“They had twice as many? On a trawler that was half as big?”
Osvald nodded.
“How was that?”
“Well, they all lived in the forecastle, and it was damp and wet. There were no personal berths like here.” He nodded toward a closed door that led to the sleeping hall. “So they couldn’t manage to do what we do now. The weather was a big problem, for example, but it isn’t anymore.”
“Why not?”
“You’re sitting on a boat that can handle any weather at all,” said Osvald.
“Can you manage to take care of it yourself?” asked Winter. “Could you be alone on it?”
Osvald nodded without saying anything.
“There weren’t eight of them that time,” said Johanna. “It wasn’t fully manned.”
Her brother turned to her.
“Did you forget, Erik? There were five of them.”
“Yes, right.”
She looked at Winter.
“That was everyone who wanted to come along on the last crossing from Donso. Everyone who would dare.”
“The three brothers and two other men,” said Winter.
“Yes.”
“Where are they now?”
He knew what had happened to the brothers. Egon had gone under with the boat, along with John. Bertil came back and died on Donso, in modern times.
“Frans Karlsson disappeared too,” said Johanna. “That’s what we were told by Arne, Arne Algotsson. He came back with Bertil.”
“Arne Algotsson?”
“He lives here on the island. He was along with them.”
“Oh?”
“But he is hopelessly senile,” said Osvald.
“Is he?”
“He forgets his thoughts before he thinks them,” said Osvald with a weak smile. “If he even has any.” He rubbed his hand over his chin, and the rasp of two days’ stubble was audible. “In that condition, he probably doesn’t think at all.”
The
“They came to Aberdeen, and it wasn’t the first time, but this time they didn’t have very much fish along,” said Osvald.
“And they weren’t from there,” said Johanna.
“It was too dangerous,” said her brother.
“So they had to stay there,” said Johanna.
“In Aberdeen?”
“At first. Then they went up to Peterhead and it became like their home harbor during that year. They went out sometimes, of course.”
“But never very far?”
“Well, they probably went around the point at Fraserburgh sometimes, and a bit to the west into the strait, in toward Inverness, I think.”
“Inverness?” said Winter, looking at Johanna.
“Yes. Not all the way in, if Arne could be believed before he completely lost his memory. But into the strait there, Firth something.”
Winter nodded.
“And then they went to Iceland a few times,” said Osvald. “That was pretty bold.”
“They were crazy,” said Johanna.
“Up to Iceland?”
“The fishing grounds off of the south coast of Iceland,” said Osvald. “Witch flounder. They got a very good price for them down in Scotland.”
“But still,” said Johanna.
“It was on their way home from one of those trips that it happened,” said Osvald.
There was no wind when Winter came up on the bridge. The
“Do you want to take a look in the pilothouse?” asked Osvald.
Winter saw screens everywhere, telephones, faxes, technology, lamps, switches.
“Looks more or less like dispatch at the central police building,” he said.
“Most of it is to keep an eye on the coast guard,” said Osvald, smiling. “Especially the Norwegians.”
Winter nodded and smiled back.
“That’s the big threat to the fishing industry today,” said Osvald. “We have so many borders across the sea today, there are so many lines out in the sea today. You can’t cross the zones, but lots of times the fish swim all over the place, crossing borders, and it’s frustrating, you know, if you know that there’s fish a nautical mile away and people from other countries are sitting there pulling them up while we Swedes are spinning our wheels at the border.”
Osvald did something with one of the levers on the dashboard. Winter heard a sound like a winch.
“And then it’s tempting to go over to that side, and then you have to turn off the satellite transmitter,” said Osvald. He looked at Winter. “You understand?”
Winter nodded.
“You won’t say anything to them, right?”
“The Norwegian Coast Guard? I don’t have any contacts there,” said Winter.
“They’re not nice,” said Osvald, smiling again. “Three inspectors can suddenly be standing in the pilothouse. Their mother ship, a big coast guard boat, it’s seven nautical miles away because they know that all fishing boats have a range of six nautical miles on their radar, and they’ve driven a little dinghy up from the back at thirty knots, and they’ve snuck up alongside and snuck up on the deck and rushed into the pilothouse. It’s happened to us twice!”
“Not nice,” said Winter.
“And in addition, he wanted fillet of cod for dinner,” said Osvald.
“What did you do?” asked Winter.
“We gave him pork tenderloin,” said Osvald. “Who can afford to serve fish these days?”
Erik Osvald was proud of his twin rigger. He shared ownership of it with two other fishermen from Donso. Three hundred and twenty tons gross weight; 1,300 horsepower.
They had left the pilothouse. Osvald had told him about the wireless sensors on the trawls, which could monitor everything down there: the currents, the bottom, things that were in the way. He described the automatic controls, the regulators, how the winches were operated. The hydraulics.
They stood on the quarterdeck, the work deck. It was dry, dry under the September sun. Osvald said something that Winter would remember and return to when so much more had happened. When he knew more.
“It’s always a competition,” said Osvald. “At sea. And here.”
“What do you mean?”
“When my grandfather came here and started fishing, when he and his brothers tried to buy their own boat-and they did it quickly-it wasn’t accepted. They didn’t accept it. Not here on the island. They weren’t supposed to be boat owners. They were supposed to be the serving class. We, our family, were supposed to continue as the serving class.” Osvald looked at Winter. “My grandfather changed all that.”
“And you’re still competing,” said Winter.
“Always,” said Osvald. “It’s always a competition out there, between boats, across zones, and it’s always been a competition here on the island. Between people.”
