tacorajim
2009-01-19 01:25:11
It was snotty but not that rough, yet my notion was that we had ventured too far offshore the night before. Now we were back wthin 200 miles and inside the Baseline where we could soon get a Loran reading. The first reliable fix that afternoon put us 180 miles off Point Sur. Our northerly course kept the port bow tossing up clouds of spray, as we lunged beneath them making our way up the line in search of albacore. Four days out of Pedro, we had yet to land that first ton.
We knew two other tuna boats with wives and kids aboard – the
The farther up and in we got, the bigger the northwest swell, although the period between crests synchronized with the lazy yaw of our 60-foot
Our boys, aged 10 and 12 took to the new deckhand, affectionally called “Uncle Billy”. My wife and I had been thanked a dozen times for rescuing him from San Pedro where he couldn’t stop squandering all his wife’s waitressing tips at the track. Even when he got work on a squid boat or whatever, he’d blow it all on the horses. And if a buddy was with him, he’d borrow and sprint to the ticket cage, doubling up on the next available race.
We motored onto the rising ramp of the next available wave as it just began to lift. My adrenalin suddenly ignited. My wife screamed,
Billy regained his composure, stood by me shoulder to shoulder, dividing his glances between the gauges and what might come over the horizon. Another freak might follow. Jane summoned the kids and whisked them back to huddle in her bunk and say a prayer or something.
I wrestled with this mounting residual sense of emergency now even more than ever. Although we survived what seemed like the worst, what about hull damage or mechanical failure. Billy studied the gauges. I said, “The starboard engine’s heating up like crazy. I’m shutting her down. There won’t be enough power for steerage on one engine alone, even if we turn downhill.” Billy noticed me correcting course by constantly whipping the wheel back and forth. “With both engines running she steers by herself.” My head shook with nervous frustration. I couldn’t leave the wheel.
“Want me to prime it?” Billy asked.
“She lost her prime when we flew through the air, but can you prime it while I steer?”
“Sure. I watched you do it when we came off the ways in Pedro.”
“Great, Billy. Go below in the galley and open the engineroom door. There’s a gallon of distilled battery water inside on your right. That should be plenty. I’ll open the overhead hatch to give you more light.”
Both engines soon synched at 1500 RPMs. No apparent leaks. Though we made it through unscathed, sometimes you need an attitude adjustment. So we set course for Monterey Bay, breaking the trip in half, determined to lounge on the beaches, drink plenty of wine, and barbeque every night.
What few albacore we sold in Monterey wasn’t enough to top off the tanks. We were desparate enough to consider poaching halibut a week later when out of the blue this vintage sailboat dropped anchor. We soon heard they cooked their engine. The hired skipper took his things off the boat and skipped town. He’d brought her up from Brazil. Billy made friends easily, and soon met the owner’s son on the dock. He said he might, just might be able to talk his skipper into towing her up to San Francisco for a fee. We met, and agreed on a sum equal to five tons of tuna. Half in advance. Meanwhile we heard some good scores off Oregon. This would get us closer.
I don’t know how many lines we broke towing that old 50-foot ketch up to the Golden Gate. But we finally tied up in Alameda where the owner was waiting with the rest of the money. We partied that night.
The following day one of the boys slid open the cabin door, but did not step inside. He was sobbing uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face. I couldn’t imagine what might fill this child with such grief. He was anything but a crybaby. “Uncle Billy’s leaving.”
Despite my pleas, Billy had made up his mind to go back home to Pedro – patch things up with Becky. Being around our little family was fun, but it made him awfully lonesome. I suggested he walk up to the bank with me so I could pay him. “No Sir!” He looked me straight in the eye.
“If you gave me money, I’d catch a bus to Bay Meadows and blow it all on the horses.” We shook hands. I never saw him again, nor did I replace him. How could I?