Free Undertow by Amber Lynn Natusch

crack a childlike grin at me, overly pleased with his performance.
    “I never bought any of that, you know?” I quipped, standing to leave.
    “I had you going for a little bit.”
    “Not even a second.” I walked toward the door, stopping just short of the exit. “Now, I want you to drink lots of water today and try to eat something. And take a shower too. You stink.”
    The wattage on his smile increased tenfold.
    “Ha! Says the girl who reeks of crab and sea water right now.”
    “I'm a fisherman, Robbie. What did you expect?”
    His laughter trailed me into the hall before I closed his door. Robbie was going to be fine; the worst of his illness had passed. Unfortunately for me, he still wasn't well enough to return to work, leaving me with fifteen minutes to get above deck and help the crew prepare for the storm of the century. Remembering what Decker had told me about my father's stress made me feel guilty about my sullen behavior toward him that morning. After getting dressed quickly and stuffing my face with anything and everything I could find, I filled a thermos with coffee for my father and ran up the stairs to the wheelhouse, nearly tripping on my way.
    “Here, Dad,” I said, thrusting the shiny metal container at him. “I figured you could use this.” I hesitated slightly, unsure that what I was about to say would be welcomed or seen as a statement questioning his abilities as a captain. “I know this storm has you worried. I just want you to know that the guys all trust you. I trust you too.”
    His wide eyes turned to me, his mouth unmoving. The shock at my words was discernible in his expression, but, before I allowed my sentiments to sink in enough for him to respond, I walked away, not wanting to ruin the almost-tender moment we had just had. I carried the feeling that I had done something positive for our relationship with me on deck, the sense of inner warmth it gave me fueling me through the menial and laborious tasks I was given there.
    As I did my best to keep up, I fought the urge to seek out Decker and tell him of my most recent interaction with my father. I'd never felt the need to share something with another more in my life. He clearly knew how to read people, a gift that I often possessed, though I seemed inept at applying it to my own family. Decker didn't appear to have that deficiency. He understood my father in a way that I almost envied. Maybe if he hadn't been the ruin of my childhood, I would have put more time and interest into understanding him too.
     
    * * *
     
    Time was virtually irrelevant on a fishing vessel. Light or dark didn't matter. All they did was give you some skewed sense of whether it was night or day. Beyond that, they did nothing to help you wrap your head around exactly what day it was or how long you'd been working. I realized just how similar crabbing was to my ER experiences. Hours passed without notice, the job at hand requiring all your attention. Had we not had clocks on the wall, or watches on our wrists, we would have been in the same situation as the crabbers.
    I looked up to find an eerie, starless sky hovering over us while we pushed on, preparing to run from the storm that had already started to show us her strength. The wind continued to rock the ship with fervor while the freezing rain pelted our faces, making our jobs increasingly difficult and dangerous. The severity of the storm had once again been upgraded, and it continued to head right toward us, picking up speed as it did. Quota to fill or not, time was running out. We needed to abandon the grounds.
    While the boat jogged toward the final string of pots, trying its best to keep its nose pointed into the crashing waves, my father's voice came over the intercom. He informed us that we would be taking our dinner break shortly, and that we needed to make it brief. Once he finished giving his orders, Decker approached me, stepping away from his post in front of the hydraulic station