whaleback.
In all, perhaps about ten tons of steel, fuel, and machinery were added to the whaleback. The weight had been added high up, eight feet or so above the deck and perhaps twice that high above the waterline. The boat’s center of gravity had been changed just a little. The Andrea Gail would now sit more deeply in the water, recover from rolls a bit more slowly.
On the other hand, she could now put to sea for six weeks at a time. That, after all, was the point; and no man on the boat would have disagreed.
Going to sea is going to prison, with a chance at drowning besides.
—SAMUEL JOHNSON
BY mid afternoon the Andrea Gail is ready: The food and bait have been stowed away, the fuel and water tanks have been topped off, spare drums of both have been lashed onto the whaleback, the gear’s in good order, and the engine’s running well. All there remains to do is leave. Bobby climbs off the boat without saying anything to Bugsy—they’re still morose after their fight—and walks across the parking lot to Chris’s Volvo. They drive back across town to Thea’s and trot up her front steps in a soft warm rain. Thea hears their feet on the stoop and invites them in and takes her cue from a quick glance from Chris. I‘ve got some errands to do, I’ll be back in a few hours, she says. Make yourselves at home.
Chris and Bobby tug each other into the dark bedroom and lie down on the bed. Outside, the rain taps on. Chris and Bobby can’t see the ocean but they can smell it, a dank taste of salt and seaweed that permeates the entire peninsula and lays claim to it as part of the sea. On rainy days there’s no getting away from it, wherever you go you breathe in that smell, and this is one of those days. Chris and Bobby lie together on Theas bed, talking and smoking and trying to forget the fact that this is his last day, and after an hour the phone rings and Bobby jumps up to answer it. It’s Sully on the line, calling from the Crow’s Nest. It’s five o’clock, Sully says. Time to go.
The mood is dark and grim when they get down to the Nest. Alfred Pierre is still locked in an upstairs room with his girlfriend and won’t come out. Billy Tyne’s just returned from a two-hour phone conversation with his ex-wife, Jodi. Murph’s there with a pile of toys on the pool table, packing them into a cardboard box. Ethel’s in the back room crying: Bobby’s money problems, the black eye, the month offshore. The Grand Banks in October is no joke and everybody knows it. There won’t be half a dozen boats out there from the whole East Coast fleet.
Alfred Pierre finally comes down and sidles into the bar. He’s a big, shy man who’s not well known around town, although people seem to like him. His girlfriend has come down from Maine to see him off and she’s not handling it well, her eyes are red and she’s holding him as if she might physically keep him from getting on the boat. Murph finishes strapping his package up with tape and asks Chris to run him across town on an errand. He wants to pick up some movies. Sully is talking to Bugsy in a corner, and everyone’s congratulating Ethel’s eldest son, Rusty, for his upcoming marriage next week. Most of the people in the room will be a thousand miles into the North Atlantic by then.
Chris and Murph return ten minutes later with a cardboard box spilling with videos. There’s a VCR on the Andrea Gail, and someone off another boat offered Murph the movies. Alfred has a beer bottle clenched in one big hand and is still muttering about not wanting to go. Sully’s saying the same thing; he’s in a yellow slicker over by the pool table telling Bugsy how he’s got a bad feeling about this trip. It’s the money, he says; if I didn’t need the money I wouldn’t go near this thing.
Okay you guys, Billy says. One last drink. Everyone downs one last drink. Okay, one more, someone says. Everyone has one more. Bobby’s drinking tequila. He’s standing by Chris looking down at the floor and she’s holding his hand and neither of them are saying much. Sully comes over and asks if they’re going to be okay. Chris says, Sure, we’ll be fine and then she says: Actually, I’m not sure. Actually, no, I don’t think so.
Six men are leaving for a month and it feels as if things are shearing off into a new and empty direction from which they may never return. Ethel, trying to maintain her composure, goes around the room hugging all the men. The only person she doesn’t hug is Alfred because she doesn’t know him well enough. Bobby asks his mother if they can take the color T.V. above the bar. If it’s okay with Billy, she says.
Billy looks up. Ethel, he says, they can take the T.V., but if they watch it instead of doing’ their work it’s going’ straight overboard.
That’s fine, Billy, that’s fine, Ethel says.
Billy’s girlfriend sees Bobby’s shiner under the brim of his Budweiser cap and glances over at Chris. She’s of the old school where ladies don’t slug their men.
You northern gals, she says.
I didn’t mean it, says Chris. It was a mistake.
It’s now way too late for anyone to back out. Not in the literal sense—any one of them could still take off running out the door—but people don’t work like that. More or less, they do what others expect them to. If one of the crew backed out now he’d sit around for a month and then either go to a welcome-home party or a memorial service. Either would be horrible in its own way. Half the crews have misgivings about this trip, but they’re going anyhow; they’ve crossed some invisible line, and now even the most desperate premonitions won’t save them. Tyne, Pierre, Sullivan, Moran, Murphy, and Shat ford are going to the Grand Banks on the Andrea Gail.
Okay, Billy says. Let’s go.
Everyone files out the big wooden door. The rain has stopped and there are even a few scraps of clear sky off to the west. Pale, late-summer blue. Chris and Bobby get into her Volvo and Alfred and his girlfriend get into their car and everyone else walks. They cross Rogers Street through the impatient stream of Friday afternoon traffic and then angle down through the gate in the chain-link fence. There are fuel tanks on iron scaffolds behind Rose’s, and small boats up with tarps over them, and a battered sign that says “Carter’s Boat Yard.” One of the fuel tanks has a pair of humpback whales painted on it. Chris drives past the little group, tires crunching on the gravel, and comes to a stop in front of the Andrea Gail. The boat is tied up to a small piece of wharf behind Old Port Sea foods, next to the fire boat and a dockside fuel pump. Bobby looks over at her.
I don’t want to do this, he says. I really don’t.
Chris is holding onto him in the front seat of her Volvo, with everything she owns in the back. Well don’t go then, she says. Well fuck it. Don’t go.
I got to go. The money; I got to.
Billy Tyne walks over and leans in the window. You gonna be all right? He asks. Chris nods her head. Bobby is really starting to fight the tears and he looks away so that Billy doesn’t see. Okay, Billy says to Chris. We’ll see you when we get back. He walks across the dock and jumps down onto the deck of the boat. Then Sully comes over. He’s known Bobby most of his life—without Bobby he probably wouldn’t even have taken the trip—and he’s worried about him now. Worried that somehow Bobby isn’t going to make it, that the trip’s a huge mistake. Are you two okay? he says. Are you sure?
Yeah, we’re okay, says Chris. We just need a minute.
Sully smiles and slaps the car roof and walks away. Bugsy and Murph don’t have anyone to linger
