By Travis Stephens
At 03:13 in May, between Sitka and the fishing grounds the captain put the auto-pilot on, put the rest of his coffee over the side. Four days of blue skies had given way to rain.
Below decks the crew slept. If she knew the captain wanted to quit fishing she’d sleep less well. Maybe this is restlessness. Or coffee jitters. A touch of fishing flu.
Squalls make the rigging scream. For the thousandth time he tries to think like a fish: does rain matter to them? Is the sea disturbed or just noisy today? Most of all, is anyone else hungry?
Very poetic. I love the musing quality.
I have read this story several times. It is very atmospheric and I know that fishermen and women are special people but I cannot fathom, no pun intended, what is truly happening here.
I didn’t understand the change of sex.
Yeah, weirdly, I don’t know if the “she” is nature or a woman on the boat. And I don’t really know what is happening either.