Seaworthy (22 page)

The Canadian men took turns going back to the
Cygnus
for meals, for showers, and to sleep in real bunks. The orange inflatable kissed the side of our hull with each changing of the guard every six hours. When Terry returned to duty refreshed and clean-shaven, he confided that the ship's cook was a fan of my books and asked if I would be willing to sign copies he carried aboard. Terry was a bit embarrassed to ask, and I was a little shy about being asked under the circumstances. But I proudly scrawled my name across the title pages of three books, which Terry tucked away in his travel bag. The next time Terry went on leave, he returned with hot muffins for the crew and me. And later, when Steve stepped back aboard after his break from the tedious
Seahawk
watch, he delivered a large platter of fried chicken.

The Canadians carted all their own stores aboard the
Seahawk
and kept them on my chart table. I normally flipped out when a crew member placed food or drink in my workspace. But this was different. Even when a carton of fruit juice fell over and spilled sticky syrup that wicked under the glass and soaked my navigational chart, I wiped it up with a wad of paper towels and told my new friends not to worry about it. The Canadian men were quick to share food with us, not that we didn't have enough of our own. But theirs was more interesting. (“Interesting” should not be confused with “tasty.”) When my crew and I complimented the extraordinary hardtack biscuits, even a single one of which, I was convinced, could be gnawed for days in a life raft, an entire case came aboard. The biscuits were a challenge for teeth and jaws but were a good source of entertainment in a weird sort of way. “No, dear. Don't crunch it like that. You'll surely destroy your dentals. Moisten a small bit, then chew” was the advice. I had always found patience with food a difficulty, so I didn't consume the stuff as intended. But I enjoyed it nonetheless. I much preferred hearing the crunch and feeling the sharp edges cut gums to the passive swallowing of mush. Eating hardtack was real. I might not have been in control of my immediate destiny, but no one could tell me how to eat.

The
Seahawk
's owner, Malcolm MacLean himself, weighed in with strong words that bolstered my resolve. “The bond money required for your release is in place with the Canadian authorities. I have hired an attorney to represent us. You should be released and free to go fishing within the hour.” This was a huge relief, as we still had several hours remaining in steaming to St. John's. That time would be better spent traveling in a different direction, one that would put us in the vicinity of the U.S. sword fleet. I waited for my company to receive the call from shore to set me free. It didn't come. They were ordered to remain aboard and deliver me to the government dock, where I would be met by customs, immigration, and fisheries. I waited for someone to have a change of heart or for them to come to their senses. Every mile that passed under our hull diluted my hope of bypassing what was sure to be a scene at the dock.

I spent some time getting to know my Canadian escorts. I learned about their families and hobbies. These were nice men doing their country proud with professionalism. There was absolutely no antagonism, no good cop/bad cop ploys. These are men I would have as friends. There was no talk of guilt or of breaking laws. These men, it seemed to me, believed me and regarded me as innocent of everything other than perhaps being a victim of circumstance. One of the men would have liked to go to court with me, he said, but he had a doctor's appointment. Two of the men talked about their upcoming retirement plans. One of them sang. His soft voice filled the wheelhouse with cozy, lilting Newfy sea chanteys. When he sang a ballad about the hardships of life at sea and harsh treatment by superiors, I felt as transparent as the gal in “Killing Me Softly.”

My men were nothing less than stellar. They acted as the perfect hosts to our Canadian guardians, frequently offering refreshments from the galley and asking what they could do to help or to make the uniformed men more comfortable. They all engaged in conversation about topics ranging from fishing and hunting and cooking to politics. The Canadian men joined my crew at the galley table, where they shared laughs and coffee, leaving me alone in the wheelhouse for several joyous minutes at a time. When my crew came topside, they did so to reassure me. Arch was as protective as my father is, and the others acted like brothers. That night, when we were close enough to the dock to see the number of official vehicles and various armed uniforms there to catch our lines on the inside of a guarded gate and under large floodlights, my men vowed not to leave my side—no matter what. If anything happened to me, it would happen to us all. As we secured to the dock, my men and I shared looks and nods that were dramatic and emotional. The pervasive mood was one that I could only characterize as “They'll never take us alive.” We were in this together. This cohesion, in my experience, had been seen only in times of peril brought on by heavy weather and when survival depended on it. We were no longer five individual beings, we were a single unit.

As the last line was made fast to a cleat at midship, the crowd milling about in the yellow light became still. I knocked the engine out of gear and hit the kill switch. The sound of the diesel winding down and into silence was accompanied by my helpless feeling of spiraling down the drain. The contented validity of the physical act of landing the boat had turned to the uneasy release of grip on my command and my personal reality. The hard and straight edges of my world had become fuzzy and indistinct. Authorities and officers seemed to float on and off the boat. Clipboards thick with forms were shuffled, read, and signed. Among the many poker faces reflected in badges were three smiles—on the faces of Jim Budi and the O'Briens, whom I remembered as our Canadian agents from years past.

My crew had been cleared by customs and immigration. Their temporary visas allowed them to remain in Canada for ten days. That hit home. Ten days? I'd been dreaming that I would turn the boat around tomorrow after clearing up this confused and mistaken mess. My crew was given permission to leave the boat. I was ordered to remain aboard and was introduced to the man and woman who would stand guard over me until the next morning at eight, when they would deliver me to the police station to be processed. The crowd disassembled, leaving me in the wheelhouse looking out the window at my guards, who looked back at me. There was no moment of raising a hand and simply explaining what had happened. Maybe tomorrow.

I had nothing to do other than try to sleep. My crew had all tucked in, with plans to accompany me through whatever was to come. I lay awake, staring at the overhead, which was too close for my eyesight to make sense of, and wondered what would become of all this. The situation was impossible! I still couldn't imagine where I had gone wrong. Yet, as was the gospel to my mind, the captain is ultimately responsible for everything aboard the ship. I had taken my eyes off the road. I should have paid more attention to the wheelhouse and left the deck to my crew. Had I miscalculated when I did the drift test? The Canadians were sure making a big deal out of a little aberration of tide. Why hadn't they arrested Mother Nature? Total bewilderment was eased ever so slightly by the hope that tomorrow would offer an opportunity for me to talk sense to someone.

A smudged sun crept hesitantly from a woolly darkness. The daylight was as fuzzy as my head. I showered in cold water, hoping to clear my mind of the snarl that clogged the routes along which sanity traveled. Even black coffee lacked something. When the time came to leave, my crew was not welcome to ride in the large black SUV that delivered me to the St. John's lockup. It would be better if they remained aboard and got to the bottom of the steering problem. At least that's what I said, with no conviction. As I gazed out the car window, a faded tapestry of the city of St. John's rolled by in muted color and sound. We came to a stop. I was led from the vehicle to the back entrance of my destination, where garbage cans and loading docks crowded. One of my escorts pressed buttons on a phone and seemed to talk in code. Two new badges and holstered guns appeared and took possession of me. We wove our way through a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells until a door opened revealing a brightly lit room where the processing took place.

And that's how I landed in jail.

 

The sound of the cell door slamming closed was a wake-up call of startling magnitude. The cold-shower head clearing and black-coffee caffeine pumping hadn't cleared the fog, but in one moment reality came flying to the surface as the outside world was shut away. With neither nautical miles gone or to go, nor number of fish to tally, I had no way to mark time. My only method of measurement was the beating of my own pulse. As that got wearisome, I gave up the count at what I figured was close to three hours.

My attorney eventually joined me in my cell and explained that we would soon go before the judge. He left, and I waited. After what seemed an eternity of practicing what I would say to the judge, I was handcuffed and taken from my cell by two female police officers. (The fact that I'm referring to the space as “my cell” is the only indication of how long I was actually detained—long enough to assume ownership.) The women were nice, I thought, to ask whether I preferred to be cuffed behind my back or in front of my waist, although “nice” was an adjective that could be relative. With no hesitation to hint at inexperience, I chose behind my back.
Click, click,
and it was done.

Just like in the movies, I was led with an officer on each side, all of us seemingly connected at our elbows, through long, dark hallways. It was unnervingly quiet but for the echoes from our foot-steps, until we approached a gathering of people who hushed as we squeezed through. Some of them aimed cameras topped with stingingly bright lights at my face, making it difficult to see. I searched the crowd through squinted eyes and was overwhelmed with relief when I caught a glimpse of Archie. Brief eye contact supplied a more solid connection than any spliced line could. I knew that Archie was there, and he saw that I was okay. Nothing else mattered. He had ignored my order to remain aboard the
Seahawk
—and not a day has passed when I haven't been thankful for that.

My hands were freed from the cuffs before I entered the courtroom. I was shown a seat in front of a full audience and sat facing the judge. My attorney was there, as well as another man in a suit and tie who I knew must be the prosecutor. Some legal mumbo jumbo spoken in a Newfoundland brogue that I heard but did not comprehend was followed by the judge's asking me if I understood the charges. I hesitated. The judge clearly stated the charges as (1) illegal entry into Canadian fishing zone and (2) illegal fishing in Canadian fishing zone. “Yes, I understand the charges” was all I got out before the judge dismissed me from his courtroom. I didn't even get a chance to say “But—” before I was cuffed and whisked away to my cell to wait for the proper paperwork to be completed so that I could be released. The judge had given permission for my attorney to represent me at arraignment, which was just about the extent of what transpired.

I was furious. But time spent alone in my cell covered the pot and saw the boil reduce to a simmer. I couldn't believe I had just experienced my anticipated “day in court.” It was all over without any opportunity to defend, deny, explain, or throw myself on the mercy of the institution. I didn't know what an arraignment was, nor did I care. I just wanted to jump aboard the
Shithawk
and get back to business. Wasting time fed more pissed-offness to my already pissed-off self. But all I could do was sit and stew in my own juices, as they say. I wished I had a cellmate to bitch to. I paced the floor.

The little peephole in the door slid aside, exposing half a face. The cell door swung open, and my attorney said that I was free to go now. It could have been hours or days for all I knew. He said that someone was waiting for me with a car, and asked that I follow him. He warned that there would be media burning film and asking for comments. He advised that I not comment. The processing officers bade me adieu with smiling faces. The cameras had thinned out, with only a few hangers-on left to record me reclaiming my freedom. Apparently a handcuffed female American captain being led into captivity was more newsworthy than one exiting on her own steam. Someone did ask if I had anything to say. I answered, “No, thank you,” and wished the attorney hadn't been with me. I knew I had the ability and ammunition to put real teeth in sound bites. Oh, well, I still had an arraignment in three weeks and, I supposed, a trial. For the first time in twenty-five years, I regretted not following my mother's advice to go to law school.

The status of being freshly sprung from jail did not evoke the feelings that I'd assumed it would. Freedom just did not live up to its hype. Not that I wasn't happy to see Archie and Jim Budi, but I still felt burdened. Arch gave me a bear hug and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “It nearly killed me to see you in handcuffs. I wished that I'd been the one arrested,” he said. And I knew he was sincere. Jim drove while he and Arch filled me in on what was happening back aboard the boat and among the fleet. The electric motor that was responsible for the
Seahawk
's steering had been examined and condemned. The other crews were finding their own lousy luck. One of Scotty's men had broken a wrist, putting an abrupt end to their fishing in order to take him ashore. (Oh, good, I thought, then reprimanded myself for being so petty.) And among our own crew, Dave Hiltz was suffering from kidney stones and was slated to go home. By the time the motor could be replaced, a new man could be flown in to take over for Hiltz. And the fish were biting. An electronics man was working on some of the faulty equipment and would remain on the job, fixing whatever he could until we sailed. And the fish were biting. Arch had lined up a guy to replace Hiltz. He had booked a ticket from Florida and would arrive tomorrow night. And the fish were biting. Scotty had to come ashore, and I wasn't able to get out and take advantage of a head start. I couldn't help but think I might as well have stayed in jail another twenty-four hours—even if the fish were biting.