David Vann - Caribou Island

Okay, Carl said. Thanks.

So Dora went below and Carl watched the compass and the horizon. He never went straight exactly. He’d drift a little too far one way, turn the wheel and drift too far the other way, then overcorrect again. Turning constantly. The waves only slow, small rolls, the surface smooth, and the only wind of their own creation, and he was high up, with good visibility, the bow below him, so it should have been easy, but there was some kind of current, it seemed, underneath. It did feel like a river, the entire inlet. He tried to watch for logs, also, figuring he was not supposed to run over those.

How you doing up there? Mark called after a while through the hole.

Fine, Carl said.

Good. Just let it have a little play. Then Carl was on his own again, for a long time. He wondered whether he was still going the right direction, and he wondered whether the two of them were taking naps. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do. They could be playing cards.

Almost two hours passed before Mark appeared wearing the bottom half of his rain gear, held up by suspenders. The gear dark green, same as the woman’s had been, and he was wearing the same dark rubber fish boots.

Mark pointed off to the right and slightly ahead. Pukers, he said.

What? Carl asked.

Pukers. Sport fishermen. The cabin cruiser drifting up there, though they probably think they’ve stopped. Going for halibut.

Nice name, Carl said. Does everyone call them that? If I lived here, and I went out sport fishing, would I be a puker?

Mark grinned. Do you cook?

Sure.

Mind fixing breakfast?

So as they reached the fishing grounds, finally, Carl was down in the kitchen cracking eggs. They stopped for some reason, started up and stopped again, then called back and forth, and Carl caught a glimpse of Mark on the back deck letting out the net. The boat rocked tremendously from side to side, far more than the low waves seemed to warrant, so Carl couldn’t afford more than a glimpse.

Mark had wanted all twelve eggs scrambled, and the only bowl was small. As Carl braced himself against one of the counters and avoided falling onto the stove, he tried to keep the bowl full of eggs level in midair, and he scrambled these eggs when he could with his other hand.

Then he realized he had to fry the bacon first, so he held this bowl and kept it rocking level with one hand while he bent down to get the bacon out of the small fridge.

Carl ripped the package open with his teeth then flopped it down onto the counter, where it slid back and forth as he went for a pan. The boat rocked suddenly much harder, and he banged his head against a cabinet. Some of the scrambled egg sloshed over yellow and goopy onto his jeans, where it oozed slowly downward and sank in.

Very nice, Carl said over the roar of the diesel. He held the back of his head with his free hand while he watched the remaining eggs, a little lower now, and kept them rocking.

When Carl had finally gotten a pan on the stovetop, the burner lit, and a few pieces of bacon in the pan, Mark ducked his head into the cabin and yelled, Get up here. I need you to throw fish. Then he was gone.

Carl stood rocking in place for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Then he dumped the eggs into the pan with the raw bacon, turned off the gas, and hauled out onto the deck.

Jesus, he said. There were salmon everywhere, all over the deck and a few even getting wrapped up with the net in the reel.

Get over here! Mark yelled. He was between the reel and the stern, picking the salmon. This didn’t look easy. As the net came up over the edge, he untangled a salmon until it hung only by its gills, then yanked down hard until it fell out and hit the deck. Salmon all around his feet, silvery and gasping, flopping and sliding in their own froth of slime, blood, and sea water.

Throw these into the side bins! Mark yelled. The engine and the hydraulic reel combined made a lot of noise.

So Carl grabbed fish and threw. But he kept dropping or threw too low, the salmon thudding against the side of the bins and sliding back, and then he slipped and fell onto them.

Mark grabbed him by his collar and yanked him to his feet. Grab ’em by the gills! he yelled. And get out of my way!

Carl moved a few steps and scooped by the gills, which was easier unless they were clamped closed. But most were gasping, their dark red gills exposed and crenellated like seaweed. Their backs darker, greenish blue, like the ocean itself, then silver on their sides becoming white on their bellies. Their eyes large and roving, bewildered-looking. Carl threw as fast as he could. They were cutting his fingers, something sharp in there.

Irene and Gary loaded sheets of treated plywood into the boat. First time she’d been outside since the storm, except going to the doctor’s office. Overcast today, cold with a bit of wind.

You’re the storm bringer, Gary said. Darkest day we’ve had in the last week. It’s been calm and sunny.

If I were bringing the storms, they’d be a lot worse, Irene said. All of Soldotna wiped off the map.

Yikes, Gary said as he grabbed the bucket of tools and some nails. Save that for the hammer. We need to put all these sheets down today. He was in a good mood, Irene could tell. He had won. She was coming out to help on his idiot project.

They swung the bow plate up, latched it, and were off. Irene bundled in a coat and hat, ducking her head into her collar, turned away from the wind. The wind and cold making her headache worse. She blew her nose, the end of it sore and raw. The antibiotics and decongestant didn’t seem to be doing anything. But she was fine, according to the doctor and everyone else. Nothing wrong at all. Just a little cold. She popped two Tramadols when Gary wasn’t looking.

They landed almost on the shore, the boat light enough to get in close, grabbed the big sheets of ply and carried them through all the growth. Wind catching the sheets if they went broadside, Irene trying not to fall. Mosquitoes biting her neck and face, her hands not free. She would have expressed a little frustration, but what was the point? She’d only get a lecture from Gary. The tough get going lecture, or the I need help lecture, or, worse, the big lie about this cabin being for both of us lecture. After a while, the cabin might turn into her idea entirely.

Gary had built the frame of a floor. Slim posts pounded into the earth, joists linking, everything braced. Not entirely level or even, but it looked more stable than she had expected.

This looks pretty good, she said. You’ve been working.

Thanks. I realized the dirt floor wasn’t going to cut it. And I was careful to square the corners, so the ply should fit, hopefully.

How do the walls attach?

I don’t think they do. Just attached to each other at the corners, and we’ll try to make it a snug fit.

Okay, she said.

So they flopped the sheets of ply onto the platform, lined up edges carefully, and nailed into joists. Irene could feel each hammer hit, even with fresh Tramadols. She couldn’t breathe, and she was getting tears in her eyes from the pain, but she wiped them away and didn’t say anything.

The wind increased, of course, just to say hello and acknowledge her presence. The sun disappeared through thicker cloud cover. But it didn’t rain.

Only six sheets of ply, a small platform, twelve feet by sixteen feet, so the nailing didn’t take long. They stood back to take a look.

It’s really small, Irene said.

Yeah, he said. Nothing wasteful. Just a cabin. Only what we need.

I think we need more. If you want me to live out here, actually live out here, we need space for a bed, a kitchen, a bathroom, and maybe just a little bit of space to walk around. Somewhere to sit.