Pescador's Wake Read Free

glance.
    â€˜You’re just getting old and conservative, but our wives will thank you for heading home now.’ Eduardo counts to three, using his fingers, feigning stupidity. ‘Carlos, Julia, Virginia…It looks like I’m outnumbered.’ He winks and leaves to join the crew.
    Carlos again checks the radar and sees another boat enter the field. ‘ ¡Vete al infierno !’ He moves the Pescador slowly along the longline while he tracks the course of the new arrival. Perhaps it’s just the fishing boat they saw earlier. He watches as toothfish pile, one after the other, onto deck. They are, without a doubt, the largest specimens they’ve caught so far—plucked from the pit of a world he can barely imagine. ‘Freeze the biggest one whole!’ Carlos tells the crew over the loudspeaker. ‘The owner wants a trophy for his palace wall.’ He pictures Eduardo rolling his eyes in response. One of the crew sends the largest toothfish down a chute to the factory deck. Carlos sees him, hands cupped around his mouth, relay the order to the men below.
    A black-browed albatross is landed next. Having fallen prey to the baited hooks, the bird has drowned beneath the waves. Eduardo slams his hand against the rail and Carlos knows, from the accompanying flick of the first mate’s head, that he is swearing. ‘ ¡Maldito! ’ he’d be saying. According to the first mate, it is the male albatross that goes to sea to fishwhile the female waits at home on the nest. They have one partner for life, Eduardo told him, and Carlos imagines this bird’s sole companion waiting now in vain for his return.
    Carlos hates to catch seabirds too, but it’s a price they pay for longlining hurriedly in daylight like this. He has heard the Australian boats are banned from using longlines here and instead use deep-sea trawls, avoiding the curse of killing an albatross. He watches Eduardo remove the hook expertly and throw the drowned bird to the hungry sea. If the Pescador was theirs, they’d do it all differently.
    Carlos studies the radar. The other vessel has maintained its course and is headed straight for them. His guts reel. ‘Cut the line,’ he barks over the loudspeaker. ‘We have company.’
    He sees Eduardo look up and locate the vessel on the horizon to the north. The first mate shakes his head but follows the instruction, leaning over the rails as the dark shadows of fish on the surface are dragged down by the weight of those below. A wasted catch; a sunken treasure – the five-tonne load spiralling towards the abyss, the fish starving and dying on the discarded hooks. Carlos regards the radar and the approaching vessel. What choice did he have? Another two lines had been set five nautical miles to the east, anchored to the seabed and marked with a GPS buoy. They’d been lucky to retrieve both of those before being spotted. Eduardo will forgive him in time.
    With the wind chill, it’s minus seventeen degrees Celsiusoutside, and ice has formed on the rails. Carlos drives forward the engine control, while half his crew, fifteen men, clean off the decks and stow the gear. The boat surges faster now, heading south towards high seas and the front. The remaining crew has already moved to the factory deck to process and freeze the catch.
    The VHF radio crackles and a voice floods the wheelhouse. ‘ Pescador, Pescador, Pescador, this is the Australian civil patrol vessel Australis, Australis. Do you copy?’
    Carlos doesn’t reply. If need be, he can claim that communications were down. He strikes the instrument table with his fist. They were so close to getting away with this. So close to heading home. He maintains his southerly course and sees Eduardo making his way back up to the wheelhouse.
    The first mate heaves open the door and feeds himself inside. He tears off dripping gloves and unzips his wet-weather jacket exposing a face turned