Breakers Read online

  BREAKERS

  Also by William McCloskey

  Fiction:

  Warriors

  Raiders

  Highliners

  The Mallore Affair

  Nonfiction:

  Their Fathers’ Work: Casting Nets with the World’s Fishermen Fish Decks: Seafarers of the North Atlantic

  BREAKERS

  A NOVEL

  William B. McCIoskey Jr.

  Skyhorse Publishing

  Copyright © 2000, 2013 by William B. McCloskey Jr.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file. ISBN: 978-1-62873-441-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  TO ANN

  MY WIFE AND BEST FRIEND

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One of an author’s final pleasures, after finishing a book and nursing it through rewrites and copy edits, is to remember the experiences besides actual writing that fed into the finished work, and then to thank those whose help and forbearance made the experiences possible.

  Among fishing skippers who hired me I want to thank Thorvold Olsen (king crab and salmon out of Kodiak), Magne Nes (salmon, Bristol Bay), and Monte Riley (salmon, Kodiak). Also among hospitable skippers Leiv Loklingholm (king crab, Bering Sea), John Crivello (salmon, Bristol Bay), and Guy Piercy (salmon, Bristol Bay).

  For experts’ insight I am indebted (without holding them responsible for how I’ve used their information) to Dave Milholland, Bristol Bay fishing veteran; Dr. Karin McCloskey, my emergency transport pediatrician daughter; Jay Hastings, lawyer and advisor to the Japanese; Peter Schmidt, founder and CEO of Marco Marine; David Smith, Marco senior naval architect, and two of the already-legendary cannery bosses of Bristol Bay, now retired: Harold Brindle of Red Salmon/Columbia Ward and Ivan Fox of the former New England Fish Company.

  At Lyons Press, Nick Lyons for his faith going back to the acceptance of Highliners for republication, and to Tony Lyons of the new generation for continuing support. And to my editor Enrica Gadler for insightful suggestions and velvet-gloved prods based on her remarkable ability to identify with the characters of my imagination.

  Others who fit less easily into categories but who were generous with varieties of advice, time, and logistical support: Tom Casey, fisheries professional whose enthusiasm for the ways of Hank Crawford has remained strong for two decades; Alan MacNow, who opened the door to Japan; Pat Kern, insightful Baltimore neighbor who eased me into the computer age; Chuck Bundrant, founder and driving force of Trident Seafoods; and Bart Eaton of Trident and past crabbing skipper in the Bering Sea.

  Then there is my family, the precious glue that holds together the great matters of importance: my parents Bill and Evelyn now of memory, daughter Karin and grandson Will, son Wynn, and wife Ann to whom this book is dedicated with gratitude and love.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE: THE CALDRON

  PART I 1978

  ALASKA

  1 STORM FIELDS

  2 PUNCHBAG BLUES

  3 BEHAVING

  4 MONTEREY BABE

  5 RECKONINGS

  6 WINNER-LOSER

  7 CRAB HEAVEN

  PART II 1980-1981

  BERING SEA, ALASKA

  8 HANK’S HOLE

  9 THE GREAT GAME

  10NIGHTRIDE

  11TROUGHS

  12JAPS

  PART III APRIL-MAY 1982

  JAPAN

  13 THE JAPANESE

  14 AGGRESSION

  15 THE MALE TREE

  16 SKIPPER DREAMS

  17 ANGERS

  PART IV JUNE-JULY 1982

  BRISTOL BAY, ALASKA

  18 GO DRY

  19 STRIKEBROKE

  20 JODYLAND

  21 FIRES OF JULY

  22 JONES

  23 SAND

  24 OCEAN’S CHOICE

  PROLOGUE

  THE CALDRON

  Sea life boils throughout the water column off Alaska. On the seafloor crawl thick king crabs with sluggish claws, and spidery tanner crabs, both in search of baby halibut, cod, and other bottomfish. Meanwhile, mature bottomfish search for baby crabs. Deeper yet, in trenches below the seafloor, mill fat black sablefish. In the center of the water column swarm cloudy masses of minute plankton—simple-celled animals and vegetables the size of pinheads—which are gobbled by pollack, herring, capelin, and all manner of other fish and crustaceans. Not all creatures commit to a single plane. Big squids and little shrimp stay deep during the day but storm to the surface at night. Halibut lie half buried in mud with only watchful eyes exposed, then flash upward at the sight of prey. Cod also hover near the bottom, but scoot anywhere to follow opportunities higher in the water.

  Swimming near the surface are schools of plankton-feeding salmon and other anadromous fish that hatch in fresh water, migrate to salt water, then return to fresh water to spawn. Marine mammals, ranging in size from clam-crunching otters to majestic whales, roam the Alaskan waters from floor to surface feeding as they please. Above them, seabirds dive and peck at such surface-cruising fish as their beaks can handle.

  Plankton to whales, all follow their predatory rhythms. Big eats little all the way up the line, and life flourishes throughout the caldron.

  Sea creatures reproduce most abundantly in the cold waters of the world that are underlaid by continental shelves. Few seas are as cold, and few shelves are as vast, as those in the Gulf of Alaska and the Bering Sea.

  Winds that blow over the relative shallows of continental shelves cause the waters to circulate from seafloor to surface, unlike in deepest ocean where currents drive the water only horizontally. The wind-driven circulation upwells seafloor nutrients from the lightless depths. Traveling upwards with the nutrients and feeding on them are the plankton. When the plankton approach the surface they absorb the light available there—which they need as much as food in order to grow—and they multiply by the billions. In tropical water the warmth matures them so rapidly that they zip through life and die within hours, but in cold water plankton stay roiling through the column alive and fresh. They anchor the aquatic food chain.

  Into this rhythm enters man, the universal predator of land, air, and sea, whom nature has programmed as relentlessly as the plankton to eat or die. With hook, spear, net, and cage this two-legged intruder has devised ways to inject himself among the sea’s occupants and take his nourishment as efficiently as the cod. He enters the oceans with cunning and skill.

  The twin caldrons of the Bering Sea and the Gulf of Alaska thus teem with both fish and fishermen. The fish and marine mammals have no choice but to be there. Seabirds cannot roam too far from water. The fishermen who choose to enter the system may have other options on land, but on water they must accept some of the most primal forces of God’s universe. They live with sunrises, storms, and tides, self-reliant and alive, absorbed for the time into nature’s ocean cycle.

  PART I


  1978

  ALASKA

  1

  STORM FIELDS

  SHELIKOF STRAIT APPROACHING KODIAK, 3 JULY 1978

  Minute by minute the northeaster gained momentum as it tunneled its force between the dim, snowy mountains on either side of the strait. A swell bigger than the rest rolled toward them, built into a foaming monster, and tried to engulf the bow. Instead, the boat rolled up steeply and gracefully before the sea could break in force, and globs of water that drummed on the wheelhouse roof dissipated into thick ripples down the windows. I don’t feel like bucking this today, Hank Crawford thought without heat.

  The others whooped, enjoying the ride, their feet in sandals braced apart on the pitching, carpeted deck of the wheelhouse. Good boat. And he knew how to handle her, that’s why they could laugh. Another wave came, then another. He steered smoothly to meet them. Where better could he be, after all, than here aboard his own boat, in control, heading home, the hold plugged with salmon? It barely mattered, much, that he was tendering other guys’ reds from Chignik instead of catching them with Jones and the rest off Igvak. That was the price for owning too big a boat to limit-seine between crab seasons. What the hell, this is my time, he decided, feeling mellow about it, and this is my place.

  “Shitty weather, eh Hank ol’ boss?” yawned Seth, swaying with the motion.

  “Never seen worse, man the lifeboats.”

  “Man, remember two winters ago in the Bering, way north around Misty Moon and Pribilofs in the Bering? Man, gusting a hundred, ice all over the crab pots? Had to crawl ass-level just to chip ice? That’s the day, man, I thought we was ..When Seth trailed off, Hank knew worse memories had returned.

  John and Mo, the other crewmen, remained quiet when the two old-timers started reminiscing. Their history aboard the Jody S covered months instead of years. “Hey, you apes,” said Hank to draw them in. “Signing up to box tomorrow?”

  “Not me,” John declared. His big eyes seemed always serious and disapproving. “Going as far from town as you can get. My girlfriend and a book.”

  “Sure, Boss, hell yes,” said Mo in a voice as sturdy as his arms. “Do it for the boat, okay?”

  “I didn’t mean you had to.”

  “Only one Fourth of July a year—I want to. How about you, Boss, you going to take on somebody?”

  Hank steered them through a drumming wave, and called over the noise: “No chance. There’s Jody if I want a fight.” They all laughed.

  One of the waves rose out of all proportion, its rhythm broken by a cross swell, and the bow suddenly thudded into a wall of sea rather than riding over it. Catapults of water shot toward them. “Duck!” cried Hank, crouching. The force moved through as if no reinforced glass intervened, crashing the windows to engulf them in kicking, pulling water. It covered Hank with frightening coldness. Spitting bitter salt, eyes nearly blinded from the sting, he struggled upright into a blast of wind, his hand still clasped on the steering lever. The boat veered to port with a jolt like a kick. Without control they’d broach! He gunned the engine and steered to starboard. This took the boat on a sickening roll that slammed water and debris around his legs. The next wave broke and covered them with new water that surged through the door to the bunks and galley below.

  He kept his voice calm. “Seth, check engine door, start bilge pumps. Mo, John, open survival suits, don’t panic.” Seth’s burly figure stumbled away dripping, faster than the others could merely gain their feet. With one hand steering Hank grabbed both sideband and VHF microphones: “Allships, Adele H and allships, this is Jody S, Jody S, just north of Miners Point Shelikof Strait, stand by, Jody S two miles off Miners Point just north—” He held off declaring Mayday, but kept his grip on the mike. Who’d be around? Most boats fishing Igvak would have headed home to Kodiak for the holiday. To his men, shouting to make sure Seth heard: “Turning hard to starboard, hold tight, Seth hold tight.”

  He maneuvered the boat onto the crest of a lesser wave, then throttled full ahead and turned the rudder hard. She dipped, rolled, and rose, to slamming wood and metal, as water swept his feet. “Oh Jesus!” wailed John. Seth and Mo bellowed obscenities. There was a moment of disoriented chaos, then blessed stability. Thank God for power, the boat had pivoted before the next trough caught it, and they rode on an exact opposite course with seas astern. He adjusted to quarter the seas for retreat into Uganik Bay. The violent pitch became a bouncing roll.

  “Seth! You okay?”

  “Yeah, but wet as a fucker. Bilge pumping good, both engine room and hold. But fuckin’ water everywhere in the bunks and galley. Need help down here.”

  “Jody S, Jody S, you read me? Over,” from the sideband. It was Jones Henry’s voice, from the Adele H, wiry and calm but urgent.

  Hank motioned the other two below. John stood wide-eyed and trembling, barely able to hold himself upright, his wet hair slapped to his head like seaweed, a mess of debris plastered around his legs. He might have been twenty-two, but he looked as helpless as a kid of ten. Mo, younger in years, had already managed to extract three of the survival suits from their thick bags despite a bleeding gash in his arm. He quickly laid the heavy foam rubber garments on the chart table and started to go. Pausing halfway he returned, punched John on the shoulder, and led him along.

  “Jody S, Jody S, you read me? Over.”

  “Stand by, Jones,” snapped Hank, and let the microphone dangle. He watched each roll anxiously. She bounced back from port, but paused sluggishly to starboard before returning. The unevenness meant more than mere water sloshing below. Some weight had shifted permanently, leaving a steady list extreme enough for another trick sea to capsize them. Everything in the engine room was bolted, the big objects on deck secured. That left the hold; fish must have shifted when they turned. Could he risk guys on deck? Leaning far out the lee side, he watched the stem where water slapped over the rail and gurgled across the main hatch. Ahead he could see surf breaking below the high bluff of Miners Point, they were that close to shelter, but if another rogue wave caught them, running unstable . . . He bit his lip, trying to decide as he shouted for Seth and the others.

  “Jody S—”

  “Adele H, Adele H, this is Jody S. Howdy Jones. Strong nor’easter out here, warning all boats.” He considered, decided it would be no secret. “Big sea stove in our windows. Got a starboard list but soon under control, headed for Uganik. No emergency but you might stand by. Out for now.”

  Seth had cuts on his face and grease everywhere on the light clothing he wore. Even his eyebrows dripped grease. Laugh about it later. Hank said that their salmon might have shifted, and Seth required no further explanation. The sideband began to sputter with voices led urgently by Jones, asking if he needed help, demanding a confirmed position. Hank studied the restless water, ignoring the calls but relieved to be monitored. Decide quickly. “Seth take over here. We’ll slow to minimize the waves and find you the easiest course to steer while I go down—”

  Seth grabbed his survival suit from the pile and began pushing his feet into the booted legs. “I’m deck boss here, not you. You steer. Tie a line around my waist, and this rubber thing’11 float me if I get washed over. Just promise to fuckin’ turn around for me.”

  It made sense. “We’ll throw John over to save you instead,” Hank said to lighten it.

  “No way . . .,” murmured John uneasily.

  “Hey, that’ll do it,” Seth hooted.

  Hank watched tensely through the limited view around the housing as Seth, belayed to a line and suited in the clumsy orange rubber coverall that enclosed everything but his face, helped Mo lift the heavy hatch cover, then jumped through the opening into the fish. Despite his own care, water kept breaking over the rail to unbalance them. Where the hell was John, he should be helping! Oh. Mo had a similar line tied around his waist, presumably tended by John out of sight since it stayed taut with jerking exactitude.

  Seth wriggled into the mass of salmon slanted high to starboard, and
began pedaling his legs to start them moving. Sluggishly the load began to shift. As the boat slowly regained balance, several high gusts blew and a wave lapped into the hold. “Mo! Tell him to get out, we’re okay now.”

  Mo conveyed the message and called: “Says the boards on the starboard bins, they’re broken loose, he’s going to put them back, that’s why the fish shifted, says won’t take long.”

  The gray water kept rolling. No lee for at least another mile and a half. The orange figure slipped from view. Boards thumped as Seth worked them back into their tracks, then silence. “What’s he doing? Tell him that’s good enough.”

  Mo leaned into the hold just as a wave poured over his back. He cursed automatically and grinned up: “Pitching fish into the port-side bin. Says too bad we have so fuckin’ many. Want me to go help?”

  “No, no, mind his line, tell him hurry.”

  Suddenly a wave swept broadside, inundated the hatch opening, and drove Mo across the deck. Water filled the hold so high that fish floated out. Hank started down, crying, “Pull his line, pull, Pull” then backtracked at the thought of losing the boat without control. He switched the steering to autopilot, and raced down the ladder to deck through the galley, shoving John aside in the doorway. Mo tugged at Seth’s line, but it hung on some hidden snag. Hank submerged his head in the hold to grip the line better, yanked it in different directions until the snag freed, and pulled desperately until a blessed piece of orange appeared. The survival suit kept Seth afloat but he was limp. They grunted him out by the arms as waves hit the boat freely. Lost heading, throttle must have slipped to neutral, Hank thought. What should he do? What choice? They rested Seth head down, bent at the midriff over the rim of the hatch, to grip his legs and pull him out the rest of the way. On an impulse Hank pounded Seth’s back, bringing a gush of water from his mouth, followed by gagging and coughing. Thank God, thank God. He pounded again, then rushed back toward the wheel-house.