Leaving Protection by Will Hobbs

deck, I heard Tor cry out. His stabilizer hit the deck with a thud and his hand went to his lower back. His face was contorted with pain. “Now I’ve done it,” he roared. “Now I’ve done it.”
    â€œI should have gotten both of them,” I said lamely.
    â€œToo late now,” he said through clenched teeth as he staggered into the wheelhouse.
    I followed, hoping this meant we couldn’t go farther north after all.
    Tor sat on the edge of his bunk, grimacing when he wasn’t cursing under his breath. He had me get some pills from his things, a bottle of prescription painkillers that his daughter, Grace, had sent with him just in case. He took two.
    The engine was running; we were adrift. “What now?” I ventured.
    â€œGrab your coffee and slide in behind the wheel. Put it in gear and throttle up. Let’s get out of here.”
    â€œHead south?”
    â€œNorth! We already settled that. You signed up for king season, not a part of it. I thought you wanted to make some money!”
    â€œI did, but your back—”
    â€œThere’s no buts when you’ve got a weather forecast like this. My whole life, I never lost a day’s fishing to aches and pains. Listen carefully: I want you to steer dead center out of this bay before heading north. Watch the Fathometer close, and use the GPS to follow the fifty-fathom contour around CapeCross. Tell me when we’re in the clear.”
    I did what I was told.
    â€œOkay,” I said fifteen minutes later. “The cape is due starboard.”
    â€œThe next GPS cassette is in the drawer. It’s got the Fairweather Grounds on it.”
    â€œOkay, got it. There, it’s on the screen. No more islands north of us, just the mainland coast.”
    â€œThat’s right, the St. Elias Mountains.”
    â€œI can see ’em out the window, in the distance.”
    â€œA white wall, right?”
    â€œI’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”
    â€œThree miles high and practically straight up. Keep scanning north on the GPS until you get to Cape Spencer and Lituya Bay.”
    â€œGot those.”
    â€œLook forty miles offshore. You’ll find the Fairweather Grounds.”
    â€œForty miles offshore? I thought the Fairweather Grounds must be off of Cape Fairweather.”
    â€œYou thought wrong. They’re called the Fairweather Grounds because on a clear day like today, you can see Mount Fairweather from there. Just like Captain Cook did when he named the sucker. Foulweather would have been more accurate. I’ve seen the peak only three, maybe four times.”
    â€œOkay, I’ve located the Fairweather Grounds. From the contours, it looks like an underwater mountain range.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what it is. There’s the west bankand the east bank, with a wide gully in between. At one point you’re only seventy-eight fathoms above a peak. Swarms of salmon feed—herring and needlefish—hang out in the nooks and crannies. No end of kings there if you hit it just right, like we aim to. Punch in the coordinates for the southern end of the grounds. Then punch us a course from here to there, direct. No need to hug the coast on a day like this.”
    â€œDid it,” I reported a couple minutes later. “We’re on autopilot, navigating by satellite.”
    It gave me a queasy feeling to be putting the land at my back. If I had reason to be afraid of Torsen, I was doing exactly the wrong thing. Too late now. “I’ll make some breakfast,” I announced.
    â€œWatch out some freighter doesn’t run us down.”
    â€œAre you feeling better?”
    â€œI’ll get up for breakfast.”
    â€œCoffee, now?”
    â€œWhat, drink it on my back? How fast you got us going?”
    â€œNine knots.”
    â€œLeave it at that.”
    I fried some bacon and made French toast with the last of our bread. Tor sat at the edge of his