Page 15 of Weathering The Storm

Even if you’re completely drained of energy, the blinding brightness of the LEDs is sure to snap you out of it long enough to chug a Red Bull and keep cranking.

Perry, Orlov, and Jorgensen are suited up and ready to go. We’ve all got matching bags under our eyes, but run-of-the-mill exhaustion isn’t enough to dampen spirits when there’s a major payday crawling around beneath our feet.

“Alright, I’m gonna have Perry on the hauler, Orlov on the block,” I say. “Sorry not sorry, Jorg. You’re back on bait duty.”

Zach ruffles Konrad’s grown-out hair. “Smell ya later, squid-o.”

“You sure will. I’ve got a date with your bunk during my next break. Gonna have a nice long nap. Roll around in my dirty bibs. Clear out my snorkel.”

Orlov makes a sound adjacent to a laugh. “Idiot.”

Jorg doesn’t hear that part though. He’s already fishing out a fresh box of bait, whistling something to himself that’ll end up turning into a full-blown belt within the hour. “Eye of the Tiger”? Maybe?

What the kid’s got in resilience, he lacks in musicality.

“Coming up on the first buoy. Everyone ready?”Nick’s voice crackles through the crew radio.

I grab the gaff and mash the talk button as Perry and Orlov get into position. “Copy, Captain. All hands ready.”

Nick slots the boat alongside our line, the current drifting us into just the right spot. I hook the rope and feed it into the hauler. The mechanism grinds to life, whirring as it raises the massive trap, fighting the resistance of the water.

On a normal day, it’s loud. Between the engine and the hauler, I go through a rough patch with my vocal cords around days two to four every season. I’m sure I’ll be deaf by fifty. But for now, I can hear well enough that something is off with the sound. A weird judder, wavering until the pot clears the surface.

“Fuck yeah, it’s a party!” Perry whoops as they bring in our haul. The trap is bursting with king crab. Big ones, by the look of it.

“Measure and sort. I need to take a look at something real quick,” I tell them before radioing in to Nick again. “Captain, Captain, Rit.”

“Go ahead, Rit.”

“Pot hauler’s acting up, I need a minute to check it out. Can we circle back around?”

“Copy. Let me know when you’re ready.”

I get to work opening up the reservoir tank while the guys hoot and holler in the background, shouting out, “Another one! Aye, another one!” Spiny chitin shells knock against the coated metal of the deck as they sort our catch into a pile of keepers and a pile of females and shorts.

“Twenty-three legal males,” I update Nick when they finish, a big-ass grin on my face as I wrestle with the latch on theequipment locker. “Think we might’ve found ourselves a hot spot, Cap’.”

“Perfect. How’s the hauler coming along?”

“Hydraulic fluid looks low. Topping her off now, give me two minutes.”

“Copy.”

A few more buoys in, the hauler’s back to running smoothly and we’ve struck up a groove. I gaff and set the line, manage the crew on the mechanics, and oversee the count. Seventeen legal males in the second pot, eighteen in the third, andthirty-fivein the fourth.

We arecookingtoday.

I recognize all the ways commercial fishing is a shit gig, but days like this remind me why I love it.

I love the sting of the icy air, the blistering wind and briny mist. I love the sound of the waves slapping against the hull of the boat, and the balancing game of working through the tumult. I love the porpoises that stop by to play in theSuoja’s wake. The flocks of gulls and fulmars, begging for scraps like a pack of small dogs.

I love the thrill of the hunt, the freedom of the open ocean, the camaraderie. Barking at the guys to get back to work, but laughing on the inside when they get this damn excited. Konrad is giving the crabs stupid, shitty little French accents, and Zach is tossing the shorts at him in retaliation. Pyotr clearly thinks they’re both knuckleheads—and he’s right—but even he’s got some extra pep in his step now.

Whitecaps and twenty-three-knot winds aside, it’s shaping up to be one hell of a day.

Until the hauler starts acting up again.

We get to the last four pots on the line when the vibrations return, this time, accompanied by a high-pitched whine. I only get a second or two of warning before the pitch jumps. The whine turns into asquealas the rope grinds against the pulley.