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with the other boats. But we would persevere with the minimum. We would catch fish the old-fashioned way. That would be very satisfying. The old guys on the old, junky boat would outfish the best of them. I would have to be careful not to allow my confidence in my ability to run wild. Confidence would be healthy if it remained below cocky. I needn’t swagger. Now, if I had a bigger boat . . .
    Archie came up and announced that he was going to grill steaks for dinner. The weather was too calm to bake chicken, he reasoned. Grilled steak was exciting. I shared this attitude with the rest of the crew. We were all about the food at this point, as was common during a long steam. Once we started fishing, food would become simply a necessity to fill a void. I wouldn’t care what we ate, as long as we ate it quickly and meals did not interfere with the work of getting forty miles of gear in and out of the water on a daily basis. My memory was fully engaged when we’d put together the grub list for the trip. I decided that I would eat a can of sardines every day for lunch and maybe a can for an occasional snack. Sardines were quick, easy and multi-weather-condition food. Arch agreed, as did Tim and Dave. We sailed with a hundred cans. And although a hundred cans would not last sixty days if we all actually did eat them every day for lunch, the quantity seemed a little excessive once they were delivered and stowed.
    We were only one day out, and so far I hadn’t felt like eating sardines and hadn’t seen anyone else enjoying them either. But there would be ample opportunity as soon as the wind kicked up to a velocity that would make it impossible for Archie to prepare a real meal. Or if the trip was extended for whatever reason beyond our food supply, we would always have the sardines. I remembered a trip when sardines would have been torn into like a favorite meal. Poor fishing amounted to many more days at sea than I had originally imagined or planned for. The last week of that ill-fated voyage was filled with voids of all kinds. The cigarette smokers tried rolling lint from the clothes dryer, a can of cake frosting was used for coffee sweetener, and I ate codfish gills. This afternoon was a perfect time to light the grill, I agreed.
    The sun had traveled to the stern of the boat. I stood on the upper deck behind the bridge and soaked up the last rays while Arch and Machado set up the grill below. Dave and Tim appeared from within the setting house and sat on the fish hold’s hatch cover. Dave looked up, smiled, and said, “All I want to do is catch fish.” Tim reported progress of eight hundred leaders for the day. Wow, I thought, at this rate we’d be geared up well before we reached the fishing grounds. A pod of large porpoises broke the otherwise flat surface just off our port quarter. They splashed and played, closer and closer until they swam alongside. I’d been wondering for the past ten years how it would feel to be back here, I thought as I watched Archie light the charcoal with a blowtorch. And right now I remembered at least part of what I’d missed about this industry. The confidence to command is powerful. To command a bunch of screwups is one thing. But to be a leader of real men is dumbfounding.
    Archie cocked his head slightly to one side, listening to something. I imagined he heard the high-pitched squeal of the porpoises. He looked up with wide blue eyes, cupped a hand to his mouth, and yelled, “Shut the engine down! Quick!” He and Tim ran toward the fo’c’sle and disappeared. I flew to the controls, pulled back the throttle, threw the engine out of gear, and hit the kill switch. I took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. I knew I had to join Arch and Tim in the engine room. I glanced out the back door where our wake had run off to the side and petered out. If being at sea is more of a feeling than a place, being adrift is a really bad