Sole Survivor - Derek Hansen

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amazed you even let your boat get wet.” Red looked up to see Col on the wharf above him, a carton of supplies under each arm. “Reckon I could eat my bloody dinner off it. I’ll have to go back for the sherry.”

      They manhandled a fresh drum of diesel over to the edge of the wharf, secured it, swung out the jib arm and lowered the drum gingerly onto the deck. Red jumped aboard and untied the ropes.

      “You seen the Jap longliner yet?”

      Red looked up sharply at Col. “Tuna? I freed some birds.”

      “Nah. Snapper. I’ve been getting reports of a Jap longliner sending its dories in to within one or two miles of the shore, night after bloody night, all the way up from Mount Maunganui. He’s following the bloody snapper, ripping out millions of the buggers. He’s been working the Coromandel Peninsula for the last week. They reckon he was off Whitianga a couple of nights ago. He’s not like the others. This bloke doesn’t use lights. Bastard’s ripping out the fish. Just wondered if he’d made it up as far as you.”

      “Tell the fisheries?”

      “Reckon. Rang the fisheries but they already knew about it. Apparently the navy’s been informed.”

      “They doing anything?”

      “Dunno. They sent a Sunderland flying boat down around Great Mercury Island. Didn’t come up with nothing.”

      “I’ll keep an eye out.”

      Col smiled. He knew Red would, too, and it would serve the Japs right. He was still chuckling as he made his way back up to the store to fetch the two jugs of sherry. Red might not be able to do anything about the snapper the Japs had already stolen, but he’d give them something to think about if they tried to steal fish from his patch. Col tried to put himself in the place of the Japanese fishermen in their dories when a raging, naked Red descended upon them. What on earth would they think?

      It was pitch dark when Shimojo Seiichi, the skipper of the Aiko Maru, gave the order to lower the dories. He hadn’t come six thousand miles to pull up six miles short of his objective. The nor’easter had freshened, and the helmsman battled to keep head-on to the sea. The crew was grateful for the rehearsals their captain made them do blindfolded every month, for they worked without lights. The sliver of moon had been and gone, and the stars might as well have been hidden behind clouds for all the light they gave. The four dories edged slowly away from the unlit Aiko Maru in a staggered line astern. The skipper watched until they were swallowed up in the darkness. He couldn’t help feeling apprehensive about fishing so close to New Zealand’s major naval base, and home of the Sunderland flying boats. If the navy got wind of their presence and dispatched a Sunderland, it would be upon them within twenty minutes. Then there’d be nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. But the potential rewards justified the risk. They were right on the navy’s doorstep and about to steal the rice from their mouths. That would be something to boast about later, in the bars around the docks at Kitakyushu.

      The wind whipped the tops off waves and showered the crouching dory crews with spray, stinging eyes and leaving a bitter salt taste on lips and tongues. But it was the lot of all fishermen to taste the sea. Almost to a man, the crews came from fishing families. Their fathers had tasted the sea, and their fathers before them, though none had ever ventured far from their little fishing villages and rarely out of sight of land. Now they were living their fathers’ dreams six thousand miles from home, catching more fish in one voyage than their forebears had caught in their entire lifetimes.

      Their course took them west of Aiguilles Island where they could fish in the relatively calm waters of the lee. They didn’t use spotlights this near to shore, in case they alerted unfriendly eyes to their presence. Instead they slowed so that any change in wind or sea would be more apparent. Once they felt the softening of the sea and wind, they slowed even further, and moved in closer as quietly as the dories’ twin outboards would permit. The greater darkness of Great Barrier Island loomed up in front of them. Once they were within half a mile of shore, and two to three miles west of Aiguilles Island, they took up position and began fishing in their prearranged staggered pattern. By the light of hooded lamps, they released the end buoys. As the buoys drifted away into the darkness behind them, they counted off the knots in the line until they’d released one hundred yards. Then, creeping slowly forward so as not to foul the props, they attached the weights that would hold the fishing lines to the sea bottom. The crew of each dory began to bait and lower the one-and-a-half-mile lines of double-barbed hooks, each set eighteen inches from the next. They worked with practiced hands and enthusiasm. Half a mile from Aiguilles Island they lowered the last of the baited hooks, the lead weight and head buoy. One after another the dories turned westward to return to their start position to lay the second of their four lines two hundred meters out to seaward from their first. Away to the east, the new day was yet to dawn.

      At first light they began to retrieve their lines. They caught the end buoys with their boat hooks, turned and wound the lines twice around the winch drums. The lines tightened as the winch took up the strain. The men looked at each other, smiling, shouted to the other crews. The lines sang from weights far greater than those they’d lowered a few hours earlier. “Tairyo!” they shouted. Good catch!

      They stared into the depths of the water, straining to catch the first glimpse of color. It was there, flashing pink and silver and sometimes gold in the pale light. The lead weights came up over the side and were expertly detached. The first snapper came aboard to be unhooked and thrown into fish boxes before they were aware they were even out of the water. Fewer than half of the hooks came up empty and less than ten percent with by-catch. Fish after fish piled on top of each other, spilling over the fish boxes.

      “Tairyo! Tairyo!” the crews shouted, as they hauled in the snapper that justified the risk they’d taken, that ensured their end-of-trip bonuses, that brought profit and esteem to the company, that brought glory to them all. The crews worked as fast as they could and needed no urging. The fish flashing red in the water flashed gold in their pockets. Still the fish came up, some over twenty pounds, most over six. Tairyo! Tairyo! Lengths of line where mako sharks had stripped both fish and hooks provided the crews’ only rest. The superstitious fishermen saw this loss as a good sign. The spirits of the water would approve of them sharing their catch.

      The sun broke free of the ocean as they neared the heads of their second longlines. Eager hands tossed more ice over their haul and made room for the fish from their third lines. So many fish! The gods had smiled upon them. Some of the younger fishermen laughed at the superstitions and devotions to the old gods. But the gods had not let them down and they only had to look at the overflowing fish boxes to know who had the last laugh.

      As the crew of the lead dory began to retrieve the head buoy of their third line and work their way back to the end buoy, the sun edged above Aiguilles Island, bathing them in its brightness and impressing urgency upon them. Their line sang with the weight, crackling around the winch drum. They stared intently into the depths, looking for the first flash of color, the blaze of red that would confirm that this catch was as good as the last. Perhaps it was the grinding of the winches or their concentration on the catch they were steadily hauling up from the sea bottom, but they were slow to hear the speeding motor. When the sound registered, they turned as one toward the source. But the morning sun blinded them. They covered their eyes with their hands to peep through the slits between their fingers. Then they saw it, their nightmare, and cries burst from their lips. There was a bow wave dead abeam, coming out of the sun on course to ram them and cut them in half. But that was not what chilled their blood. It was their fathers’ and grandfathers’ fears and superstitions come alive before their eyes. It was the drawings shown by other fishermen whose terror they now shared. The local kami had turned on them for their theft, and a Red Devil riding a boat of pure white foam was upon them, hair ablaze, breathing fire from its nose, its whole body fringed by the flames of damnation, seeking vengeance.

      The helmsman screamed in warning. His crew, who had many times fled both plane and patrol boat, did not hesitate. No sooner had a

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