may get abraded by a fish’s teeth or structure the fish are holding close to. In some cases, leaders are also added to reduce visibility. And in other cases, wire leaders may be added to prevent bite-offs from toothy fish.
The early morning sun peeks through windows, splashing light into the dim living room. Beside me, the fire crackles and pops, a place my son will call home for the next six months.
It wasn’t easy to come to the conclusion that he belonged here. I still don’t know for sure how it will work, because our life had been in Ilwaco, but I guess it’s just a city. And if I’ve learned anything lately, it’s that being around family is important.
I think of Journey then, at the first inclination of leaving. I can’t, nor do I want to take Atlas away from her. He’s already so attached, and I know the feeling. For now, I’ve let her go, knowing she’s better off without me. The real tragedy of that?
I should have just told her the truth from the beginning. Long before I told myself not to fall for her and I broke her heart. My reasoning for not telling her, it had nothing to do with hurting her, unfortunately. It had to do with me not wanting to lose her in the process. I can handle her pain, but never seeing her again, I can’t.
I loved Athena. It’s not past tense. I still love her. I can’t deny that, nor do I want to. She brought Atlas into the world for me knowing, without him, I wouldn’t have survived.
And now, with Journey? I can’t accurately describe that attachment. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand the lengths I’m willing to go to have her in my life now that I’ve found her. I want to own her, as she so accurately put it. It’s physical. A chemical reaction. I have to be with her. With Athena, I grew into love. With Journey, I fell hard into it.
The days go by slowly, painfully so. Two weeks. Between dealing with Bear and the insurance company, before I know it, Atlas’s birthday is in a few days, and I’m leaving for Alaska for two months. I’ll miss his birthday, but maybe I’ll be home for Christmas. It’s not ideal, but fucking life isn’t ideal. You do what you have to do to provide, and this is what I know. The way the tuna season went and not meeting the quotas we had set for us, and the fact that I have a new boat to buy, I’m forced into seeking work. That leaves Bear and I as deckhands on our cousin’s crab boat. With nearly thirty-four million pounds of king crab on the line, it’s a good job to have through the winter. One that can provide me enough to buy a place for Atlas and me here.
Bear makes a full recovery, if you can call it that. I still think he’s taken one too many hits to the head over the years, and now it’s even more evident. He’s set to come with me to Alaska. You’d think after what we went through, we’d never step foot on a boat again, but you’d be wrong. You don’t know fishermen very well.
I remember after Rhett died, my mom begged Bear and me to do something else with our lives. “Do anything but fish,” she had told us. Sadly, as far as we were concerned, there was no other option. We wanted to do what we’d grown up doing, and that was being out on the ocean. That hadn’t changed for either of us.
Standing, I place my coffee cup in the sink and stare out at the horizon. It’s a rare clear day. As I stare out the window, my thoughts return to Journey. I wonder if she’s at the bar, if she’s thinking of me, or us, actually, just me, as selfish as that sounds. I’m being greedy. Sighing, I decide I’ve given Journey enough space, and I’m going to talk to her again. I can’t leave for two months not knowing where we stand.
The floor creeks behind me. I turn around to see my dad making his way into the kitchen. I lean into the counter, watching him pour himself a cup of coffee. There’s a folded-up paper in the back pocket of his overalls. I don’t say anything, but instead, watch him move about the kitchen.