Page 9 of Weathering The Storm

Whatever it is, I’m sure he wants me to get the hell off him but is too polite to yell at me.

These are far from the roughest waves I’ve encountered, but it’s the hardest time I’ve ever had getting back on my feet. I hold out a hand to Nick, but his callused palm only clasps mine for a second before he’s standing sturdy and unshakeable.

“See you on deck,” he says roughly, brushing past me to get to the interior entrance to the bridge.

“Wait.” I grab the sandwich I set aside for him off the counter, tossing it to him. “Don’t forget to eat.”

He tips his chin and heads up to the wheelhouse, footsteps hurriedly thumping up the stairs.

Only after I hear him moving around overhead do I let out the words I’ve been biting back. One word, in particular.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.Fuck.”

Chapter 3

Nick

Some kids get storybooks at bedtime, full of illustrated characters and imaginative worlds. Me? I used to help my dad with his Captain’s Log.

Help is a strong word. I mostly watched him write, and we’d read aloud together. He’d ask me if anything happened that he should record, and I’d come up with details like gulls squawking“feed me”and icicles that looked like fruit pops but definitely didn’t taste as good.

No matter how ridiculous my observations were, he had me scrawl them all down. The Coast Guard officers laughed their asses off whenever it came time to go through our records during an inspection.

But that’s how I learned to measure time, temperature, and distance. It was my first introduction to maintenance and leadership. It was a small thing that made every outing feel like a true adventure. Like we were explorers noting our discoveries on an uncharted course.

And during the times it was too dangerous to have me aboard, he’d bought me a leather-bound notebook and told me it was my very ownCaptain’s Log to keep at home. Told me to do a thorough job on my entries so that when he got back, he could read up on everything he missed. Make sure me and Mom were taking care of each other.

My parents both retired about ten years ago now. They moved to Oregon for warmer weather, better access to medical care for Mom’s AFib and Dad’s sea-weathered joints, but I still have that little notebook at home. Something to bring out whenever I long for simpler times.

These days, though, I find myself balancing more than one log.

The written records, and the ones I store only in my memory.

F/V Suoja

October 15, 1845 hours

57°16’N, 159°24’W

NW winds 12-16 knots, seas 5-7 feet, air temp 35°F, water temp 44°F, pressure 29.92 inHg

Completed setting all 170 pots across target grounds.

Sonar showing a nice muddy bottom. We’ve pulled in some great hauls here before and crew morale is high, but water temp is elevated this year. Soak time estimated 48-72 hours depending on weather.

Light snow squalls moving through. Forecast shows otherwise steady conditions through the weekend. Visibility adequate.

No injuries since departure. All systems nominal.

Nicolas Lundvall, Master

October 15

I’ve ruined things with Seth after what happened in the galley.

I could feel how tense he was when I held onto him, and I held onto him forwaytoo long.

He was so shocked, he was frozen on top of me. Staring down at me like he couldn’t believe I’d pulled him in. Like he wanted to know why the hell I was still touching him, why I wasn’t moving.