leading to the small galley kitchen.
The years haven’t been kind to him, but he’s still the same weathered man who taught me everything I know about fishing.
Dad hands me a cup of coffee. I take it and look over his shoulder at the sky beginning to lighten. “Bear said you guys brought in about sixteen hundred tuna?”
I nod and take the coffee cup from him. “We did good.” I reach for the whiskey on the counter and pour two fingers in it.
“Not bad for ten days.” I can’t tell if he’s complimenting me or not. The fact is, Fletcher Hardy, he’s rogue on the water, and no one compares to him. He’s a legend up the west coast for his ability to hunt albacore tuna. He’s been hunting them his entire life and knows their habits. He knows where to look for them, and the term “let’s go where no man has gone before” doesn’t apply to him. Because he’s been there. Done that before you even thought twice about it.
“You boys headin’ out again?” he asks, his voice brimming with curiosity. He may have retired from the water some years ago, but you won’t stop him from wanting to be a part of it.
I slip into a seat at the table. “Probably tomorrow. I wanna spend a day with Atlas.”
We should be heading out again today. We need to. We’re just getting to the point where we can cover our overheads and make it through the off-season. It’s been a rough season with warm water pushing the tuna further south, and we’re getting toward the end of the season. For the past three months, we’ve turned the coast into a gold mine, landing hundreds of thousands of albacore tuna. But with the early days of September gone now, fall is approaching fast, and the season is coming to an end. This year has been our biggest payday yet, but we still haven’t met our quota given to us by Snider Fish Company. Sure, we fish throughout the year, work different seasons and species, but albacore tuna is where our money is made. We were born and raised to hunt tuna by the man in front of me. It’s in our blood.
Dad sits across from me, pushing his thick, graying hair from his forehead. “I enrolled him in school.”
Irritation courses through me. I specifically told him not to do that. “Dad.” I groan. “You didn’t have to. I could have done that when we got back to Ilwaco.”
He leans forward, his elbows resting on the lip of the table. “I’ve been thinking he should stay here.” His eyes soften. “It’s better this way.”
I set the cup down on the table with a thud, my voice louder than it should be. “Better for you, or him?”
Tension builds in his shoulders, and he shrugs dismissively but keeps eye contact. “He’s being raised by your neighbor.”
He’s not, but my dad doesn’t see it that way. Actually, Atlas has spent the first five years of his life on a fishing boat. He had sea legs before he could walk and knew how to bait a hook by one. It wasn’t until recently that my neighbor kindly started watching him when Bear and I were out for an extended period of time. It’s not like I want him raised by other people, but with his mom not around, there isn’t a lot of choice in the matter. I had to make a living, and fishing is the only thing I know how to do.
If anyone should understand that, it’s my dad. And maybe that’s why he wants to take care of him now. Be there for him like he wasn’t to us when we were younger.
“He likes it here.”
Fighting through my annoyance, I ignore the worried expression. “He liked it in Ilwaco too,” I point out, downing the coffee on the table. “He has friends there.”
When I brought Atlas with me two weeks ago, I didn’t intend for him to stay with my dad for good. I also knew ten days on a fishing boat wasn’t a place for a five-year-old. I just needed someone to watch him while Bear and I made a bomb run up the coast for tuna, trying to make the best of the later part of the season. And I couldn’t leave him with Nia (my neighbor) because, well, she said she never wanted to see me again. I can’t say I blame her. I wasn’t exactly nice to her