shirts that Justo purchased for the occasion.
The brothers posed for a photograph afterward: Felicia was seated in her wedding dress, with Josepe standing behind her, hand
on her shoulder, and Justo and Xabier at her flanks. The protocol demanded serious looks for such pictures, but the three
brothers all fl ashed the Ansotegui smile, which left their eyes little more than dark slits.
“Watch the birdie,” the photographer said, pinching the fingers of his right hand against his thumb to get their attention.
It was their first picture.
Several years later, the flu pandemic killed Alberto Barinaga. After having served his apprenticeship eagerly, Josepe Ansotegui
took over Barinaga’s boat, which did not automatically assure his acceptance by the collection of strong-willed fishermen.
His eventual consideration as patroia of patroiak was a gesture of respect for Ansotegui’s farm-bred willingness to work as hard as any crewman while on board and for his levelheadedness
and vision in matters of their community.
Although among the youngest captains, he proved many times that he was concerned with the well-being of the collective. But
Josepe would freely acknowledge that he did not have the background in the fishing business that most other patroiak enjoyed. He found that he did not have to go far to divine a deep reservoir of sound counsel, merely across narrow Arranegi
Street, in fact, to the home of José María Navarro.
Navarro was the patroia of the Egun On (“Good Morning”—an uplifting name for early-rising fishermen). Navarro had fished since he was a boy with his father, who
had fished since he was a boy with his father, in an uninterrupted skein of genetic filament stretching back before anyone
could imagine. When Josepe was called upon for any administrative purpose requiring knowledge beyond his ken, he’d consult
with José María Navarro aboard the Egun On or slip across the street in the evening with a bottle of wine.
José María never sought greater responsibilities in the community. Ansotegui was welcome to shoulder the task of being the
leader of the fleet, as Navarro had enough to keep him busy, specifically the development of his two sons and a pair of younger
daughters.
Eduardo was the family firecracker and comically called “Dodo” by his brother, Miguel, when he was learning to speak. The
two daughters, Araitz and Irantzu, arrived in the second wave.
While Josepe Ansotegui and José María Navarro melded complementary strengths to guide the community, their wives, Felicia
Ansotegui and Estrella Navarro, grew as close as sisters. The husbands fabricated a pair of pulleys anchored into the second-floor
window frames that allowed Felicia and Estrella to hang and retrieve laundry on adjacent lines above the street and visit
through the hall windows as they worked. They chatted about the children, about their husbands, about the news of the town.
“Oh, I have to start boiling the beans for this evening,” one would say, and the other would agree that it was indeed time
to start boiling her beans as well. They would finish one chore and then meet in the street to go to the market, where one
might see some nice corn or cabbage and both would purchase the same produce. Off to daily mass, they sat side by side in
the same pew for each service. In tandem, holding each other’s arm, they stopped in the square to visit with other mothers.
When one spoke, the other bobbed her head in perpetual assent. They were like twins connected by laundry line. And on breezy
days, the Ansotegui and Navarro bedsheets and shirts and pants and skirts fluttered together like colorful pennants.
CHAPTER 4
The animals living in Errotabarri’s basement rarely disturbed their upstairs neighbors. The wood fire in the hearth, with
its tiny explosions of scented pitch pockets, and the sausages and peppers drying in the kitchen mostly covered any smells
that might drift up
The brothers posed for a photograph afterward: Felicia was seated in her wedding dress, with Josepe standing behind her, hand
on her shoulder, and Justo and Xabier at her flanks. The protocol demanded serious looks for such pictures, but the three
brothers all fl ashed the Ansotegui smile, which left their eyes little more than dark slits.
“Watch the birdie,” the photographer said, pinching the fingers of his right hand against his thumb to get their attention.
It was their first picture.
Several years later, the flu pandemic killed Alberto Barinaga. After having served his apprenticeship eagerly, Josepe Ansotegui
took over Barinaga’s boat, which did not automatically assure his acceptance by the collection of strong-willed fishermen.
His eventual consideration as patroia of patroiak was a gesture of respect for Ansotegui’s farm-bred willingness to work as hard as any crewman while on board and for his levelheadedness
and vision in matters of their community.
Although among the youngest captains, he proved many times that he was concerned with the well-being of the collective. But
Josepe would freely acknowledge that he did not have the background in the fishing business that most other patroiak enjoyed. He found that he did not have to go far to divine a deep reservoir of sound counsel, merely across narrow Arranegi
Street, in fact, to the home of José María Navarro.
Navarro was the patroia of the Egun On (“Good Morning”—an uplifting name for early-rising fishermen). Navarro had fished since he was a boy with his father, who
had fished since he was a boy with his father, in an uninterrupted skein of genetic filament stretching back before anyone
could imagine. When Josepe was called upon for any administrative purpose requiring knowledge beyond his ken, he’d consult
with José María Navarro aboard the Egun On or slip across the street in the evening with a bottle of wine.
José María never sought greater responsibilities in the community. Ansotegui was welcome to shoulder the task of being the
leader of the fleet, as Navarro had enough to keep him busy, specifically the development of his two sons and a pair of younger
daughters.
Eduardo was the family firecracker and comically called “Dodo” by his brother, Miguel, when he was learning to speak. The
two daughters, Araitz and Irantzu, arrived in the second wave.
While Josepe Ansotegui and José María Navarro melded complementary strengths to guide the community, their wives, Felicia
Ansotegui and Estrella Navarro, grew as close as sisters. The husbands fabricated a pair of pulleys anchored into the second-floor
window frames that allowed Felicia and Estrella to hang and retrieve laundry on adjacent lines above the street and visit
through the hall windows as they worked. They chatted about the children, about their husbands, about the news of the town.
“Oh, I have to start boiling the beans for this evening,” one would say, and the other would agree that it was indeed time
to start boiling her beans as well. They would finish one chore and then meet in the street to go to the market, where one
might see some nice corn or cabbage and both would purchase the same produce. Off to daily mass, they sat side by side in
the same pew for each service. In tandem, holding each other’s arm, they stopped in the square to visit with other mothers.
When one spoke, the other bobbed her head in perpetual assent. They were like twins connected by laundry line. And on breezy
days, the Ansotegui and Navarro bedsheets and shirts and pants and skirts fluttered together like colorful pennants.
CHAPTER 4
The animals living in Errotabarri’s basement rarely disturbed their upstairs neighbors. The wood fire in the hearth, with
its tiny explosions of scented pitch pockets, and the sausages and peppers drying in the kitchen mostly covered any smells
that might drift up
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