Chapter 1

John Ritter sat alone in the middle of the crowded saloon; oblivious to the commotion of the wet tee-shirt contest taking place on the tiny raised stage in the corner. John was a familiar presence in many bars, taverns and saloons up and down the coast and inland waterways, from the Elbow Room in Dutch Harbor, just about the only bar on that dismal rock, to the Salty Dawg in Homer, with its trophies of hats and tee-shirts covering the ceiling and walls, interspersed with postcards sent from various foreign and exotic parts and on down to the Red Dog in Juneau with its loud live bands and wild hard drinking patrons. He was even known in Moe's in Skagway, but he had only been in the famous Red Onion once, and it had been too trendy for him. He preferred to nurse his one drink all night without peppy wait persons constantly pushing refills.

The places he was known, that he visited just to get off of the boat for awhile, knew that he was better mannered than most of their customers, and he also tipped better. John was good company if you sat down and talked with him, conversing mostly about his experiences as a long-line commercial fisherman, but if you didn't invite yourself to sit at his table, he was perfectly content with his own thoughts. Soft spoken and unassuming, usually quiet, and a good tipper- it was no wonder that he became known to the servers all throughout the towns and villages where a boat could tie up.

They didn't know him well enough, however, to sense that tonight his quiet mood was due more to depression and fatalism than to his normal subdued reticent personality. He had a feeling that some dark stormy night, very soon, he would be lost at sea. John was one quarter native, and gave credence to such feelings.

On more than one occasion such feelings had saved his life- but this time, he knew his number was up. One time, he had the feeling that his knife should go on the front of his thigh instead of on his right hip, and two days later, one of the large hooks dangling off of the long line became embedded in the flesh of his right fore-arm as the corded line whipped overboard pulled by the heavy anchor and the resistance of the float. It caught between the bones, the herring bait pushed back up over the filament line and the haft of the hook, giving him nothing to grasp even if he chose to rip the hook from his flesh, which he had done often enough.

It was only the fact that he could quickly grab the knife from it's new position on the front of his left thigh and cut the filament line which prevented him from being pulled over the back of the speeding boat. As it was, he nearly got fouled in the rest of the hooks as they flashed overboard. It was a short Opening, and to make enough money to pay wages the men had to quickly get the pre-baited and coiled long-lines overboard, and hope that enough fish had attached to the hooks before the time they had to haul the lines before the Fish and Game boat sounded the closing signal. John continued to work with the hook in his arm until the Opening was over, pausing only long enough to remove the bait.

John had many such close calls over the years, since he first started long-lining for cod the summer he turned 15. In the off season, he cut and delivered firewood, also a dangerous profession, alone in the woods, and he had done well for himself but now his inner sense of invulnerability was gone. He picked up his warm beer, finished it down, and startled the hell out of his server by ordering another one.

"Are you ok, John?" The petite yet tough woman asked. At 5'2", she was only six inches shorter than John, although with her heels on the difference was negligible. Bets looked at John, taking in the tanned and weathered face, prematurely aged from exposure to sun, cold, and toil. At 37, John would have been considered young in most other places and professions, but his aches and injuries made him feel old and tired. They didn't stop him from doing more than his share of work though, either on board the various boats he worked, or out in the timber felling firewood.

"Yeah, just got some things on my mind, thanks Bet" John answered, grateful for the genuine human concern he heard in her voice. On the boat, it was just hard work, some rough humor, and crashing into a cramped smelly bunk when even coffee and inhuman endurance couldn't keep the crew on their feet anymore. In the woods, it was solitude broken only by the snarling of the chain saw and the thump of the hydraulic splitter, the unnatural sounds of civilization driving away any curious wildlife. About the only human contact he had in his workaholic life was to be found in noisy or gloomy bars and taverns.

He thought better of the second beer, as he was truly a lightweight, and the one beer consumed over several hours hit him hard when he stood up. Having just slammed the last third of it hadn't helped, either. John waved a vague farewell to the patrons who weren't too attentive to the festivities on stage to notice his departure, he pressed his usual tip into Bet's hand, and faded into the early morning blackness. She looked worriedly after him, then put him from her mind, and concentrated on taking care of her customers. Last call was coming soon, and she wanted to get a start on gathering up the empty glasses and bottles ahead of time.

John was the black sheep of the Ritters, they didn't claim him, and he didn't claim them. He was a by-blow, and the only reason his name was Ritter was because that is the name his mother had had put on his birth certificate. The rest of the Ritter clan were wheelers, dealers, movers and shakers. Altogether a sleazy, slimy, underhanded bunch of advantage takers. John was the exception, a hard working, blue collar, genuine nice guy.

John didn't know any other life, quitting fishing and finding some other work didn't even enter his calculations. He knew he would be a fisherman until he died, and he felt that time was coming soon. There was an Opening out off of the Copper River shoals in two days, and the boat he was currently working, the Esmerelda, was going to be fishing it, in spite of the predictions of nasty weather.

The Captain was just as hard a worker as John, and all the crew were experienced. The Observer however, was a raw newbie, as usual. It was rare for one of the young college biology or marine fisheries majors foisted off on them (and on foreign boats fishing within 300 miles of U.S. soil) by the U.S. Department of Fish and Wildlife to return for a second season, and those who did were welcomed with rude camaraderie. More usually, though, it was some young lad or lass, homesick, seasick, and very much 'at sea'. This time it was a 19 year old Marine Biology Major, a college girl just having finished her freshman year in some much warmer climate. Ah well, what would fishing be without the Observers.