Tension Erupts on Deck as Old Bait Sabotages the Catch

Bad Bait, Bad Pots, and Rising Tempers

What began as a routine haul quickly turned into a heated confrontation when the crew discovered the real reason their crab numbers were crashing. As pots came up nearly empty, frustration mounted.

“They’re taking the fresh codfish and putting it right on top of the old fish,” one crewman snapped.
“That’s why our pots are so out of whack.”

Underneath the new bait lay rotting fish—exactly the kind that drives crab away. The discovery confirmed the captain’s worst fear: their own baiting mistakes were sabotaging the set.

A debate sparked immediately, escalating fast.

“I’m trying to hold the gear!” the captain shouted.
“Don’t ever do that to me again—I’m talking to the crew, and you’re yelling at me.”

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

A Make-or-Break Haul

Despite the chaos on deck, the stakes remained brutally high. The captain had been offloading for days and still had 40,000 pounds of crab left to catch.

“We’re betting the farm on this set,” he said.

The first pot came up strong.
The second—terrible.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered, staring at a pot with only a handful of crab.

That’s when the truth surfaced: the bait at the bottom of the bin was black, rotten, and unusable.

“No old bait goes in the pot,” the captain reminded sharply.

The crew knew the rule. Someone had ignored it.

Brothers at Odds, Brothers United

The argument that followed crackled with emotion.

“You’re acting like the fish is three days old!” Mouse shot back.
“It’s 18 to 30 hours old. That’s it!”

The captain refused to fight in front of the crew.
“We’ll regroup,” he said tightly.

But the storm passed just as quickly as it came.

As the next gear set was readied, the captain turned to Mouse with unexpected vulnerability.

“I’ve never thanked you for last year,” he said quietly. “You got me to St. Paul. You saved my life.”

Mouse froze.
Then nodded.

“Give me a real hug, bro,” the captain said.

The two embraced—brothers in blood, battle, and boat life.
A rare moment of honesty softened the deck’s usual roar of engines and metal.

A Hot Run Turns the Tide

With emotions reset, the crew focused on the next string.

“First pot—fire in the hole!”

Pots began coming up heavy—crab everywhere.

“Eighty-five!”
“115!”
“One pot—twenty grand!”

The crew erupted in relief.

“That’s a winner there!” OJ yelled.

Suddenly, the fear of bad bait, bad pots, and bad luck melted away.
The rhythm returned.

Honoring a Fallen Brother

Even as the crab poured over the rails, a shadow lingered over the season.

“We’ve got a Nick Maybar memorial we need to do,” the captain said softly.

Nick had been more than a crewmember—he was family.
And this season, every pot, every haul, every mile felt heavier without him.

But with the numbers rising and the crew united again, they were determined to fish hard in his honor.