Pescador's Wake by Katherine Johnson

time. Think of the cod. And the Bering Sea fishery wasn’t 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.’
    Carlos says nothing, allowing Eduardo to vent his spleen and rid himself of a poacher’s guilt.
    â€˜Toothfish were fished out off Patagonia after only a decade,’ Eduardo maintains. ‘Now we’re ripping the guts out of this magnificent place.’
    Carlos switches the ship’s lights on and watches through the now heavy rain as the whale descends deep below them, its gut full of krill.
    â€˜And then there are boats coming down here for krill. ‘ ¡Pendejos !’ Eduardo swears. ‘The krill drive the entire system. It’d be like us removing all the grass from a paddock and then wondering why the cattle died. It’s madness.’
    Dazzled by the lights, a south polar skua flies above the deck, narrowly missing the communication tower.
    â€˜The ocean needs real fishermen, people who’ve spenttheir lives pressed up against the sea, living its weather and feeling its pulse. If we owned the boats, we’d look after the fish. Instead, we’re stuck working for rogues like Migiliaro, and, in the eyes of the world, we’re the vandals.’
    After a long silence, Carlos again addresses his friend. ‘What would you do if you weren’t fishing?’ he asks gently.
    Eduardo seems to be peering deep into the soul of the sea. ‘Write a book.’
    The answer comes as a surprise. Having known this man all his life, Carlos had assumed he knew his best friend’s dreams. He remembers the book Eduardo wrote for María, but that was just a children’s story and he always assumed it was a one-off present—the 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. ‘A book? What about?’
    â€˜Fishing. What else?’ Eduardo lets loose a small laugh. ‘The way my father fished, and his father before him. How different it was from the way we fish now.’
    â€˜Ah. The notes in your logbook. I’ve been wondering what you’ve been up to with that. I was starting to think they were love poems to Virginia.’ Carlos grins.
    Eduardo studies Carlos, as if trying to determine whether he is joking, or fishing for personal musings that he’d rather keep private.
    â€˜So, would it be a true story?’
    â€˜No. A novel. I’d want it to come alive.’
    â€˜Why haven’t you told me before? Were you afraid of what I’d say?’
    â€˜No. It’s just too early. I haven’t even discussed it much with Virginia. It’s just a few notes so far, but I’ll weave them together one day.’ Eduardo laughs. ‘Probably when I’m too old to stand on a fishing deck.’ 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 Russian’s presence.
    â€˜Sorry to disturb your joke,’ Dmitri says coldly. ‘The 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€˜The Uruguayan Department of Fisheries has ordered us back to Montevideo,’ Carlos says. He sees Dmitri shoot a hostile glare at Eduardo. ‘But if you think there’s a problem with the engine, of course we’ll stop earlier. One or two more days down here and then we’ll head north.