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were catching three kings for every coho, which is what you want: they’re not only bigger, they pay three times as much per pound.
    Back out on the deck, I spilled the bloody water from the rinse tubs, but no faster than the scupper slots could drain the mess back into the ocean—otherwise, it would have spilled all over the deck.
    Leaning over the side with the pickle barrel, I scooped up three gallons or so of seawater at a time, careful not to let it get so full that it would break my back or pull me into the ocean. The bulwark was less than knee-high. I had to watch the swells or I would lose my balance.
    â€œDo that from your knees,” Tor barked. “I don’t want you going overboard.”
    â€œMe neither,” I said, and kept working. I thought I might have been due for a compliment, and his warning stung. Still, I should have known better. At least he seemed concerned about my safety.
    The rinse bin on each side refreshed, I climbed down into the fish hold and began the stoop work I was hired for. I was set to begin stowing our treasure. Troll-caught are the finest restaurant-quality wild salmon, the most expensive on account of being the most labor intensive—cleaned and bled within minutes of being caught, iced a few degrees above freezing, then rushed to market by jet.
    I began by bedding the forward right section of the hold with a few inches of ice. Then I returned to the central floor where I’d thrown the salmon. I lifted that fifty-pounder with both arms, duck-walked it forward, used the aluminum scoop to fill its body and gill cavity with ice, then laid it gently off to the right. Extra-large were paying $1.21 a pound. I was looking at a sixty-dollar fish. My share…nine dollars. Not bad!
    One fish at a time, I repeated the process. I laid them out neatly and bedded them with ice when I was ready to start a new layer. I slid one of the cedar bin boards into position to contain the fish in that compartment.
    My back was already fit to breaking. Hours of bending over the stern to gaff the fish, bending over the cleaning bin, and stooping in the hold were taking their toll. It felt like a fish knife was planted deepbetween my shoulder blades.
    Last fish stowed, I returned to the central floor of the hold but stood up too soon. My skull met the framing under the plywood tray that supported our refrigerated groceries. I saw stars, and had a grim laugh at myself. Focus, Robbie!
    I hoisted myself out of the fish hold onto the deck. Sliding the heavy cover back over the hatch, then blinking in the bright light, teeth clenched against the pain still ripping through my skull, I straightened my back and flexed my numb fingers. The chipped ice had a way of sliding inside the rubber gloves.
    The wind had picked up and the Petrel was rolling in the slop. I nearly got pitched off balance, then braced just in time. Torsen was looking at me like I was a greenhorn.
    â€œTake your side again,” the captain hollered. “We gotta bring ’em in faster. The sea lions are onto us.”
    I looked to our wake but couldn’t see any sea lions. As I swung into the cockpit and started to pull the port tip line, the skipper reached for the hayrack and pulled himself out of the cockpit. He braced his way across the rolling deck and disappeared into the wheelhouse. This was my chance to look around more carefully, with Tor away, to see if I could find where his mysterious metal plaque had gotten off to.
    No luck. It wasn’t anywhere to be found. I looked up as the captain appeared at the wheelhouse door. He had a pocket lighter in one hand and what looked likea small stick of dynamite in the other. His face was contorted into a hard angry knot. Muttering darkly, he lit the bomb and tossed it over the side. A second after hitting the water, it exploded. At the back of our wake, two startled sea lions leaped halfway out of the water.
    Our raiders with the big bearlike heads were