Seaworthy by Linda Greenlaw Page A

Great! This is a classic example of the thinking that separates fishermen from the rest of humankind. Perhaps my hunger hadn’t been sated after all.
    The only spoiler to our second auspicious weighing of anchor could be Machado, I reflected while Arch and Dave helped Tim with the tools as the mechanic of few words stretched a long leg across from boat to dock. Mr. Henneberry had come and collected our paperwork for customs. The engine had been given a clean bill of health. We were discharged and had only to wait for Machado to grace us with his presence before leaving Sambro and charging back on course toward prosperity.
    We all conceded that we could use some sleep, and with a man still ashore there was no reason not to take a short nap. My errant crew member had been so nonchalant about showing up in Fairhaven to help prep for the trip that I figured there wasn’t a chance he’d step aboard at dawn following a night on the town. Shore leave in a foreign port often leads to an attitude of carefree gluttony made easy with the knowledge that anyone you happen upon is a stranger. And how could scandalous words of drunkenness or bad deeds possibly find their way so many miles home, against the tide? These thoughts had led to trouble and, at the very least, to late arrivals with hangovers—it had happened so frequently that I knew I had time to close my eyes for a while before going ashore myself to track down Machado. But I was too wired to sleep, thinking of the miles Scotty had gained already.
    Then, just as the crew had turned in, Machado was climbing aboard. “Good morning, everyone!” He appeared to be in great shape considering what I suspected of his overnight activities. Beyond surprised, I was shocked to see him so early. “Hey, you should see the mackerel at my buddy’s freezer plant. It’s gorgeous!” This was so far from what I expected to hear that I was confused. Had he really spent his night of shore leave checking out bait? “Linda, I know you’re not thrilled with the bait we have on board. We can get some great-looking stuff delivered this morning if you want—mackerel or squid.” Machado was right regarding my opinion of the ten thousand pounds of frozen mackerel I had reluctantly left Fairhaven with. Most of the fish we had were freezer-burned and on the small side. I had rejected one pallet of bait that was worse than the rest, but I had to take something. Good bait always equals good fishing. “The mackerel is huge!” Bigger bait had always resulted in bigger fish. This would be another, even greater asset than beating the Eagle Eye II to the fishing grounds.
    â€œWhat’s the price?” I asked.
    â€œCheaper than that shit we got in Fairhaven. We can’t afford not to take some. And Malcolm has an account in good standing with my buddy. All I have to do is say the word, and he’ll be here with whatever you want.” Machado held out his cell phone, poised to dial.
    He had my interest. I wondered whether it was ethical or within company protocol to take on bait, or any added expense, without permission. As I pondered, I received a gentle reminder of why we were here in the first place. Sure, I thought, I wasn’t to blame for the engine problem. And this delay had cost us dearly in time lost toward eventual fishing. The moon was shrinking. Could we swing a double bait bill? No, probably not. Could I turn down perfect bait? No, definitely not.
    Another nudge from the peanut gallery convinced me that I was perfectly justified in doing whatever I deemed necessary to give my crew and myself every possible advantage in what hadn’t started out real swell. “All right, I would like some decent bait. But we can’t afford to toss what we have. And we will certainly be billed for it. How about a thousand pounds of the best and biggest mackerel to supplement what we have already?” This was a fair compromise. Although