Page 40 of Untamed Coast

2017—Marconi Franco

Marco fought back a yawn, mouth wide open, as he gunned the outboard. The dinghy rose up onto plane. Salt spray blasted his face, stinging his cheeks. Water shot out from both sides of the hull as the boat accelerated. Wind and mist fogged his sunglasses, and he wiped them with one sleeve, which only made things worse. He steered by looking over the top of his shades.

Bill sat in the rear-facing bow seat of the dinghy as they sped across the water toward the head of Taku Harbor. The two men had dropped crab traps the night before, and Bill was ready to go first thing this morning, asking Marco if it was too soon to check for crab, like a kid on Christmas.

Bill zipped his coat up to the neck and shouted back toward Marco, “Thanks for letting me wear your jacket. Coming up here in July, I guess I just assumed it would be, you know, summer.”

Marco let himself laugh, shouting back over the roar of the engine. “This IS Alaska summer. It can get warm, but remember the Juneau Icefield just behind these hills is over 1,500 square miles. Of ice.”

It was his first laugh in days. Bill was the fresh air and perspective he needed. He hadn’t realized the funk he’d gotten into over the missing woman—the feeling that he’d failed her. The helpless weight of another loss.

He spotted the red-and-white float of the first trap and turned toward it. “I always carry an extra jacket or two and some guest XTRATUFs. Basic survival gear up here.”

Marco removed his sunglasses and stuck them in a pocket. He pointed at the pilings and dilapidated buildings onshore. “This over here was a cannery back in the day. Canneries operated all up and down the Inside Passage. Most of them are abandoned ruins now.”

Bill twisted to the other side, surveying the shore. “Anybody live here?”

“Nope, I think it’s officially a state park or something,” Marco shouted. “There’s a camping cabin onshore. Lots of commercial fishing boats overnight here.”

He slowed the boat, reached over the side, and snagged the float of one of their crab traps. Cold water ran up his arm and into the sleeve of his waterproof jacket. He handed the float to Bill. “Okay, bring her up. Just let the line pile in the bottom of the boat.”

Bill pulled the leaded line hand over hand. The crab trap broke the surface. He let out a whoop. “Whoa! How many? I can’t even count them.”

Marco handed Bill a pair of blue Atlas rubber gloves. “Okay, reach in and get them one at a time. Don’t let em pinch you. Like this…” He reached into the trap and grabbed a large male. His thumb pressed hard along the bottom of the animal, his palm cradling the top of the shell. He flipped it upside down. The claws flailed frantically. Marco’s grip kept his fingers just out of reach. The crab calmed and stopped struggling after just a second on its back.

Marco held his measuring device across the back of the shell to make sure it was within the legal limit. “Any of them smaller than this mark—that’s six and a half inches—we throw em back. Also any females—see how that one is smaller and has a wider center shape on the underside? That’s a female. Toss her back.”

The two men emptied the rest of the traps, filling their bucket with keepers, then headed back to Radio Flyer.

After they had stored the traps, Marco pulled a crab from the bucket. “I’ll show you how you clean em.”

He held the crab upside down, gripping it from both sides, and slammed it down on the sharp vertical edge of the cleaning table, breaking it in half. The claws on each half of the crab continued moving, grabbing at nothing. He lifted each half of the carapace off and threw it in the water. Then he took a finger and removed the gills and entrails from the middle. He finished by spraying each half with the boat’s washdown sprayer. “That’s all there is to it. Think you can do the rest?”

Bill nodded and picked up a crab. The claws began reaching for him. He let out a yelp and dropped it on the floor. He looked embarrassed, picked it up again, seemed to struggle a bit, and finally managed to crack it on the table.

One of the benefits of having guests. Crab-cleaning service.

“So, what do you think about what the cop told us about that woman’s family?” Marco asked.

“What do you mean?” Bill said.

“Well, the whole situation just never made sense to me,” Marco continued. “If she supposedly just fell overboard, why did she have an SSB handheld on her, and how did she survive a swim in those conditions to get to shore? And then why would her in-laws—these Pykes—be offering a reward? Seems like maybe they don’t buy it either. Did I tell you about the weird flat-black RIB that was out there? Wonder if the Pykes hired some paramilitary outfit to look for her.”

“I think you should move on, buddy.” Bill picked up another crab and cracked it against the edge of the cleaning table. “Worrying about her isn’t doing you any good, and it won’t bring Michelle back.”

“Probably right,” Marco said.

Marco climbed down into Radio Flyer’s engine room to do the checks for their voyage. The SSB was still hissing away up in the pilothouse. He was far out of range of any signal from the missing woman, but he just couldn’t bring himself to turn it off. Not just yet.

Once he completed his checklist, he closed the hatch and returned to the rear deck.

Bill was still struggling.

“Wanna go for a hike?” Marco asked. “There’s some cool stuff to check out here. Then we can get on our way down to Tracy Arm Cove.”

Bill threw a crab carapace into the water and rinsed the body. “Sounds great. I’ve just got two more crabs to go. Gonna take us a while to eat these things!”

Marco laughed and pulled on a boot. His sock was soaked—some water must have dripped in. “Dang, got me a soggy bobbie!”