp knives and sliding their bodies down a slick ramp where they were being packed in bins under ice; the salmon would leave the dock by truck for a processing plant that would flash freeze the fish before being flown overnight to Tokyo. The workers quietly concentrated on the speed of their knives and the nozzles that washed away the slime. The fish gleamed like chrome in the glare of sodium lights.
Almost as an afterthought, but knowing how close Johnathan and Andy were as brothers—Andy was the first person whom Johnathan called on the single sideband radio to ask him advice when the Debra D nearly capsized, and Andy, who was in the general area at the time, threw the throttles to the firewall to get Time Bandit over to the Debra D as fast as possible in case his brother needed to be rescued—Russell decided to call Andy and tell him. He checked his wristwatch for the three-hour time difference. And he dialed. Andy’s wife, Sabrina, answered, and Russell exchanged pleasantries but he had an edge in his voice he could not hide. When Andy came on, he told him. Andy breathed out a long sigh. Russell could imagine him scratching his head. He had experienced this before, probably many times, with Johnathan getting into trouble. He asked what Russell planned to do, saying, “I can’t get there, Russ. You’ll have to shoulder this yourself.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Russell. “I just thought you’d want to know.”
“I do. By the time I get there he’ll be found or…”
“I’ll find out what happened,” said Russell.
“Call me one way or another every couple of hours,” said Andy. “Good luck. And Russ? Thanks.”
He Was Our Lodestone
Johnathan
I am still drifting on the Fishing Fever. But not like I was, and that could be a good sign. I may be in a slack tide, between flow and ebb. But tidal streams, currents, and the wind could be propelling me slowly to the southwest. Without a depth sounder, in the dark, I will not know if I am close to shore. I might have drifted out of the influence of tides in the Cook Inlet and into the Gulf of Alaska, where the rips are treacherous.
The wind has kicked up. The sky lowered in the last couple hours and is darkening now. A front is moving through from the north and west, where weather originates in this part of the world. One phenomenon that explains why the Bering Sea has the most unpredictable and violent storms on the planet, is that frigid weather fronts blow down from the Arctic as warm fronts press up from the Pacific. They collide on the north side of the Aleutian chain, which is the Bering Sea. The
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