The engine of the Sea-Worn didn't so much roar as it grumbled, a discontented, phlegmy sound that vibrated up through the deck plates and into Sam Gunderson's bones. It was four-thirty in the morning, and the world was black water and a sky crammed with stars so bright they looked fake. The running lights of his thirty-eight-foot boat cast a weak, greenish glow on the churn of wake behind them.
His father, Samuel Sr., stood at the wheel, a silhouette against the blackness, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. He hadn't said more than three words since they'd left the dock an hour ago.
"Should be a good spot just ahead," Sam said, breaking the silence. "Currents were right yesterday. Might've pushed 'em in."
His father grunted. It wasn't an agreement. It was just a sound. A verdict on the situation, on the morning, on the entire profession.
Sam bit back a sigh and went to check the lines. The silence was worse than yelling. Yelling, at least, was something you could push against. This quiet disappointment was a fog you just had to breathe in.
He thought about the council meeting. The vote. The way that NCC guy, Keating, had talked in circles. "Supporting our fishing partners." What a load of crap. NCC owned the docks, the fuel station, the ice house. They supported them the way a tick supports a dog.
And the town wanted to paint a lighthouse.
He loved the old tower. He did. His great-grandfather had helped build it. But loving something and spending fifty grand on it when your livelihood was crumbling were two different things. Brenda Wu didn't get it. She saw tourists. He saw a tombstone.
"Ready the pots," his father's voice cut through his thoughts, flat and devoid of inflection.
They worked in the practiced, wordless tandem of years. Sam hauled the first heavy, baited crab pot to the rail. The boat rose and fell on a gentle swell. The air was cold and clean, smelling of salt and the faint, fishy scent of the bait.
The pot hit the water with a splash and vanished into the dark. They set a line of them, the buoys marking their spots like lonely, bobbing headstones in a liquid cemetery.
Then, the waiting.
The sun began to bleed light into the eastern sky, painting the clouds in shades of violet and bruised orange. It was the only time of day Sam truly felt peace. Out here, the town's problems felt small and far away. There was only the boat, the water, and the work.
After what felt like both an instant and an eternity, it was time to pull. The hydraulic winch whined as it took the strain, hauling the first pot up from the depths. Sam leaned over the rail, his heart giving its usual little leap of hope.
The pot broke the surface, dripping. It was full. But not with crabs.
It was clogged with a thick, ropy mess of kelp. But it was like no kelp Sam had ever seen. It was a darker green, almost black, and it was shot through with weird, iridescent streaks that shimmered with an oily light. It was tough, too. As the pot swung over the rail, the stuff clung to the wires like a net.
"The hell is this?" Sam muttered, grabbing a knife to hack it away.
His father finally turned from the wheel, his face grim. "Garbage. That's what it is. The whole damn ocean's filling up with garbage." He said the word like it was Sam's fault.
It took ten minutes of cutting and pulling to clear the pot. Inside, huddled in a corner, were three Dungeness crabs. They were legal size, but just barely. Scrawny.
"Pathetic," his father spat, turning back to the wheel. "A whole pot for three. We're fishing for scraps."
The next pot was the same. Clogged with the strange kelp, a meager catch. And the next. The Sea-Worn moved from buoy to buoy, and each haul was a smaller disappointment than the last. The hold was barely a quarter full when the sun was properly up, glinting off the water.
The silence in the wheelhouse was thick enough to chew on. Sam could feel his father's anger radiating off him like heat.
"It's the currents," Sam offered, a weak defense. "Maybe they're further out."
"Maybe they're all gone," his father said, not looking at him. "Maybe your generation fished 'em all out."
The unfairness of it was a physical blow. Sam had done everything right. He'd stayed. He'd taken on the debt of the boat. He'd worked every day since he was sixteen. He'd given up college, a social life, any chance of a different future, to keep this legacy afloat. And for what? To be blamed for the changing ocean, for the economy, for the goddamn weather?
They turned for home, the Sea-Worn riding low in the water but not with the profitable weight they needed. As they approached the harbor, the NCC port facility came into view—a sprawling complex of warehouses, cranes, and docks that dwarfed the small, rickety wooden piers where the local fishermen tied up.
A massive cargo ship, the Atlantic Star, was tied up at the main NCC dock. Cranes were swinging containers onto its deck with robotic efficiency. It was a world of industry and money, a world that had no place for a forty-year-old boat with a scrawny hold of crab.
Mark Keating's company polo shirt might as well have been a spacesuit. He was from a different planet.
They tied up at their usual spot. The other fishermen were coming in, their faces telling the same story. Tired. Grim. A few nodded at Sam, a silent communication of shared struggle.
His father headed straight for the harbormaster's office to settle the docking fees, another cost that got higher every year.
Sam started the back-breaking work of unloading the catch into crates. His back ached. His hands were numb with cold. He could smell the NCC cannery on the wind, the pungent, overpowering smell of processed fish that somehow never quite covered up another smell underneath it. Something sweet. He'd noticed it the last few weeks. It was probably just some new chemical they were using. Another thing to get used to.
As he hefted a crate, he saw Amanda Hustley walking down the main street, probably heading to the Quick-Stop for her shift. She gave a small wave. He managed a tight nod in return. She'd been at the meeting. She'd heard him make a fool of himself. She had a degree. She was smart. What must she think of him? A dumb fisherman, complaining about the world changing.
He was so tired. Tired of the work. Tired of the worry. Tired of his father's silence.
He finished unloading and scrubbed down the deck, the hose water icy on his hands. The work was done. The sea had given them nothing but a hard lesson in patience.
The real fight was about to start. The fight with the bank. The fight with the bills. The fight to keep a legacy alive for another week, in a town that seemed to care more about how things looked than how they actually were.
He looked out at the bay, at the NCC freighter, at the pretty lighthouse on the bluff. He felt the weight of it all—the water, the history, the expectation—pressing down on him.
It was just another day in Willow Creek.