He watched the young man’s mouth open and close silently as he struggled for something useful to say.
Jeff turned abruptly and left the cockpit, cursing his stupidity and weakness for promising to take the boy on. Clearly the fool would much rather be at home (in the warmth) with his feet up on his mother’s threadbare furniture and staring lifelessly at the drip feed of daytime cable.
But a promise was a promise.
Tom’s mother had pleaded with him to take the lad along, with a beseeching smile that seemed to promise a little more than gratitude for his troubles.
She’d wanted to shake the idle waster out of the rut he’d comfortably rolled into. She was confident that a few days of hard graft rewarded with several hundred dollars of his share on the catch, maybe even a full thousand for him to play around with, would be the kick in the pants he needed.
Next time, you idiot, Jeff muttered to himself, let the Big Head do the thinking.
Outside he walked across the aft deck towards the portside outrigger, where the other two members of his young crew were leaning out studying the net with the aid of a torch. Ian and Duncan were cousins, or second cousins or something. They seemed to come as a pair, neither prepared to crew without the other. Which was fine. They were both good workers, he’d taken them on over a dozen trips before, and they’d made good money on all of them.
‘Net’s rigid, Skip,’ said Duncan as he passed the torch to Jeff.
Jeff shone it on the outrigger, which was bent like a fully drawn bow and buckled near the end. That was going to cost a little to straighten out or be replaced.
He panned down to the net. It was as taut as cable wire and beginning to fray.
‘Shit, we better back up a little before something gives.’
He turned towards the pilothouse to see Tom standing in the doorway, shuffling from one foot to the other guiltily awaiting instructions and, it seemed, eager to make amends.
‘Put her in reverse . . . gently,’ he shouted. Tom nodded eagerly and went back to the helm. The trawler shuddered as gears engaged and the gentle diesel rumble changed to a rhythmic chug. Slowly the boat eased back, the outrigger swung with a metallic groan and the net slackened.
Jeff waved his hand at Tom, and the rhythm of the engine changed again as she went back into neutral. The trawler drifted a few more feet backward under its own momentum and then came to rest.
On the calm, mirror surface of the sea, the boat was unnaturally still.
‘Shall we try and pull in the net, Skip?’ asked Ian.
‘Yeah, but go gently . . . I don’t want any more damage done if it can be helped.’
Ian reached for a lever beside the base of the starboard outrigger and pulled it down. With a clunk and a rattle the motor on the hydraulic winch whirred to life and began winding in the net. Jeff watched the fibres of the net begin to stretch and the winch’s motor began to struggle.
‘It’s not coming in,’ shouted Ian above the noise. He looked at Jeff and placed a hand back on the lever, ready to put the motor out of its misery.
‘Nope. Damned thing’s snagged. Shut it off.’
The lad slammed the lever down and the motor on the hydraulic winch sputtered and died.
Jeff was looking at losing a hundred-dollar net if he didn’t play his cards right. A hundred-dollar net, four days of cruising diesel, the cost of groceries for four hungry mouths . . . and a less than stellar haul on ice, below decks, to pay for it all.
It was getting too dark to see anything. ‘Tom!’ He barked towards the pilothouse. ‘Put on the floods.’
Twin beams bathed the aft deck with a powerful white light, and all of a sudden twin 1000-watt halogen bulbs obliterated the last, faint glow of dusk. It was officially night.
‘Whad’ya want to do, Skip?’ asked Duncan.
Good question.
Jeff headed back inside the pilothouse. He looked sternly at Tom and tapped the depth sounder display with his knuckles.
‘You been watching this, right?’
Tom nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘All the time, right?’
‘Uh, yeah. It’s been nothing but flat bed for the last hour, Skip.’
‘Yeah? Well obviously it hasn’t because we’ve snagged our nets on something, and it sure as hell ain’t cod.’
Tom’s jaw flapped ineffectively again, his Adam’s apple bobbed in sympathy.