The stool beside me was seized, and I looked up to find a middle-aged man that I’d seen on the docks earlier that morning.

“Miller, right?”

I nodded and took another sip of the beer I’d been given without being asked for my ID or questioned about my age. “I think I remember a guy looking like you.” He gave me the name of a town and pointed me north.

The next day, I rented a car and took off without saying anything. I didn’t have anyone to tell where I was going. I drove for two days, there and back, returning with nothing but a few laughs from the locals. I should have known as soon as the guy told me he knew a guy that looked like me that he was lying. I don’t look like my dad. Hank and I both are built like him, but we look more like our mom. It’s Billy who looks like our dad.

Jameson and I continued to exchange stories and partake in drinking games. Something about him reminded me of Wes, leading me to question if chasing a shadow was worth missing my family and friends, but that nagging desire to find my father kept me from skipping out the next time we docked.

We spent the month of September fishing for mackerel and learned that Tiny was right, catching salmon had been fun. Fishing for mackerel had us out in deeper waters that were a lot rougher with the weather changing, making the days shorter.

Jameson learned the hard way that he had no idea what it was like to be wet because even with all of our gear and layers, dampness still seemed to find its way in to the bottom layers.

In November we docked again, this time in Ketchikan, and I found a few more people that sent me down roads that didn’t pan out.

I was pissed off, wondering if the natives had some perverse sense of humor. I’d returned from heading out into the boonies again with a promising recollection of my dad that had once again led to nothing, when I heard glass shattering and some scuffling. I stopped, my muscles becoming alert as my eyes snapped to see three guys from my crew come around the corner, tangled with three men I didn’t know.

Dropping my bag, I rushed over and dealt out a round of punches that freed Smithy before feeling a hot sear on my right bicep. I turned, and shoved a heavy set man to the ground and then peeled another guy off Jameson. The four of us had to really work at getting the three of them to back off. They weren’t professional fighters, but they too had plenty of experience and were scrappy and relentless as all hell.

When it was over, Smithy and Herron left, heading back to the motel that we were staying at. It was dingy and moth eaten, but anything beat sleeping on the boat. Jameson and I leaned against the building, still trying to catch our breath and cursing about what we’d just endured.

“What in the hell happened?” My voice sounded winded and my throat, still dry from the fight, burned when the cold air leaked in.

Jameson’s hands clutched the top of his head as he shook it. “I don’t know. I just saw Smithy getting killed and tried to help.”

His reaction to the situation reminded me so much of Wes, I knew he was going to become one of my closest friends.

“Shit, dude,” Jameson said, his eyes wide. “We’ve got to get you to the hospital.”

I was about to object, I could feel my eye swelling and was sure it didn’t look too good, but I had been in enough fights to know I was fine. There was no way I was going to be a pussy and go to the ER to get an ice pack slapped on my face and a few Tylenol handed to me with a look of disinterest. Then I realized it was my arm he was gawking at and looked down to see the shoulder of my sweatshirt stained a deep crimson.

We spent most of the night in the ER where they gave me seventeen stitches and a series of shots. Jameson also earned a turn with the needles. They gave him twelve of his own stitches along his bottom lip and chin, which were busted open during the fight.

I don’t know which of us looked worse. It was tough to see very well with one eye swollen shut. But I’m pretty sure Jameson took that award with his mouth so misshapen, he looked like a different person.

The next morning when we ambled back to the ship, Tiny took one look at us and folded in half as he barked his loud laugh and slapped his knee.

Things improved after that. Jameson and I started to fall into an easy routine as we helped one another during the day and played cards at night, making sure to avoid going where either Smithy or Herron did after learning both of them had a reputation for causing fights.

Each time we stopped in a new town, we were never there for more than a couple of days in between long weeks, and I always worked to talk to as many people as I could, asking the same repetitive questions about my dad and uncle. Jameson started tagging along, and later started going along on the trips that required me to rent a car and drive to small, questionable towns that sometimes didn’t exist, and receiving clueless expressions from the locals when they did. I also started getting tattooed at each stop, working it around the scar to make it nearly invisible against the ink. Each was a tribute to a memory, person, or experience throughout my life, beginning with a gust of wind— commemorating my mom, the lung specialist. It seemed appropriate to display what she gifted to so many, including myself: life.

Tiny had been talking about crabbing since August, when I first met him. Alternating from a dreamy-eyed look as he discussed how we’d all be rich, to angst as he growled about having to pay other boats so they didn’t go out and capsize.

Crabbing began on October 1, at two a.m. Smithy led us in learning to prepare the cages with herring, which had Jameson ready to dry heave from the smell and sight. It was gruesome.

We weren’t allowed to be out on the waters until four a.m., but getting ready was a lot of work, and Sarge was feeling more insistent than normal on going over the safety instructions and how to use the lifeboats. He stressed the importance of keeping our switchblades easily accessible at all times, and wrapped up his speech with the reminder of the docks being slicker and the air colder, then we left.

We had to work hard at scraping the deck to keep the layers of ice from forming. The mist that hung over the ocean was thicker than any fog I’d ever seen and caused an eerie darkness to loom over the boat with an ever growing coati of ice.

The Arctic Bull had a team of nine, our tenth never showed, so I had been in the galley trying to help Smoky make breakfast. He happily whistled as he charred pancakes to the point of being inedible. His coffee was phenomenal, nearly balancing the fact that his cooking was god-awful.

“Poseidon must love you, boy. We ain’t seen this calm of waters in years,” he remarked, looking out the galley window at the dark waves. “You missing the sunshine yet, Beaches?”

I didn’t reply. Smoky didn’t need any more ammunition for shit talking. The truth was I felt trapped inside of a dark, wet box with the air conditioner blasting, and they kept talking about how it was just going to get worse.

Fishing was a damn vacation. Crabbing was the fiery pits of Hell. The pots weighed so much I swore I could feel the boat quiver when we lifted them, and then we had to go through all of the pulls seeking out the females and other debris to toss back. And wouldn’t you know, those suckers were as angry as fire ants and a thousand times bigger. King crabs scared the shit out of me the first time we pulled them in. I’d never seen a crab so big before in my life. It looked like a mutant Hulk spider with pincers.