The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [28]
The Captain grabbed his binoculars and surveyed the site. Then he rang the bell, and the mates sprang up in their new shoes.
“Come on, lads,” the Captain said, “we’ll be heroes of the revolution.”
The Captain took to rigging the nets himself, while Jun Do helped the Machinist fashion a live well from two rain barrels and a ballast pump. But entering the upwell proved trickier than they’d thought. What seemed like a mist at first became a cloud bank several kilometers deep. The waves came at odd angles, so it was hard to keep your balance, and fast-moving islets of fog raced along the wavecaps, making quick-flashing forests and meadows of visibility.
The first take was successful. The shrimp were clear in the water, white when the net was raised, then clear again when they were pitching with the slosh of the live well, their long antennas unfurling and retracting. When the Captain ordered the nets out again, the birds had vanished, and the Pilot began motoring through the fog to find them.
It wasn’t possible from the water to sense which bearing they took, but the mates groomed the nets, and leaned with the waves. There was a sudden thrashing upon the surface. “The tuna have found them,” the Captain called, and the First Mate sent the nets again into the water. The Pilot cranked the wheel and began a “circle in” while the drag of the nets nearly keeled her over. Two waves converged, double-troughing the Junma, sending loose shoes tumbling into the water, yet the catch held fast, and when the Machinist winched the haul into the air, there was a great flashing in the trap, as if they’d gone trolling for chandeliers. Then the shrimp in the tank, as if by some means of secret communication, began to phosphoresce in sympathy.
Everyone was needed at the live well to land the catch, which might swing in any direction once over the deck. The Machinist was operating the winch, but at the last moment the Captain shouted for him to hold fast, the net oscillating wildly. At the gunwale the Captain stared into the fog. Everyone else paused as well, staring at what they weren’t sure, unsettled by such stillness amid the bucking of the ship and the gyration of the catch. The Captain signaled the Pilot to sound the horn, and they all attended the gloom for a response.
“Go below,” the Captain told Jun Do, “and tell me what you hear.”
But it was too late. A moment later, the fog flashing clear, the steady bow of an American frigate was visible. The Junma pitched for all it was worth, but there was barely any motion from the American ship, whose rail was lined with men holding binoculars. Then, an inflatable boarding craft was upon them, and the Americans were throwing lines. Here were the men who wore size fifteen shoes.
For the first few minutes, the Americans were all business, following a procedure that involved the crisp leveling and lifting of their black rifles. They made their way through the pilothouse and galley into the quarters below. From the deck, you could hear them move through the ship, shouting “clear-clear-clear” the whole way.
With them was a South Korean Navy officer who stayed up top while the Americans secured the ship. The ROK officer was crisp in his white uniform, and his name was Pak. His helmet was white with black and light-blue bands, rimmed in polished silver. He demanded a manifest and registration of ship’s origin and the Captain’s license, none of which they had. Where was their flag, Pak wanted to know, and why hadn’t they answered when hailed?
The shrimp swung in the net. The Captain told the First Mate to dump it in the live well.
“No,” Pak said. He pointed at Jun Do. “That one will do it.”
Jun Do looked to the Captain. The Captain nodded. Jun Do went to the net and tried to steady it against the motion of the ship. Though he’d seen it done many times, he’d never actually dumped a haul. He found the release for the trap. He tried to time the swing of the net over