It’s rough out here, truly nautical weather. The sea is heaving, the wind is howling, and the deck is slick with spray.
I need to move in and check the second string of pots. This one is just as bad—maybe even worse than the last run.
The charts tell me it should be right here. Eyes sharp—there it is. Right there! Hold steady. That way.
You’re good, ease her back, right back that way.
But it’s not as simple as it looks. To keep the crew safe, I have to swing the boat wide.
I can’t pull in from the west; the northerly winds are hammering us, and if I try it, the waves will crash straight into the open side of the boat.
The buoys, though, they’re hanging off to the east. That means I have no choice but to swing around, making a full circle through the chaos of wind and water.
I’ve got to avoid running the line over—one wrong move, and we could lose gear, damage the boat, or worse.
Every second out here is risky. A rogue wave can rise out of nowhere, slamming into us when we least expect it.
That’s why this job is so dangerous. That’s why I’ve got to stay sharp—hands on the wheel, eyes forward, always calculating.
Driving in seas like this is no joke. It’s tricky, it’s stressful, but it’s the only way to get the job done.
Okay, steady now… coming around. Coming up on the gear.
Freddie, look sharp—these pots are hitting! We’ve got something good here.
Yes! We can offload one on time. That’s a solid pot, heavy with crab. That’s what we came for.
A good one like this makes the risk worth it. Four pots like that, and we’ve got twenty. Twenty crabs, twenty steps closer to our goal.
Alright, dump her back, guys. Let’s reset it. I love it. That’s more than we hoped for.
But there’s no time to celebrate. The sea doesn’t wait. I’ve got to find the next spot, track down the next line.
Every pot counts, every haul adds up. We chase one after another, no matter how hard the sea fights us.
“Come on, Krabbies,” I mutter under my breath, almost like a prayer. “Fill these pots for us.”
Patience, caution, control—that’s the only way to survive. I keep my speed slow, steady, never pushing harder than the boat can handle.
Neil, move aside. Give me some room on the deck—we need it clear.
Suddenly, someone shouts. The tanks are flat. We’ve got a problem. A serious one.
“Run! Move hard! Quickly now!” Orders fly across the deck, men scrambling, boots pounding against the wet steel.
“What’s going on?” I yell, trying to keep my eyes on the sea and my crew at the same time.
“Give me a second,” comes the reply, rushed and tense.
Then the words hit like a punch: “We’ve got problems. Serious ones.”
The moment hangs heavy in the salt air. I can feel it.
This isn’t just a setback. This isn’t just another rough sea.
This is worse.
“Code Red. Right now.”
