Cloud City Dock

It had been an extraordinarily sun-drenched week, and overnight the sea vs. air temp flipped causing a thick gray blanket of mist to blank out everything past a few yards. Me, J and Four cruised past Deadman's on the way to town in Four's K-town mobile. You could see the pavement slipping through the floorboard, and occasionally small pieces of corroded steel would take their final flying leap, trailing behind us a dusty explosion. The only thing keeping our feet from recreating the Flintstone's ride was a vintage vinyl floormat, one of those with the overly perky playmate showing off her assets. Staring down I was almost sure she winked at me.

Scanning the horizon, if you hadn't traveled that route a million and a half times, you wouldn't know the bay and mountainous coastline across it even existed. To me it looked more like we were approaching Cloud City and Lando would be greeting us soon. But no such luck, Four flicked his blinker and took a right, landing at the City Dock, way too early in the morning. Even the one seagull that was pacing the pilings didn't seem quite awake in the eerily quiet fog.

Four's given name is actually Thorton Tortelsen. We both attended Main Elementary as kids, and he was a little later than most in the ability to produce the sound "th". Due to his speech impediment when introducing himself, Thor became Four for life. His parents own a small seiner that when fishing is good pays the bills, but otherwise is a purchased full-time job without benefits. Often the neighborhood children would be roped into deckhand grunt labor or any task that required little or no pay. My penchant for pretending to be pirate hoisted me into indentured slavery some summers. Pirates smell like herring you know.

Straddling bracings in the truck bed are two plastic totes containing some old gill nets. This is the first year Four purchased his own subsistence license and was hoping to take the skiff out and drop a few sets - enough to brine and smoke a freezer full of Reds. Unfortunately no one knows how long these nets have been in the garage and what decaying treasures may have been buried amid the coiled line. J suggested, "by the weight of it there's probably a body," as he struggled to slither the tote to tailgate.

"Guess we'll find out soon enough," said Four, lifting the end cork and lead line with some grimy gloves and walking backwards as click, clock, click the white oval corks tapped over the plastic edge and tumbled down just to be dragged across the empty asphalt lot.