Seaworthy by Linda Greenlaw Read Free Book Online Page B

the grave. Think of what we’ve accomplished. And we haven’t even caught a fish yet.” Archie’s voice cracked a bit. I sensed that he was very emotional, so I said good night. We were way beyond captain and crew aboard the Seahawk. We were a group of friends. It was cool.
    â€œThanks for bringing me fishing with you, Linny,” said Hiltzie.
    â€œYou’re welcome. Thank you for agreeing to make the trip.” I hurried down the stairs into the stateroom I was to share with Archie and climbed into the top bunk. I’d never had a roommate on a fishing trip before and would have preferred my own space. But as long as I had to share, I was sure glad that it was with Archie. I hoped that Dave would still be thanking me at the end of the trip. This should really be a great experience for him, I thought as I pulled my sleeping bag up under my chin. And I was certainly feeling good about affording Dave this unique opportunity. If we could “hatch” the boat (fill the hold with fish) twice and hit the market at the right times, we’d all be happy about more than just a good experience. I wouldn’t miss lobstering at all. I knew that Hiltzie wouldn’t either.
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    I really despise sleeping bags. They make me feel all cooped up, like a bug in a cocoon, but not remotely cozy. I would have unzipped the bag, freeing my claustrophobic feet from the skinny, dead end if I could have sat up. This had to be the smallest bunk I’d ever been crammed into. There wasn’t an inch of extra room in it—even turning over would be prohibited by hips and shoulders. Good thing I could sleep on my back. Well, I couldn’t expect to return to swordfishing after being away so long and step right aboard the best boat. Archie was right—the Seahawk was fine. Besides, it had taken me many years to work my way up to the Hannah Boden. And the Seahawk had plenty of character. Small bunks but big personality. Plus, there really weren’t many boats left in the industry to choose from, even if I’d been given the option of running another, I realized as I started a mental count.
    The position of skipper aboard a U.S. Grand Banks longline vessel is the absolute pinnacle of the commercial fishing world. I had always felt I was one of the few who remained of a dying breed of blue-water fishermen. And now that the number of Grand Bankers that sailed from the United States to catch swordfish was down to half a dozen boats or so, being one of their captains really placed me on an endangered-species list. I had always taken great pride in introducing myself as a commercial fisherman, in spite of the public’s misconceptions. We had long gotten a bad (and sometimes deservedly so) rap for pillaging our way through precious natural resources and promoting the eating of unhealthy fish, but the tide had turned. The latest government research had proved that the North Atlantic swordfish stock was totally rebuilt. And my understanding was that science was saying the presence of selenium negated any adverse effect or danger of mercury from consuming swordfish. I was proud to be heading out in more of a politically correct and environmentally healthy atmosphere than the one I had left. Yes, there is a certain snob appeal in being a member of such an elite group of men who risk all in pursuit of fish. And I had always felt that commercial fishing is a noble profession. We feed the world. But I had better get to sleep soon, I told myself. There wasn’t a lot of room in this bunk for a swollen head.
    Apparently all my happy thoughts produced great sleep. “Time to get up, Skipper. Six o’clock,” Machado said, loudly enough to wake me but softly enough to not bother Archie, who was snoring in the bunk below. Had I really passed out for nine and a half hours? The stretch down from my bunk was a long one for short legs, and I had to place my foot carefully on the edge of the lower bunk to