The Last Run by Todd Lewan

following night. The catch had not covered half the cost of groceries and fuel, and they had lost a lot of their good herring bait. But Gig Mork could not go right away—family business, he said. So they stayed in port and untangled a mile of main line, thawed out two blocks of iced herring and busied themselves with little things like cleaning the bilge pumps and filing hooks.
    Bob Doyle and Mike DeCapua slept on the boat. It was cold, but there were a few sixes of Bud in the refrigerator to help them shake off the dampness. They watched a video,
The Godfather,
and smoked a joint and lay in bed reading. DeCapua liked reading crime novels. The poetry of violence, he said, was a kick. Bob Doyle read the papers and drank and sometimes went outside to piss over the railing.
    Mark Morley slept at his girlfriend’s apartment. Gig Mork went on the town. He said he was going out for smokes and that meant he was heading either to Ernie’s or the P-Bar or a buddy’s house —anywhere he could drink without being hounded. When he was away at sea he did not drink. Otherwise, he was at it all the time. Several people who knew Mork said he’d lost control of his drinking after his older brother, J.R., shot himself to death one night on a cabin cruiser. Other people said that wasn’t true. Still, when Mork went out for smokes, he usually didn’t get back until he was flat.
    “Christ, that Giggy can drink,” Mike DeCapua said. He was lying in his bunk, reading. “He’s a hell of a deckhand, though. Not many deckhands in his league. And I mean anywhere. That fucker knows what he’s doing on a boat.”
    Bob Doyle said nothing.
    “But,
man,
can he drink,” DeCapua went on. “He can do that good. He’s just a little guy. But he’ll drink you right under the goddamned table if you let him.”
    Bob Doyle sipped his beer.
    “I’m having my doubts about the skipper,” DeCapua said. “He don’t know shit about rockfishing. Maybe he knows about crabbing or pollock fishing. He done most of his fishing out west, right? But he don’t know much about rockfishing. I ain’t going to quit the guy, though.”
    “No?”
    “Not yet.”
    “What are you reading up there?”
    “I’ve got a copy of Guy
Claudius.
Ever read it?”
    “No.”
    “I don’t do that,” DeCapua said. “I don’t go quitting a skipper just ’cause he’s had a bad trip. I might quit a guy after
three
bad trips. But not after just one.”
    Bob Doyle said nothing. Having lived years on Coast Guard cutters where privacy and quiet came at a premium, he had learned to let the talkers talk. He would not say a word and after a while the gabbers would gab themselves dry. He stood up. He felt like he needed another beer.
    “You hear what I just said?”
    “Sure,” Bob Doyle said. “Say, are you coming out with us to Whale Park tomorrow? Mark said he might take his girlfriend and her daughter. I’m taking Brendan.” That was his nine-year-old boy. Bob Doyle had named his son after the patron saint of sailors. He also had a four-year-old daughter, Katie. But her mother wouldn’t allow the girl to go out on the boat. Too dangerous, she had said.
    “No, thanks,” DeCapua said. He laughed. “You and me and the kiddies watching whales.”
    “Why not?”
    “I’ll pass.”
    “It’ll be fun.”
    It was, too. They were good kids and they loved being out on the water. After breakfast the wind was light and only a few clouds had piled up and the sound was pretty with brassy glints jumping along it. Bob Doyle looked astern, where the wake ran crisply in the calm water. Sometimes Brendan came running up to the railing and pointed out a rising fish. They would watch it drop back in with no splash and the water close smoothly around it. They also watched humpbacks breaching. As one of them came thrusting out of the water a memory flashed through Bob Doyle’s mind about the first time he took his family whale watching. Katie had squealed and clapped and her blond