Crime

"Go to Hell, Ivar!" shouted Jens at the recorded voice coming from his cell phone. He stared out the wheelhouse window, his practiced eye reading the wind and waves while gulls wheeled and screeched overhead unnoticed by the distracted skipper. The gulls demanded their share of the silver darts of herring swimming just out of reach below the sea surface. All they needed to get at the meal was for Jens to put his net over and drive the fish up.

Jens couldn't decide which was worse, the screeching birds or Ivar's whining. "Someone has to stand up for Inger," he pleaded at dinner the day before. "Besides you need an adventure, you're getting too content."

I'm not so content anymore thanks to you, Ivar, thought Jens. He put the engine in neutral and stepped through the narrow door behind the helm, down the ladder and out onto the main deck. A fresh breeze, loaded with the smell of salt and sea life and far off lands, ruffled his short blond hair. The practical haircut made his head look square and severe. His square head sat on square shoulders that also supported strong arms hardened by work. The wool sweater and work pants that he always wore on the boat enlarged his stocky frame, making him look shorter than his two meter height.

He had been content. He had his own boat, more herring than he could catch and the endless sea. The hard work in the open air made him feel strong. The clever strategies he used to coax fish into the nets made him feel smart. Steaming back to the dock with the fish hold full made him feel successful.

Why would he trade that for the discontent of his younger brother, Ivar? Tall, like Jens, Ivar was better proportioned. He proudly displayed a long, but carefully trimmed and brushed head of honey blond hair that lifted on the slightest breeze to swim around his head like a flock of birds. The biggest difference between the brothers was their hands. Where Jens kept his weather and work hardened claws hidden in coat pockets, Ivar artfully draped his long fingers and smooth skin where everyone could see them. By night he studiously applied various creams and treatments to fight off the ravages of the harsh northern winter.

Ivar was not meant for life in the fishing village of Landsbyn, Norway where the boys were born and raised. He dreamed of moving to Oslo and working in a heated office with a pretty secretary. But, to do that he would need money and to get money he needed the cannery. There he kept his hands protected in thick gloves while he gutted fish reminding himself that the smells and slime were his ticket out.

 

Jens checked that his gear was ready. The big net of bright green nylon was smoothly wrapped around a big drum on the stern. The cables and winches that would maneuver the net and its catch were clean and well oiled. The engine that drove the pumps and generator and would bring the catch home at the end of the day rumbled in the engine room below. It was time for Jens to get to work. Looking past the pilot house, he checked the summer sun hovering above the horizon like a rich man lingering over brandy and cigars after dinner. He could squeeze in a few more sets before he had to run for Denmark to sell his catch. He was not looking forward to the long trip, but what choice did he have? He could not go to the cannery back in Landsbyn. Not with them pressing trespassing charges after Ivar's adventure went wrong.

Jens tossed the end of the net over the rail and slammed his work hardened hand into the controls, sending the net off the reel into the sea. The sound of the machinery drowned out the calls of the seagulls, now barely able to fly in excited anticipation. Below the surface, a school of herring wound itself into a tight ball, confused by the shrinking space inside the net. Panic set in when net squeezed tighter and lifted into the air, wringing out the water. A few wriggling fish managed to slip over the edge of the net only to be snatched by waiting gulls.

The winch strained noisily against the weight of the loaded net that swayed slowly across the deck. Jens expertly maneuvered the giant tear drop over the fish hold, timing the swing just right to dump the fish into the dark chamber. Not bad, he thought. Two more like that and he would have all the fish he needed. The thought came unexpectedly, fully formed before Jens realized he was tempting the gods by predicting success. He reset the net and sure enough, the net came up half empty. There was nothing for it but the ritual that Old Johansen taught him as a young boy. He hopped on one foot and drew a rune with his finger on the rail while he lowered the net back into the water. Jens did not know which was sillier, the superstition, or the goofy dance, but he could not argue with the results. The rest of his sets brought in full nets.

The hours of work had tired him out and sun squatted on the horizon now urging him to get to port. Jens set a course in the autopilot for Jutland and got a start on the endless chores required by the boat.

Jens checked the pilot house at regular intervals to make sure the autopilot was on course and that the engine gauges were holding steady. On each visit, the message light on his cell phone flashed. Ivar, no doubt, calling again to find out where he was. Stop your hectoring! I'll be there for the inquest in the morning, Jens promised the blinking light. As soon as I find another buyer for my fish. That was Ivar's fault too. Since last night, he couldn't go to the ugly squat cannery that sat in a notch carved from the cliff at the edge of the fjord. Maybe that was a blessing. He never liked the unpleasant buyer on the dock or the greedy owners in Oslo, who let the building and the dock fall to ruins instead of spending any money on the marginal business.

 

Ivar had other reasons for disliking the cannery. Reasons, that for practical reasons, he kept to himself. Each morning he lined up outside the tiny door with other hopeful workers waiting for the next shift to start. From a grease smeared window with a crack running from top to bottom, the manager looked out over the line and instructed the shift supervisor about who should be let in. "Johansen's production has been dropping. Perhaps a day at home to rest, eh?" The supervisor marked his list. There would be no wages that day for Johansen. Ivar made no complaint, even though Johansen was a friend. Complaining would get him sent home. No sense in both of them losing their wages.

  

Jens pulled the throttle back a hundred RPM. He enjoyed the pleasant rolling of the boat as it carried him across the sea. Out here there were no managers, no lines, no confining walls. This was freedom. He could point his boat in whatever direction he chose and go as far as wind and currents and his fuel supply would take him. He sat back in his comfortable captain's chair and inhaled, drinking in the smells of sea and diesel.

The beckoning message light on his cell phone insisted. He grabbed it off the console and punched up the list of missed calls. All from the same number. What he wouldn't give for a friend who might call him just to shoot the breeze. Not that he was lonely in his self imposed solitude, he just wanted someone besides Ivar to talk to right now. There was not much hope of that. His friends, taciturn old Norwegians, would never spend the few words they carefully rationed out over a lifetime, on a phone message.

Jens closed his eyes and put the phone to his ear. Ivar voice, pitched high and fast, sounded scared and defeated as he reminded Jens that the inquest on the trespassing charges was scheduled for 10:00 the next morning. All this fuss, thought Jens, over a cheap brooch. They could have got a new one in Oslo for a few Kroner, but Ivar insisted that they help Inger get hers back. It had been her mother's he said, and that spiteful manager was keeping it.

Jens did not like the of sneaking around at night in the rundown, creaking building. Why not go to the manager and ask him for the brooch? "That will never work," insisted Ivar. "He's a real bastard. You know why the manager won't let her back to work, right?" Jens tried not to think about the unsavory rumors about the manager abusing his power with the young women workers. Getting back the brooch might salvage a sliver of honor from an evil situation.

But there was no honor to be had that night. The mission to recover the brooch was an unmitigated failure. Before they even got in the manager's office, Henrik, the guard, clapped a hand over Jens' shoulder and asked them to come along quietly. They spent the rest of the night explaining themselves to the constable and arranging bail.

 Jens deleted the rest of the messages in the middle of Ivar's complaints as lights from the Jutland shoreline came into view. He set course for the buyer's dock and dialed his number. "Dag, this is Jens Olaf on the Harmonisere." There was a silence on the line while the buyer tried to recall the name. "I have a load of herring to sell," Jens added helpfully."The Harmonisere, you say? You're not one of our usual trawlers.""I'm an independent. From Norway.""You've come a long way. How many tons of herring do you have?""My hold is full," declared Jens in Norwegian. He hoped that the language difference would hide his evasions about the size of his catch."I see," said the buyer. He quoted the price they were paying for fish."You must be mistaken," Jens protested. He countered with an offer that would at least pay his expenses."Prices are fixed," stated the buyer. His voice softened for a moment. "Hey, are you the same Harmonisere that used to fish the fjords up near Bergen?""I spent a few seasons up there.""I was on my father's boat, the Torsk. I thought all you old timers had retired by now or joined up with the trawlers. Work your way up to captain and you're in the big money.""What would I do with all that money?""You could retire in a few years and live in a big house in Italy.""But I like fishing.""OK, then you could buy a little boat and go fishing."Jens looked around at his boat and shook his head at the irony. "Hey, what about buying my catch?" He asked.The hard edge came back into the buyer's voice. "Listen, I'm real sorry, but I just can't handle any small boats. We have three ships coming in tonight and I have to have them unloaded and out of here before morning."Jen slammed his fist into the console. "What am I going to do with all these fish?""Sorry. You should really think about getting on a trawler." The connection went dead cutting off Jens' cursing. 

The coast of Denmark drifted past looking foreign and inhospitable. In the distance he could see the lights of Helsingborg fighting off the darkness of the brief summer night. He wracked his brain trying to think of some other place to unload his fish.

While he thought, a rough looking dock tucked against a tree covered point of land came into view. In the dim dusk he could just make out a small figure standing on the dock. Jens pointed his boat towards the dock hoping to find a place to tie up for the night. As he approached the dock, the figure standing there resolved into a woman dressed in a light summer dress. She held her arms tightly around herself against the cool sea air.

"Is this your dock?" shouted Jens.

"It belongs to our group." Her voice was quiet but clear over the sound of the engine.

"Is it alright if I tie up here for the night?"

"Everyone is welcome," answered the woman. Jens eased the throttle forward and maneuvered up to the dock. The boat bobbed obediently in place while he handed a mooring line to the woman.

"I'm called Jens."

"I'm Mette." She was a good looking woman with a perfectly proportioned face, marked by a few age lines that gave her an approachable quality.

"I've been fishing all day and I was about to have a glass of aquavit. Would you like to join me?" Jens asked, stunned by his own boldness. Mette nodded and stepped aboard.

 

The evening glass of aquavit was a tradition from old man Johansen. After their first trip, he instructed the exhausted boys to toss the fiery liquid down quickly so that it could warm the stomach before it burned the throat. The old man laughed at their watery eyes and pinched expressions. He smacked his lips after his own shot welcoming the alcoholic glow that took the edge off the hard work day. "Always remember boys," he said, carefully returning the bottle to its shelf. "One drink is for going home. Two drinks are for going to the devil."

Jens poured for Mette who tossed the shot back and slapped the glass down with a satisfied slap. "So, you're from Norway?" she asked after Jens drained his own glass. He answered with a nod. "On the stark and rocky shores of Norway was born a child named Gus Steinersen..." she quoted, making Jens smile. Mette drifted around the small cabin examining the efficient galley, the books neatly bound on a small shelf, and an old fishing spear mounted on a plaque. She asked questions about everything while her slim hand probed and examined. Jens answered each question with a word or two, relieved when Mette did not press him for more involved explanations. When she was done with her tour, she sat across the tiny galley table from Jens and gazed into his eyes. Jens was surprised to find himself gazing back as comfortably as if he entertained charming women every day. "Do you live nearby?"

"We all live in the big house on the beach." She pointed to the southeast where Jens recalled seeing a building that looked like an old seaman's home. "It's like a big family, you know?" She went on to explain how the group had left Christianshavn in Copenhagen to escape the encroaching pressure of the city with its tourists and government controls. He took a second look at Mette, searching for the markings of a hippie in her simple clothes and pleasant figure. She wore no beads, no flowers in her hair. She was washed except for a trace of garden dirt under her fingernails. Her eyes were focused, unclouded by the effects of drugs.

"Hey, Mette!" a voice called from the dock. "We're hungry!"

"I need to go help in the kitchen," Mette said. Jens felt a wave of anxiety at the thought of her leaving.

"Maybe you would like some fish for your meal," he blurted out. Why not? His trip was a bust anyway. He might as well give the catch away. Especially if it meant he could spend more time with Mette.

"Are you sure you have enough? We are a big group."

"There's plenty," he said proudly. Suddenly his boat was no longer little. "The Harmonisere can feed a village!"

Mette popped out of the hatch and shouted some instructions to the boy on the dock. Soon a stream of colorfully dressed people flowed down to the dock and over Jens' boat. Peace signs were flashed at Jens in greeting as the hippies set up a barbeque on the dock and began to unload fish. A cloud of charcoal scented smoke mingled with the smells of lavender, sage and marijuana. Jens watched nervously as the crowd climbed aboard his boat. His warnings about not smoking on board and to leave the controls alone were met with smiles and more peace signs.

Unable to watch the invasion any longer, Jens went ashore to search for Mette. He found her at a large picnic table, illuminated by a large flickering torch, up to her elbows in fish gore. A small pile of roughly cut fillets showed her slow progress on the huge basket of fish waiting for processing. Jens took the knife and tested the edge, and with a questioning look, prompted her to get a sharpening stone from a box of cooking equipment next to the table. Jens peeked into the box and pulled out another knife with a longer, more flexible blade. He sharpened it until it shaved neatly through the hairs on the back of his hand, wiped the blade clean and grabbed a herring from the basket. With a few quick strokes, he stripped the meat from the fish. Mette watched carefully as he demonstrated the technique on two more fish before taking the knife from him. She worked tentatively at first, but with practice and a few tips from Jens she was soon cleaning fish as well as anyone at the cannery back home.

The night passed pleasantly with Mette telling him about some of the more colorful members of her group and Jens answering questions about himself. When Mette had finished the basket of fish, she shocked him by casting off her clothes, running into the darkness and diving off the dock to wash away the slime. A part of him wanted to dive in after her, but instead, he sat quietly on the dock looking for her in the dark water. When she returned, he turned his eyes away and handed her clothes over. His gallantry or maybe his shyness earned him a laugh that he suspected had a hint of derision in it.

His suspicion disappeared when she took his hand, and guided him to the barbeque where they filled their plates with herring. She ate greedily, streams of rich herring oil pearling down her chin. They did not speak again until every morsel of fish was sopped up from her plate. She pushed the plate aside and leaned back and made a satisfied sound. Her breasts pointed at the sky grabbing at his attention until he could stifle his prurient thoughts by forcing himself to look away to the horizon where the sky was beginning to lighten.

"Damn!" He would have to hurry now if he was going to make it back to Norway in time for the inquest. He leaned to Mette and kissed her. "I have to go, but I'd like to come back... Soon." She smiled at him and told him he was welcome anytime. He rushed down to the dock his mind buzzing with the experiences of the night and the things he had to do.

 

The early sun spread a million sparkling reflections over the sea, but was still too low to drive off the dew that had gathered on his boat. A few hippies had also gathered on the deck to sleep off the night's bounty of fish and intoxicants. The sight of the peacefully sleeping young people reminded him that he had been up all night. He should feel tired, but instead he felt energized. Maybe it was the urgent need to get home. Maybe it was the pleasant time he spent with Mette. He gently woke the hippies and herded them ashore before putting the boat in order for the trip home. In the cramped engine room, he checked the oil, belts and batteries before starting the engine. While the little diesel warmed up, he cleaned the deck, coiled lines, and stowed miscellaneous items. When everything was ship shape, he pulled a chunk of cheese, bread and a few pieces of fruit from the cooler, cast off the lines and pointed the boat to the north before diving into his breakfast.

The morning air was still and damp, the sea rolled gently by waves that wandered in from the North Sea. The weather radio predicted some wind for later in the afternoon, but he would be home by then. Jens settled into the routine of the transit. Scan the sea for other boats or junk in the water. Keep an eye out for weather. Glance at the engine gauges and navigation equipment. Repeat. Occasionally, he looked around the deck to make sure nothing had come loose and once an hour he looked into the engine room and bilge to see that all wa