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The further along the docks I went, the smaller the boats were, some with only a pair of people on board for their smaller operations. I stood watching a chartered fishing boat as a crew member tied it to the dock. The guests spilling off of it appeared to have had a good time. Most were regaling each other about the one theyalmostcaught or holding their arms apart and exaggerating the size of the ones they had. The common theme was sunburnt faces, coolers of beer, fun, and friendship.
After the guests had left, I was still standing there watching as the crew hosed down the decks and packed up for the day. Two of the guys were around my age and the other three were more seasoned in their years. One of the older, more grizzled looking of the three caught my eye.
“You looking for work, son?” he asked. “The hourly pay ain’t much for a deckhand but you’ll get a cut of the daily catch.”
“When do you head out each day?” I asked, familiar with the awful hours of commercial boats.
“We entertain tourists so departures aren’t that bad. I need another deck hand,” he explained.
“I’m experienced,” I stated. “I can help your guests fish.”
“Ya can, can ya?” he said, chuckling at my brevity. “What else ya got?”
“Well, sir, I’m a hard worker and I’ve been on the water since I could walk,” I said, watching his body language to see if he was buying my story. “I know all about the fish in these waters and what’s used to catch them.”
“What else?” he asked.
I’d saved my golden ticket for last. “I have my commercial fishing license, sir. You could use me and my license to take on more tourists.”
He grinned and came to the edge of the boat. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Bo Dawson, Captain.”
“You got a social security number, Bo Dawson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow at six sharp. Can you do six sharp?” he tested.
“In my sleep, sir.”
And that was how the fishing business worked. No long forms to fill out. No endless interviews or background checks. Hell, if you could fog a mirror, you could always get a job.
I walked around the docks for another hour or so, catching the smells of the salt water and the lingo of the workers, before stumbling upon a fish and chips joint that was packed with the local workers. I knew it had to be good as well as cheap if the dockside café had this many people waiting for their food.
I noticed one of the young guys from the boat earlier and he waved for me to join him. “Hey, mate,” he said, scooting over and making space on the old wooden picnic table. The tables were scattered around the deck with seagulls cleaning up the fries on the unoccupied ones. “Starting tomorrow, are you?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Good on ya,” he said, extending a hand for me to shake. “Ethan is my name.”
“Bo,” I said. “How long have you been on the crew,” I asked.
“Just a month,” he responded. “I’m new and still sleeping in my truck until I can save up more money. I eat from the tips I make each day.”
“You haven’t been paid yet?”
He shook his head and stuffed a piece of cod into his mouth. I watched as he chewed his food and swallowed.
“When do you get paid?” I asked.
“Every two weeks but the first one went to licenses and insurance to work on board. I get my first complete check in two days,” he explained. “Thank God, because I need gas for my truck, but with gas at four bucks a gallon, I can’t fill ‘er up just yet.”
Ethan was a good looking guy for sure. A bit country, no doubt, but quite handsome, nonetheless. He had blond hair like my own and was tan from his days crewing a fishing boat. His friendly smile convinced you to like him instantly, and I did.
“Can you give me a lift home? I’ll fill your truck up if you can,” I offered.
“You sure?” he asked. “My truck holds twenty five gallons, Bo. It’ll be at least a hundred bucks.”
