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  The cousins loaded their knapsacks in the truck and drove the quarter mile to the dock. The other men of the Orthrus—and they were all men—milled about, looking just as hungover as Culann, which gave him a little satisfaction.

  The same Hawaiian-shirt-clad ferryboat driver from the two nights before nodded at Culann as he boarded. The little boat sank almost to the waterline with all the fishermen aboard, but their jolly pilot didn’t seem to notice. The boat splashed across the choppy, black water to a small town on the mainland called Three Fingers, named for the shape of coastline upon which it rested.

  As they approached, Culann caught his first glimpse of the Orthrus. It was half a football field in length and nominally white, though rust had eaten through much of the paint. Frank gave Culann a crash course in nautical terminology.

  “The ass-end is called the ‘stern.’ Our nets are cast off the stern, so this is called a

  ‘stern trawler.’ That bigass thing over there is called the ‘net drum.’”

  The bigass thing Frank was referring to looked to Culann like a giant sewing bobbin, though he didn’t dare give voice to such an unmanly analogy. The ferryboat docked, and the cramped crew spurted out onto the dock, before scurrying aboard the Orthrus just seconds later.

  “Frank,” Gus shouted, seemingly out of nowhere, “show this pantywaist where he sleeps and then bring his cherry ass back up here.”

  And so began Culann’s stint as a greenhorn. In the still waters just off the mainland, the deck stood fifteen feet above the water line. Once the ship reached the open 22

  waters out beyond Pyrite, however, the Bering Sea crashed waves up and over the rails.

  Culann was soaked within minutes of clearing the island.

  He spent the next hour scurrying out the way of Gus’s boot, as he struggled to quickly learn the ways of the sea. Culann stopped to vomit over the railing as the ship lurched up and over twenty-foot swells. A decade spent teaching To Kill a Mockingbird to a bunch of whiny, little nosepickers had done nothing to prepare him for life at sea.

  The combination of a hangover and seasickness cost him a good bit of stomach lining.

  Plus, the ship smelled like a can of tuna that had been left open for three days. He was sweating from the exertion and heat of the sun, but shivering from the frigid water that rolled over the deck. He didn’t think it could be any worse until Gus grabbed him by the collar and hurled him to the deck.

  “Puke on your own time, greenhorn. We got work to do.”

  “But I’m sick.”

  “You can get sick all you want, just pull your own weight. Otherwise, I’ll toss you over.”

  Culann rose unsteadily and returned to his place beside Frank, who shook his head. They were untangling the fishing nets and loading them into the net drum, a fifteen-foot diameter hydraulic spool used to pull in the nets. As soon as Culann resumed work, he felt the bile rise in his throat. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Gus staring at him.

  Culann turned around and vomited on the deck. Then he went back to work.

  “Attaboy,” shouted Frank with a pat on the back.

  Culann threw up again. He was convinced he’d made a terrible mistake. It wasn’t just the seasickness. His rubbery arms could barely lift the nets, torn skin hung from his soft palms, and his soggy boots were full of blisters.

  And then there was Gus.

  “My fifteen-year-old daughter is tougher than you,” Gus shouted with a slap to the back of the head. “If I see you nurse those delicate, little fingers of yours one more time, I’m chopping ‘em off.”

  Culann wiped his oozing palms on his shirt and reached up for the net. When it slipped through Culann’s wet, raw hands, Gus pounced. He grabbed Culann by the shoulders and kicked his feet out from underneath him. Culann crashed to his stomach on the deck, and Gus pressed the greenhorn’s face into the net, slimy and foul-smelling as it was from the thousands of loads of fish it had hauled from the sea.

  “This is the net,” Gus said. “Take a good look at it.”

  The net was all Culann could see.

  “We use the net to catch the fish,” Gus continued. “Without the net, we don’t catch any fish. The purpose of this little pleasure cruise is to catch fish, right?”

  “Right,” Culann said.

  “Very good, greenhorn. Now, if we don’t take good care of the net, we won’t catch any fish, will we?”

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  “No.”

  “That’s right. Now, are we taking good care of the net when we drop it?”

  “No.”

  “Three in a row. I knew you were smart. Okay, genius, now I want you to pick up that fucking net and hang onto it like your life depended on it. Because it does. You got it?”

  “Yes,” Culann replied.

  He pushed himself up off the deck and started to rise to his feet. A wave smashed into the side of the ship, causing him to topple back over.

  “I thought I told you to get up,” Gus shouted with a cuff across Culann’s cheek.

  Culann pushed himself up again. The boat swayed under him, but he managed to keep his footing. He bent at the waist to snatch up the net. Gus kicked him in the backside, and Culann pitched face forward back into the net.

  Culann saw how arbitrary this last act had been. It would not be sufficient to become a competent seaman, however unlikely that may be. He was not one of these men. He did not belong among them. Gus degraded him for the sheer joy of it. It seemed clear to Culann that he’d have fared better with Vic DeLuca.

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  2

  Since he didn’t really know how to do anything else, Culann’s main duty was to sort the catch. They were licensed to catch halibut, large, flat fish with both eyes on the same side of their bodies, but the nets also indiscriminately pulled in other, out-of-season bottomfish. The enormous nets pulled in hundreds of pounds of fish and dumped them into the bay, which looked like a giant pickup truck bed in the middle of the stern. The catch was so large that fish overflowed out of the bay and onto the deck.

  “Start sorting,” Gus bellowed before kicking Culann in the back.

  The greenhorn dropped to his hands and knees and searched for any fish that weren’t halibut, which amounted to almost a third of the catch. The ones that he sorted out were nearly impossible to hold on to. He wrapped his arms around a twenty-pound, rust-colored cod and stood up. He tiptoed through the writhing mass of aquatic life to toss the fish over the railing when the cod whipped out of his grasp. He chased after it, slipping on the wet deck before tripping over a pile of fish. He landed on another cod, which he clamped onto. He worked his way back up to his feet and over to the railing, and was just about to throw the fish over the side when he caught a glimpse of McGillicuddy out the corner of his eye. McGillicuddy swung a flounder like a baseball bat right into the back of Culann’s head. He dropped to his knees, and the cod squirted from his hands. All work on the vessel stopped as the crew laughed at Culann.

  “Get back to work,” Gus shouted. “Captain’s coming. You don’t want him

  catching you with your thumbs up your asses, do you?”

  Culann pulled himself up to his feet just as the Captain came into view. He was the only man on board the ship who did not reside in Pyrite, so Culann hadn’t met him at the bar. The Captain looked more like an aviator than a seaman in a brown bomber jacket and reflective sunglasses. He was about sixty years old with salt-and-pepper hair and a firm jaw set in an authoritative scowl. He strolled about the deck with a stogie clamped between his teeth. He nodded at his crew as he walked by, but didn’t say anything.

  Culann resumed sorting. He pounced on the flounder McGillicuddy had whacked him with and wrestled it over the side. It splashed against the waves before slipping under the surface.

  “Good job, kid,” Worner said. “Let me give you some advice. Start here at the edge and work your way to the middle. That way, you’ll have cleared some space out for yourself, and you’ll have less to trip over.”

/>   “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Worner replied with a pat on the shoulder.

  An hour later, the catch was sorted and flash-frozen, and the crew was mercifully sent below deck for dinner. Culann was hungrier than he’d ever been in his life and not entirely confident that he had enough strength left in his arms to raise a fork to his lips.

  The men filed into the mess, and Culann found himself wedged in between McGillicuddy and Worner.

  “Sorry about the fish-slap,” McGillicuddy said with a grin, “it’s just part of being a greenhorn.”

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  “I gathered that,” Culann replied. “No hard feelings.”

  “That’s the attitude,” Worner said. “If you can handle this jerkoff’s tomfoolery, you’ll do just fine.”

  “I don’t have a problem with tomfoolery,” Culann said. “I’m more worried that Gus is going to kill me.”

  “Just think of it like this,” Worner said. “Nothing could be worse than today, right? Ergo, tomorrow will be better.”

  As they moved towards the grill, a shaggy-haired sailor named Watkins walked down the line with a large pitcher and a spoon. He fed each man one bite and then moved on.

  “What’s that?” Culann asked.

  “We’re taking communion,” McGillicuddly said, genuflecting.

  “It’s concentrated orange juice,” Worner explained. “Everybody takes one

  spoonful a day so we don’t get scurvy.”

  This was not an ailment Culann had ever before had reason to fear. When he reached the end of the line, the cook handed him a plate with four deep-fried cod filets on it and nothing else.

  “Is this all there is to eat?” he asked.

  “We eat what we catch, kid,” Worner replied. “There’s a whole ocean of seafood just below our feet. Why would we bother packing provisions?”

  “I’m not sure I can eat fish after handling them all day.”

  “Only other option is to starve.”

  Frank waved them over to a table smack dab in the middle of the mess. Culann eased onto the bench next to him, and Worner and McGillicuddy sat on the other side.

  “You’re looking good out there, cuz,” Frank said.

  “Really?”

  “No,” Frank replied, causing the other two to guffaw and slap the table.

  “We’re just jerking you around,” Frank said. “You’ll do better tomorrow. By the end of the voyage, you’ll be a pro.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  Worner pulled a leather haversack from under his seat and rested it on the table.

  He drew a battered iron ball out of the bag and plunked it onto the table, followed by a notebook, pen and a silver dollar. Culann eyed these objects with curiosity.

  “You up for a game, greenhorn?”

  “What’s the game?”

  “Flip a coin. Ten bucks a flip. I’ll keep track in my notebook, and we’ll settle up after we get paid.”

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  “Is this the Civil War cannonball you mentioned?”

  “It’s my good luck charm. I never gamble without it.”

  “I guess I’ll play.”

  Worner handed him the silver dollar. Culann flipped it and Worner called out

  “heads” while it was in the air. It came up heads. Worner scribbled the result in his notebook and invited Culann to flip again. Again, Worner called out “heads” and the coin complied.

  “How about you flip it this time?” Culann asked.

  Worner complied and Culann called “heads.” It came up tails. After Worner won seven straight flips, Culann quit. He did some quick math in his head and figured that there was less than one percent chance of pure luck producing such an outcome.

  “I told you my cannonball is lucky,” Worner said with a flash of teeth as he tallied up his winnings.

  The table got quiet after the game. The four concentrated on eating their cod and drinking their water. Culann couldn’t stop thinking about how good a frothy draft beer would taste right now. His next drink was a month away. He hoped a little chatter would take his mind off his thirst.

  “What’s the deal with the Captain?” Culann asked.

  “Nobody knows,” Frank answered, leaning back in his chair to let his hairy navel peek out from under his t-shirt. “Gus is the only one who ever talks to him, and Gus won’t say peep about it.”

  “Does he live on the island?”

  “Nah,” McGillicuddy said. “He comes up from the Caribbean somewhere. The Cayman islands or someplace like that where they don’t make you pay taxes.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Frank replied. “He’s supposed to be some kind of survivalist who spends his winters in a log cabin in the Yukon just to see how tough he is.”

  Worner scratched his gray beard in contemplation for a moment.

  “I’ve been going out on the Captain’s ship for about twenty years,” he said, “and I’ve never heard him say a word. I heard he was a fighter pilot back in ‘Nam, but who the hell knows? I sure as hell am not about to ask him to hang out at the VFW Hall with me.”

  “You ask me,” McGillicuddy chimed in, “the son of a bitch is looking for

  something out here.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said, “he’s looking for fish.”

  McGillicuddy’s ever-present smile disappeared for a heartbeat, before returning wider than ever.

  “Culann,” he said spreading his big hands on the table, “you think this fatass cousin of yours can swim home from here?”

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  “What do you think he’s looking for?” Culann asked with a smirk. “A white

  whale?”

  “Beats me,” McGillicuddy responded. “Maybe he’s looking for the fountain of youth. Maybe true love. Maybe he lost his wallet out here. But there’s something weird going on. Every year we cover the same stretch of sea, even though the fishing’s just as good or better to the north. Right, Worner?”

  “You got something there. In twenty years we’ve never veered more than a couple of miles outside of the same area. I just figured the Captain’s a creature of habit. After all, we’ve always done fine. Why risk getting skunked somewhere else when you know there’s fish right here?”

  After dinner, the two cousins headed back above deck so Frank could have a cigarette. They passed the Captain, who was returning from his evening constitutional.

  “Good night, Cap,” Frank said.

  The Captain pitched the stub of his cigar into the ocean for a reply and headed back onto the bridge.

  “I guess he’s not much for small talk,” Culann said.

  “We’re not here for stimulating conversation,” Frank said. “The Captain leads us to fish and pays us our fair share. That’s all I need him to do.”

  Culann leaned against the railing. He looked out at the horizon where the white sky above him met the black sea below, each stretching out into its own infinity. The vastness of the world stood in stark contrast to the cramped quarters where he’d be spending the night.

  He didn’t bother slipping out of his fishscale-encrusted clothes. He fell asleep within seconds of crawling into his bunk. He awoke a few minutes later to find a two-foot-long halibut flopping against his body while McGillicuddy and Worner giggled over him. He shoved the fish to the floor and went back to sleep.

  His eyes seemed like they then immediately reopened, although it was six hours later, as Gus yanked him out of bed. The old man flashed a wide grin as he jarred Culann from his slumber. The other crew members, just as sleep-deprived, nevertheless laughed as he stumbled, bleary-eyed to the mess for breakfast of fried cod and a spoonful of concentrated orange juice. He promptly threw it all back up.

  This day was incrementally better. Gus still clouted him regularly, although Culann gave him slightly less occasion to do so. Worner showed him how to hold a fish like a football so he wouldn’t fumble so often. By the end of the day, he managed to sort a ton of fish in half-an-hour.

&nbs
p; As the last load came in, he saw the Captain staring out of the porthole on the bridge. The old man’s eyes were obscured as always by his sunglasses, but he was looking directly at Culann. The greenhorn spun around to look busy and bumped into Frank, who shoved him aside. Culann slipped on the saltwater-soaked deck and landed on his hindquarters, which were already plum-purple from previous slips and Gus’s boots.

  “Damnit, Culann. Get your head out of your ass.”

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  “I’m sorry, Frank,” he said, unable to hide the hurt in his voice.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to knock you over, but you need to watch where you’re going and you better get the fuck up before you get buried.”

  Culann scampered to his feet just as the crew pulled the last load over the side.

  Hundreds of fish flopped over the deck, arching their backs and gasping for air.

  “Hey, greenhorn,” a voice called out.

  Culann turned his head and got walloped in the chin with a rockfish. His legs flew out from under him and he landed flat on his back. The air shot out of his lungs. He gasped on the deck like the fish surrounding him, which caused his mates to laugh even harder.

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  3

  Culann’s seasickness had died down to a steady, low-level nausea over the next few days. His abdominal muscles ached, along with every other part of his body. He was covered in bruises of varying shades – the fresh ones came in royal-purple or charcoal-black while the older ones faded to diarrhea shades of yellow and green. He leaned against the railing to stretch his sore muscles in the warm air. It was four o’clock in the morning, but Culann still squinted against the glare of the sun that would not set until the end of the July.

  Fifty yards out from the ship, a blue whale breached and turned, sunning its broad belly. It floated on its back for a few moments before slamming its flukes against the surface and disappearing into a plume of saltwater.

  “Thar she blows,” Culann said, though no one else was there to hear it.

  Like Ishmael, he’d gone from lording it as a country schoolmaster to getting thumped and punched about as a sailor. As if to illustrate the point, Gus came charging out of the bridge towards him. Culann ran to the stern where the first nets of the day were being reeled in.