My mom was reluctant about me going. I never had explained to her why I felt the need to find him, but I’m sure she knew. She had been telling me for years that I was nothing like him and that I didn’t need to fear getting close to people. Eventually, she seemed to understand and accept that I was going and slowly became more supportive of my decision.

Alaska was beautiful. It looked like another world. Filled with pine trees, mountains, and endless amounts of green. In fact, there were a ton of colors in all hues, and it was natural rather than coming from buildings, advertisements, and eight-lane freeways. It was also wet. Really, really wet, even though it was June when I arrived.

My mom had convinced me to apply for late admission to the University of Alaska, telling me another option wouldn’t be a bad thing. I’d been accepted but didn’t really entertain the idea. I was on a mission and didn’t intend for school to distract me.

I spent my first month as a nomad, wandering through towns with an old picture of my dad and another of my uncle, asking people if they’d heard of them or recognized their pictures. Apparently, Tim and Chris Miller are really common names. I even met a handful of people that shared it or similar ones that people thought were the same.

At the beginning of August, I thought my luck was changing when I was directed to a wharf to meet a man named Tiny. He of course was not tiny, towering over my six-four frame like I was a child. He smelled terrible, like he hadn’t showered in weeks. His jeans were filthy and torn in the knees, and I was pretty certain by the condition of his shirt, it was far from its first day of being worn. He had a ratty blue baseball hat covering a mess of hair that was as dark as mine but went halfway down his back and was smeared with gray and a beard that had chunks of nasty-ass food stuck in it from God knows when.

As soon as I had stepped on the dock, he met me, looking like a caged bear with his boots stomping as he blocked my path. “You got business being here, boy?” he barked, standing at his full length.

I knew he was trying to intimidate me, and truth be told, he was, but I knew this lesson well. I swallowed the nerves that tempted me to cower and stood a little taller. “I’m looking for my father, Tim Miller. Sandy Rhoades pointed me in your direction. Thought you might know him.”

“Hell, boy, you got shit for brains or you really that tough?”

My face was void of emotion as I tried to assess his intentions.

“Come on, I’ve got a job that’ll make you strong.”

“I’m not looking for employment, I’m looking for my dad.” I pulled the photo out and stuck it in front of him.

Overgrown eyebrows that Mr. Mitchell could easily use for a new wig framed eyes that were an eerily light shade of blue, almost cryptic. Tiny watched me before swinging his eyes to the picture for a split second, and then he started to laugh. It was surprisingly high-pitched, and it made his mouth open wide, showcasing more of his bad hygiene. “That figures!”

Tiny proceeded to tell me that he had in fact known my dad and uncle when they worked aboard his fishing boat a number of years ago. He couldn’t recall how many it had been and admitted that his bookkeeping skills severely lacked until recently when he was audited. He offered me a job again, explaining that August was a booming time of year in Alaska for salmon and that in September, we’d move to other regions where I could continue to look for my dad and uncle.

I accepted, figuring it would give me the chance to encounter others that knew them, or at least of them.

Sarge was the first guy Tiny introduced me to. No one went by their first name; it was like an unwritten law. Sarge took me aboard and introduced me to the Arctic Bull, the one hundred and twenty-foot schooner that would be my new home. He went over every facet of each safety procedure in great detail a dozen times and then made me repeat them all back to him. I later learned that Sarge showed me rather than Tiny because that man seemed less concerned with safety than he did his personal hygiene.

Fishing sucked. The tides dictated our hours, so we woke and slept at odd times. It took a while to get used to it, and even longer to try and ignore the fact that the sun shone too late and far too early. Tiny was a strange breed, constantly muttering to himself, often laughing at things no one ever heard, but according to the rest of the crew, he was a hell of a captain and had an uncanny way of knowing where to be to haul in the best catches.

I’d been on the boat for a week and had talked to everyone on board only to realize it had been a waste of time and effort since no one knew anything about my dad or uncle. I was getting ready to go to bed one night when a tall blond guy that I never saw without his slickers on, came in, reeking of whiskey and offering to play cards. As we made our way to the galley, I heard Smithy yell out a greeting to him, calling him Whiskey.

Several hours and countless drinks later, I could hardly see straight, let alone walk.

I woke up still sitting at the small table in the galley with my head on the shoulder of the yellow rain coat still being worn by the guy that had invited me to play—Whiskey.

“Got lonely and found yourself a girlfriend, eh, Beaches?” Tiny yelled and then barked his loud laugh, making my eyes close in protest. “Whiskey’s not a bad lookin’ choice I suppose. You might have to teach him not to be so afraid of gettin’ wet though. The kid said he was from Washington. What in the hell’s he doing afraid of a little water? Doesn’t it rain there all the time?”

“Other side of the state.” I straightened as Whiskey grunted a response to Tiny. “There’s a mountain range that separates the state. I’m on the dry side. I keep telling you this. And stop calling me Whiskey, I’m never touching that shit again.”

Tiny’s mustache twitched, indicating he was either smiling or frowning. Based on his eyes, I was pretty sure he was smiling.

“You boys should be enjoying this. Salmon fishing is fun. Wait till the crabbing starts. That’ll have you both so tired you won’t have time to drink.” Tiny vanished from sight, and I moved a little further down the bench seat from Whiskey.

“Shit, I think I’m going to be sick,” he groaned, dropping his forehead to the table.

I didn’t feel much better. The smell of the ship alone was enough to make anyone queasy without a hangover. It hadn’t taken me long to learn why Tiny smelled so bad that first day I’d met him; showering was a luxury out at sea, and although salmon fishing wasn’t real strenuous, it was enough that it got you sweating. And it was hot as hell in all of the gear. The waterproof plastic worked to keep the water out as well as it did holding the sweat in, so we all were ripe and looked a bit primitive with our facial hair.

“Jameson?” his voice wavered, sounding like a question.

“No,” I replied. “Max.”

“No, I’m Jameson,” he mumbled, placing the side of his face against the table. The nickname clicked. It wasn’t from what he preferred to drink, it was a play on his name.

“Whiskey, you’ve got a lot to learn boy. A lot to learn.” One of the guys chuckled as he made his way past us to retrieve some coffee.

I started calling him Jameson thereafter, partly just to have a little piece of normalcy, partly because it felt like a small bout of rebellion to call him something besides what the others did.

When we docked at Bristol Bay at the end of August, I scoured the town and docks, asking everyone I saw if they knew my dad or uncle. It was evident fishing season was beginning. There were hordes of people around, none that seemed overly interested in bothering to listen to me.

We still had another three days until we were leaving port so I sat at a bar one night, beyond when I should have. Even though I felt too tired to stand, sea life had given me insomnia.