Three Beers
By John Hurwitz
It was late July ’85 when this strange tale took place. I had just switched over from salmon to albacore and decided to take on a deck hand. My boat was a Monk design, Sagstaad built, 50 ft troller. I had fished salmon alone, except for my dog, Pal, who was great company and a better deckhand than most guys walking the docks.
My new deckhand’s name was Stevie, and I knew little about him. I had heard that his only vice was his love for beer. I had a case of Brown Derby on the boat and figured he couldn’t get too crazy on that. (Mistake) A couple of hours out of port he started complaining about a nasty toothache. I gave him a beer in lieu of pain medication. (Mistake) About a hundred miles off we crossed the edge into sixty-three degree blue water and the lines went down. While bringing in the first “albie,” about a 12-14 pounder, Stevie pulled a muscle in his arm. He couldn’t continue, so being the nice guy that I am, I replaced him in the stern and he took over as Captain. We hammered the fish and had three and a half ton in two and a half days. Suddenly, my spray brine pump seized up and quit. I decided to head for port to get a new pump and quickly get back out there. I cleaned up the deck and got things squared away. Meanwhile, up in the wheelhouse, there was a party going on. All the beer was gone and Stevie, still lame with the pulled muscle, was bitching about the toothache.
I told him just what I thought of all this. I warned him that he wouldn’t be going out on this boat again unless he got the tooth fixed and his arm treated. Eventually we got in, sold the fish,(his % brought him about $600.) and finished cleaning up the boat. As luck would have it the weather turned heavy northwest and promised to continue for a week. I replaced the defective pump and went home to see my wife and soon to be son (she was pregnant).
In a few days the weather calmed, so I called Stevie and told him to get the boat ready, saying that I would be there tomorrow. The next day I arrived with all the groceries along with two six-packs of Brown Derby. All seemed ready, so I started to back out of the slip. About half way out of the slip, Stevie announced, “My godammed tooth is killing me.” I stopped, pulled back into the slip and said, “I don’t #@%a&* believe this. You had a week to get that fixed. You have two hours. This boat is leaving in two hours and the only way you’ll be on it, is if you are minus one tooth!”
I waited two hours, running upptown for last minute stuff etc, fuming over the fact that he had not even attempted to get his tooth fixed. The time passed and no Stevie. I climbed up to the bridge, put the boat into reverse, pulled out and headed into the river, through the bar, and out to sea. As I cleared the harbor and headed west, I saw a friend of mine, Frank, out ahead of me about a half mile. I called him on the radio and told him my situation. “Just me and Pal,” I said. He suggested we run together, as he had a deckhand, and between them, they could keep an eye on me by radar if I needed to rest during the night.
It was agreed that we would run west until we either hit the warm water edge or ran into the wind. If we ran into wind we would just turn downhill with it and slide for the night. We were about thirty miles off Pt Arena and if you slide straight down the hill, south by southeast, you end up about one hundred thirty miles west of the Farralon Islands the next day. As you pass the point, the land cuts east and continues to fade eastward all the way to San Francisco.
We were running about a half mile apart and he was ahead of me about another quarter mile. We hit heavy northwest wind about thirty miles off and went to Plan B, turning downhill. It was about eleven pm when we made the downhill turn. I elected to take some bunk time for the first hour or so. They would keep track of me on the radar, and could call me on the radio if a target appeared, or if my pilot went haywire. I climbed into my day bunk in the wheelhouse. It was situated port to starboard, so I wasn’t in danger of being flipped out on the roll of the boat. As I lay there, dozing, I felt something amiss. Each time the boat rolled to port and then came back to starboard, there was a noticeable shimmy, or vibration. I lay there for awhile until it drove me out of the bunk. I had to take a look. Flipping on the decklights, I went out on the back deck. Facing forward, I began to scan the rigging; there it was. The tie-down chain on the starboard pole had broken, and each time the boat rolled to port, the pole would start to swing back toward the rack. Then, as the boat rolled back to starboard, it would fall back down into place at the end of its ropes. Each time this happened, the boat shuddered from the weight of the falling pole.
I called Frank and told him I was going to slow down to repair the chain before going on. I didn’t have the stabilizers in the water, so the poles were free to move around. Frank called back and said they would move in to close the gap and keep an eye on me as I hung over the side in my attempt to re-chain this pole.
After countless heart-pounding tries, it was done. I was breathing hard, the adrenalin was pumping, and my mouth was dry. I needed one of those beers I brought along for my “former” deckhand. The spray-brine in the hold was about eleven to twelve degrees F. Removing the hatch cover, I lowered a bucket, scooped up a pail of the brine, brought it back up to the deck, found three beers and dropped them into the bucket. I replaced the hatch cover and returned to the wheelhouse. I called Frank to let him know everything was okay and that we could jack ‘em back up to running speed.
A short time later, I went back out on deck and reached into the bucket for a beer. Just as I started to open it, I got a call from Frank’s deckhand letting me know that we had a target coming northbound at eight miles and closing fast. I checked my radar and we decided to turn out a few degrees to avoid any problems. I made the course correction, checked the new course and went back outside to get my beer. No beer, it was gone. There were two beers left in the bucket. I thought, “I must have taken it with me when I went to answer the call.” I looked, no luck. I got another beer from the bucket and just started to open it when again, Frank’s deckhand was calling. I went in and answered. He said the target had changed course and we needed to reset further outside to miss him. We made the correction and I went back out for my beer. Gone! I started to get an eerie feeling, but said to myself, “B—s--, you must have taken it into the wheelhouse with you.” I looked in the bucket; there was one beer left. Back I went into the wheelhouse, I tore the place apart looking for any bottle of beer. No luck. Giving up, I went out to the back deck to get the last beer. The bucket was empty.
I panicked! I ran for the wheelhouse, slammed the door and locked it. I bolted the side door and tried to be calm for a minute. “Stevie must be on the boat!” That’s all I could think of. I got out my .45, checked the fo’c’sle, and put two knives in my belt. I was ready.
Anyone who has ever been to sea knows that it’s a very dangerous place. Anyone with murder on his mind would find it quite easy. A little shove to the back at three in the morning, you’re gone forever. No one can prove a thing. I was convinced that Stevie had come back on board when I wasn’t watching and intended me no good. Sweating, I called Frank. He laughed and hummed the Twilight Zone theme song to me. That didn’t help. I needed an ally, not a comedian. I switched on all the lights in the boat. I was going to shoot on sight. This went on for a couple of hours. Finally, dawn began to seep onto the horizon. I began to feel better seeing some light. I might survive this night yet. As it got lighter, I got bolder. At full dawn, I unlocked the back door and edged out slowly. I looked in the hold, nothing. I looked up and down both companionways on either side of the wheelhouse, nothing. “Aha,” I thought, I ran back and threw off the pit cover, nothing. Checked the lazarette, nothing. Climbed up the flying bridge ladder, nothing. Finally, feeling a little better, I edged forward up behind the anchor winch, nothing. Suddenly, I saw something move in front of the anchor winch. My hand tightened around the handle of my .45. I moved around the winch…ready to fire. There lay Pal, my golden retriever, with three beers cradled between his paws.