Message-ID: <3702EE00.C8091D2F@netzero.net> Date: Wed, 31 Mar 1999 22:54:43 -0500 From: Ann Marie Tajuddin Subject: SoS 2 Ann Marie K. Tajuddin Sink or Swim 2 ------ "Sink or Swim" Part II September, 1986 Gulf of Alaska, AK The rest of the set was pulled in relative silence. After the "barn door" Sam helped over, the line "went dead", as Elliot put it, and, although it put Elliot and Steve into a fowl mood because they'd have to set another line, it made Sam relieved. Mainly because, after the line was pulled in and the equipment secured, they had to cut out the stomach of each fish, a task that disgusted Sam, in spite of his medical training. When they finally retired inside the cabin, Sam was incredibly grateful. He was even more grateful that Al was still present. "Well," Elliot started, peeling off his rain gear and casting a look at Kate, who was seated at the galley table, "working hard in here, are we?" His tone was a shade beyond teasing. She'd gone inside as soon as the last empty hook had come up, leaving them to finish pulling in the line, clean the fish and the deck, and put away all the gear. "Oh, yeah," she crowed, seemingly undisturbed by his prodding. "Reading a book." He smirked. "Hey," she protested, casting Sam a smile, "that can be _really_ hard work in this weather, you know?" Immediately, Sam liked her. Now that she was in a relatively normal setting, he could see more of her. Her hair was long, a lighter shade of brown than Sam's own, and she had it loose, spilling about her shoulders like a curtain. She wasn't exactly pretty, but there was a self-assuredness about her that seemed to say 'if I can handle _this_, I can handle anything.' Even Al grinned. "Kid's got spunk," he announced. Sam knew his partner liked her, too. Steve just ignored all three of them, apparently used to the banter. Elliot glanced out the porthole. The weather had picked up considerably and they were being tossed around mercilessly. Sam's stomach still bounced around with it. Al's promise that his body would adjust in "a mere 20 hours or so" was little comfort. Come to think of it, Kate was looking a little unsteady herself, but she seemed to be doing a better job of covering. "The gale gods are displeased," Elliot said. "We must cast the observer into the sea." "It could only bring relief from being cooped up with you," she replied, still unperturbed. Al laughed. "That's what the last four said. Observers are a dime a dozen." "And $250 a day." Sam hung up his rain gear, watching as Elliot grabbed a frozen meal from the freezer, tossed it into the microwave, and then retired to a room off the galley. Through another door, he could see a set of bunk beds built into the wall of a small space. To his left was a flight upstairs that led to...he could only guess. Sam sat across from Kate, more to steady his stomach than anything else. "So...what exactly do you do?" he asked her. Al sat down on his chair and watched Sam. He'd been unusually quiet the past few minutes. "First time working with an observer?" she asked in understanding. Sam choked back a laugh. "Oh, I guess I shoulda figured you didn't know why I'm here." She grinned. "Steve's good about this, but I think Elliot may have had a bad experience with an observer before." "Sam, the boats you've been on were all too small to need an observer," Al informed him. "I doubt Allen ever _has_ worked with one before." "I've never been on a boat big enough...I guess," Sam repeated uncertainly. She nodded, as if she dealt with this all the time. "We work for the National Marine Fisheries Service. Well," she amended, brushing her hair behind her ear, "not really. Here's the deal: the boat is required by NMFS to have an observer. Boats 60 to 120 feet have to have one thirty percent of all fishing days, and boats over 120 feet have to have one 100 percent of the time. This is a thirty percent boat. So Steve calls a contractor and the contractor sends me. He pays them, they pay me, and I report to NMFS." Sam glanced at Al, but he was engrossed in arguing with the handlink. Presumably, he already knew what Kate was talking about. Either that, or he just didn't want to admit that he didn't. It seemed that, just because Al had worked on a fishing vessel, it didn't necessarily mean he'd worked with a observer. "There are exceptions," she continued, looking slightly more pale as she went. The constant motion _was_ getting to her, too, then. "I'm a Groundfish Observer, so I don't go on crabbers or salmon boats. And if you guys weren't fishing black cod, I wouldn't be here for the halibut. But, basically, I just collect data. Then NMFS uses that data both for scientific use and to determine when to close a fishery." Before Sam could ask another question, she stood up. "Excuse me, I think I need to pop a Dramamine or two." Her grin was lopsided. "I hate doing that, but we're obviously not going to be fishing anytime soon, not with this weather..." Sam nodded and gazed at her as she stumbled out, timing her movement from one part of the cabin to another with the motion of the boat. "Well, Sam, there you have it," Al proclaimed. "There I have _what_?" Sam demanded, a little angry. "I don't know when she dies, I don't know how. Don't you have any more data?" Al shook the link and it squealed in protest. "Well, the Coast Guard did a full investigation, of course, but we haven't been able to get into the records yet. All we know is that the weather gets really bad and Steve can't get the boat into shelter at the snap of his fingers, y'know? You're a good eight hours from shore in _good_ weather. You'll only make six knots in this soup, four as it gets worse." Sam leaned against the back of the booth and sighed deeply. Elliot came out of his room, grabbed his dinner, and returned to his small quarters. Sam glanced in the room before he shut the door. It was dark, another bunk bed in the corner, but the top bunk was filled with what looked like luggage. Sam furrowed his brow. "Al, where do I stay?" Both eyebrows went up and he pulled out the handlink, banging it against his hip to get it going. "Well, Ziggy says there's a room off the wheelhouse, so-" "Off the what?" Sam interrupted, leaning forward. "The wheelhouse." Al looked up at him. "The bridge," he clarified. "On these little fishing boats, it's the wheelhouse. Then you have the galley, the head, the rack..." "Rack?" Sam was beginning to be irritated. He hated feeling slow. "Bunk." Sam exhaled in frustration. "Anyhow, there's a small room off the wheelhouse, so Steve probably gets that because he's the skipper." He glanced up the stairs, indicating to Sam the location of both locations. "You probably sleep in there." He pointed to the room straight back, door closed. "No, Al, that's where Kate went." Al shrugged. "So? Doesn't matter on these vessels - observers rarely even get their own staterooms on the bigger boats, certainly not on these dinky things." Before Sam could stop him, he'd walked through the door. He returned to his friend's disapproving gaze. "She's passed out on the bottom bunk and so you've probably got the top one. Geez, Sam, a few hours on board and you're already sleeping-" "Don't!" Sam warned. Al rocked on his heels and grinned. Sam made an exasperated face: to say that Al had a bit of a lecherous side was like saying that halibut had a bit of trouble breathing on land. And he still wasn't letting up, either. "You lucky dog. A rate of fifty guys to one girl and you get the only one for _miles_." "Al," Sam admonished. "At least she doesn't have to stay with that nozzle." The cigar indicated the other door as he abruptly changed tracks. "If I was really here, I'd-" "Al," Sam interrupted again with practiced ease, "I don't get it - what did she mean about Elliot?" Al switched tracks and faced Sam again. "Having an observer on board is like having someone looking over your shoulder every minute." "I can't imagine." Al ignored the comment. "Remember how I said she was slowing you down?" Sam nodded, glancing behind him to make sure he wasn't being overheard. "Well, regulations say if they catch any halibut they're not going to keep - they call 'em chickens - they have to shake them off the line so their jaws aren't torn. It really slows them down, especially if they have a lot of them, but they usually ignore that regulation. Well," he amended, "on most boats, anyhow. But if they don't do it while the observer's on board, it ends up in their logbook and the boat could be fined." "I think I understand," Sam stated. "Basically, she's the outsider." "Yeah." Al glanced at his watch. "Oh, Sam, I've got an errand to run in town; you gonna be okay for a while?" "Steve said we'd get a couple hours before we had to bait tubs, whatever that is." Al waved a hand through the air. "Oh, you can handle that, no problem. That's just baiting the hooks. It's time-consuming, but you can get the gist of it really easy. Plus you're not supposed to be as fast as the rest of them." The silvery light of the Door crawled up behind Al. "Oh, and, by the way, you're the cook. Have fun!" He waggled his fingers at Sam and the Door slammed shut. ~~~~~~ November, 1999 Santa Fe, NM Al slowed to a crawl and glanced at the map again, then grunted and pulled it over the steering wheel so he could drive and navigate at the same time. He'd found the right area, but couldn't seem to find the right apartment complex. Why on earth did he agree to do this, anyhow? What did he know about this situation? But Bruce had pleaded and he had agreed and Al always kept his promises. So when the small cluster of buildings pulled into view, leaving his sparkling Ferrari distinctly out-of-place, he tossed the city map aside and slid his pride and joy into a space as far away from any other vehicle he could find. A quick scan revealed the number and building he wanted and he set out in that direction. It had been a long time since he'd seen Karen and he wondered absently if she'd recognize him, or, more importantly, if he'd recognize her. The apartment he finally arrived at was nothing to write home about, except maybe to plead for money. A ratty welcome mat with a pineapple picture on it was coming unraveled at the edges, and the word 'Welcome' now seemed more like a hopeless jumble of symbols from a foreign language. He wiped his feet on the mat anyhow, even though it probably just soiled the soles of his shoes further, and knocked on the door. The soft sounds of talking reached him and then the peephole darkened as someone inspected him. Someone grumbled and Al's heart skipped several beats out of the mere surprise. The door scraped open and a boy - he couldn't possibly be more than 20 - stood in the slight opening. He wore no shirt, a pair of jeans that hung loosely from his hips (much to Al's distaste), and a toothpick hung from his mouth. "Sorry," Al said halfheartedly, "I was looking for a Carrie Martel." The kid sagged against the door frame, running a hand through his disheveled dusty-brown hair. "I'm Cary." "Cary?" a tearful voice called. A female voice. Al recovered from his shock and he pushed his way into the house, ignoring Cary's protests. "Karen?" he called, moving further into the place, ignoring the cluttered appearance of the place. Cary obviously didn't have a lot of money and- He stopped dead in his tracks. Curled up on the couch was Karen - all fears about recognizing her were laid to rest: he'd know her anywhere. However, judging by the way her frightened green eyes took him in, she didn't know him. "Karen?" he repeated, taking a step closer. She pressed further into the corner of the sofa, clutching herself and he whipped around to face Cary. "What did you do?" Cary backed up a step, then seemed to recall that he was in his own home, and straightened. "What did you do to her?" Al repeated fiercely. "Who _are_ you?" Cary countered. "Get outta here or I'm calling the police." Al's eyes blazed. "What, did you rape her, you bastard?" He had effectively backed Cary into a corner. "No!" Cary protested. "She's my friend, how could I-" Al hit him. Cary staggered against the wall and Karen shrieked, moving for the first time from her position. "Stop!" she cried, grabbing Al's arm as Cary, pitifully unable to defend himself, cowered against the wall. "Stop, or I'm calling the cops!" Al turned to her. "Karen, what are you _doing_ here?" She squinted at him. "Who are you and how do you know my..." Her eyes caught the light of recognition, then anger. "What are you doing here? Did my father send you?" Al caught her wrist as she turned away. "Yes. Karen, he's worried about you." "He didn't seem to be the other night," she protested, but it was weak. The rage vanished behind a curtain. "He is. You know he is. Karen, please, can't you at least talk to me?" She hesitated and he saw the little girl who used to curl up in his lap when she got in trouble with her parents, who used to stare, mesmerized, at the sunset, who used to laugh when he tickled her. Al held her tightly and, suddenly, she was five years old again. [Just a quick, but heartfelt thank you to those who have written about Rebirth. I was amazed at the number of comments I've had just in the past few days. THANK YOU! (if I'd known doing that would have gotten that kind of response, I'd've done it a long time ago... ;-) -amkt]