ANCHORAGEhad called me for months, but I didn’t know how to listen. The time I had spent in Dallas had been wasted, the desire to get home led me to the airport. Even if I had been afraid to be homeless in the frigid winter, I could surely find work in the city. Couldn’t I?
Normal people followed a consistent hustle and bustle during their work week. Before, I felt like I wasjust in the way. Without anything to offer, there had been no purpose in my existence.
If I wanted to make a good life for myself, I needed to figure out how to be a productive member of society. First on the list, I needed to find a way to support myself; to make some money. I read another of Andrew’s saved verses and knew I had to go.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”—Proverbs 3:5-6
Flight 423—the cheapest flight I could book—occupied most of the day; with two layovers, I was in the tin can for over fourteen hours. As an afterthought, I wished I could have showered before getting on board.
On the first flight, the poor lady beside me wrinkled her nose when I plopped into the middle seat. Embarrassed, I held my breath most of the way in an attempt to hide my stench. At least my hair and face had been recently washed.
Hotels were a dime a dozen in the city, but not many of them were cheap enough for me to be able to stay for more than a few days. Familiar with one motel already, I decided to return. I was surprised that the owner remembered me. We exchanged a room key for aweek’s rent.
One of the men who had frequented the parking lot earlier this summer nodded as I followed the owner up the steps. Some things never change. I wondered how long he had been here and if his life had meaning.
I got settled in—which meant I sat my backpack on the bed—and jumped in the shower. Grime pooled at my feet; I felt the weight of the world wash off my body and swirl down the drain. This time, I had a good idea of what it looked like to start over. Get a job, keep my cool and work long enough to save the money needed to get an apartment. Work hard, enjoy freedom, find a way to give back. Maybe a church could use a strong young man to volunteer.
Not wanting to bother Pete and his lying brother, I had decided to find a way to support myself. My roommate at McLaughlin had mentioned which fishing boat crew regularly hired ex-cons. When I asked why they needed to hire so many, he shrugged. I figured I could give it a shot.
The two-mile walk through the downtown area of Anchorage and across railroad tracks seemed close and far at the same time. My mind wandered to the possibility of being tossed overboard, lost at sea; I shook the image away.
By the time I reached the dock, the sun had lessened, but wouldn’t set. I didn’t need to worry aboutwalking around in the dark this time of year. TheMystery of Alaskahad just pulled into dock, and I watched the crew tie off before they unloaded their catch. Taking note in my mind of how things worked, I knew this job would be for me. Andrew’s voice rang in my ears:Don’t blow another opportunity when it comes around.
“Hey, buddy.” The first guy who jumped to the pier ignored me. Walked right by without even acknowledging I had addressed him. Heat rose up my chest, but I knew I needed to keep my anger under control until I had landed the job. Stench followed him and I wondered if they all smelled so bad. I hoped the glare I threw at him burned.
“Can I help you, friend?” The voice from behind startled me.What’s with everyone calling me friend?“Yeah.” I turned and almost gagged.Yup, they all smell that bad.“Looking for a gent called Rock.”
“A gent? Dude.” He leaned in close, his breath worse than the fish-gut stench. “If you’re looking for a job, don’t use that word. Rock hates that word.” He lifted his chin toward the men staring at us from the ship.
I pursed my lips and nodded. “Noted.”
The captain, hands deep in his front pockets, stood at the edge of the boat. “Only people who come down here lookin’ for me are lookin’ for work. You need a job?”
“Yes, sir.”
The barrel-chested man with salt and pepper hair descended the stairs and met me on the dock. “Name’s Rock.” He extended his hand, and I shook it. The other man still on deck crossed his arms over a button-up dress shirt.
Odd attire for a sailor.
“Not many men arrive on the same day as the boss man.” Rock lifted his chin toward the professional, who smirked. “Gus Miller owns this fleet. We’ve had some problems with the crew; he’s been helping me, let’s just say, ‘iron things out’.” A chuckle rumbled from Rock’s frame. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jake Knight, sir. People call me Moose, sir.”
“Look, kid, you can drop the sir. Where you from?” Rock asked.
“Moose Pass, originally.”
He lifted his eyebrow and nodded. “Makes sense. And now?”
I paused and glanced between the captain and the owner. I’d never had an actual interview and wondered if everyone sweated like this when they came to realize their livelihood was in one person’s hands. “Been living in Dallas for the past little while. Just got back today.”
“Lucky you. I just had a spot open up today. The pay is ten percent of the haul. I take forty, then split the rest between my men,” Rock said.
“What does that mean in dollars?”
He rocked on his heels and looked at the sky. “Let’s see. This haul will be worth a hundred grand. That means ten thousand for all my men.”
“What? You mean ten thousand dollars? How long is the hunt?”
