time. Think of the cod. And the Bering Sea fishery wasnât faring too well when I was there. According to the scientists, ninety per cent of the populations of the large fishes have been wiped out.â
Carlos says nothing, allowing Eduardo to vent his spleen and rid himself of a poacherâs guilt.
âToothfish were fished out off Patagonia after only a decade,â Eduardo maintains. âNow weâre ripping the guts out of this magnificent place.â
Carlos switches the shipâs lights on and watches through the now heavy rain as the whale descends deep below them, its gut full of krill.
âAnd then there are boats coming down here for krill. â ¡Pendejos !â Eduardo swears. âThe krill drive the entire system. Itâd be like us removing all the grass from a paddock and then wondering why the cattle died. Itâs madness.â
Dazzled by the lights, a south polar skua flies above the deck, narrowly missing the communication tower.
âThe ocean needs real fishermen, people whoâve spenttheir lives pressed up against the sea, living its weather and feeling its pulse. If we owned the boats, weâd look after the fish. Instead, weâre stuck working for rogues like Migiliaro, and, in the eyes of the world, weâre the vandals.â
After a long silence, Carlos again addresses his friend. âWhat would you do if you werenât fishing?â he asks gently.
Eduardo seems to be peering deep into the soul of the sea. âWrite a book.â
The answer comes as a surprise. Having known this man all his life, Carlos had assumed he knew his best friendâs dreams. He remembers the book Eduardo wrote for MarÃa, but that was just a childrenâs story and he always assumed it was a one-off presentâthe kind an uncle might give. He thinks too of a comment Julia once made that, given other opportunities, Eduardo could have been a fine writer. Perhaps he had confided his ambitions to her; perhaps because she is a teacher and he thought she would understand. âA book? What about?â
âFishing. What else?â Eduardo lets loose a small laugh. âThe way my father fished, and his father before him. How different it was from the way we fish now.â
âAh. The notes in your logbook. Iâve been wondering what youâve been up to with that. I was starting to think they were love poems to Virginia.â Carlos grins.
Eduardo studies Carlos, as if trying to determine whether he is joking, or fishing for personal musings that heâd rather keep private.
âSo, would it be a true story?â
âNo. A novel. Iâd want it to come alive.â
âWhy havenât you told me before? Were you afraid of what Iâd say?â
âNo. Itâs just too early. I havenât even discussed it much with Virginia. Itâs just a few notes so far, but Iâll weave them together one day.â Eduardo laughs. âProbably when Iâm too old to stand on a fishing deck.â He stoops over as if holding a walking cane and wrinkles up his face into a mock toothless grin.
There is a cough at the doorway and Carlos turns to see Dmitri, who is clearing his throat as if trying to get their attention. Carlos notices how quickly Eduardo reverts to his sober mood, visibly stiffening in the Russianâs presence.
âSorry to disturb your joke,â Dmitri says coldly. âThe engine, it runs good again, but we need to go north now in case we have more trouble. If engine temperature starts rising, I have to take oil purifier apart and rebuild on board. We do not want to stop engines down here.â
âThe Uruguayan Department of Fisheries has ordered us back to Montevideo,â Carlos says. He sees Dmitri shoot a hostile glare at Eduardo. âBut if you think thereâs a problem with the engine, of course weâll stop earlier. One or two more days down here and then weâll head north.
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