Green Coats
A
steady gust of wind blows across the Suzanna’s deck.
Undisturbed, she sails the quiet sea, off the coast of Dorset. The air is hot and the sea
gleaming. Captain Roghart is laughing with Fryin’ Pan, the cook, outside the kitchen door.
Both men are drinking cheap wine. They toast. From the stern, the young boy watches them. The
flushing wind and shuffled water below the rudder make it impossible for him to hear them. He
wishes he should not have to work. Scrubbing the deck does not inspire him. He feels tired.
Today is just too hot. He inspects the sky for seagulls and sees none. Just an endless blue sky.
Roghart has spent most of the morning looking for them with his binocular, looking for
fish. Strange he should be laughing now, the boy thinks. Since they have left a week before
catches have remained meager. Roghart has spent all his time screaming and cursing.
The
boy watches the net’s cable disappear into the trawler’s wake, through the slip at the
stern. Every four hours, the crew hauls the net on board, cleans the fish, puts the fish in
crates, and the crates in the fridge. The sweltering sun dries up and glues the remnants of
fins, gills, and blood from the last harvest onto the steel deck. The boy knows he has to clean
the mess left behind. He leans against the broom
and peers at the men. Their laughter makes him smile too. He wants to laugh with them. He wants
to be included. Getting lazy? someone shouts, adding that it is not time for a siesta.
The boy glances at the fisherman smoking a cigarette, gesturing him to get back to work. He
salutes him as if he was a seaman in the Navy and then throws a bucket of water over the deck
and scrubs it with a hard-bristled broom.
Between
shifts there is not much to do, except for him; he is always assigned to some menial task, while
the crew rests. He works longer hours than anyone
else on board and does not like it. He has grown black fuzz on his upper lip to look older, to
gain some respect. But the fuzzy hair has only earned him the nickname bumfluff.
The
group around the captain has grown larger and louder. At times, when the wind dies down, through
the engine’s chugging, the commotion reaches the boy. He notices Shit-face Paul, the
boatswains man, wiping his teary eyes in Fryin’ Pan’s shadow. Roghart faces them. Wide hand
gestures accompany his words. Fryin’ Pan tops
their glasses. They do not seem to notice the boy’s presence. He scrubs his way towards them,
hiding in the bridge’s shadow to spy on them. He is too far to make out what the men are
talking about but close enough to recognize some Spanish words. They intrigue him. Since when
did the captain know Spanish? Near the bridge, he drops his broom, wipes his hands on his yellow
tee-shirt, and walks around the back. There, he opens a door and listens to the conversation
through an open porthole next to the kitchen. The men cheer and roar. Roghart is moaning and
whimpering like a woman having sex. The boy smiles too.
“She
doesn’t?” He recognizes Fryin Pan’s hoarse voice.
“As
hot as a chili,” says Roghart.
“Lucky
bastard,” says Shit-face Paul, “The woman’s a mermaid.”
They
clink their drinks, and Captain Roghart goes on imitating the woman having an orgasm, peppering
his description with more Spanish words. “Si mi amor, mas, mas, mas.” Yes, my love,
more, more, more. “ ‘Of Maria,’ I told her, ‘You’re so beautiful.’ ”
“Who’d
have thought bumffluf’s mother would be a dirty bitch,” Fryin’Pan says.
The
boy flattens his face against the wall. His legs abandon him. He collapses on the floor. Tears
of rage burst into his eyes. He squeezes his eyes tight to hold them back. This cannot be true.
His mother will never have done that. His mother is not like that. He storms out of the cabin,
the captain’s insult still ringing in his ears. Back at the stern, he throws his broom
overboard, seizes his knife, and slashes at random into the net lying at his feet. The same one
the crew has mended that morning. The boy knows that cutting the net to pieces will cut straight
into the captain’s heart. This will teach him to tell lies, he thinks. He pushes the blade of
his knife back inside its handle.
“What’s
the hell?” says the boatswains man, watching him from a distance.
The boy hurries back toward the bridge.
“Hey
chico, what on earth?”
The
boy enters the helm post and hops down the ladder, his slender fists tight on the steel
banisters. He rushes past the refectory where two sailors are playing cards. No one notices him.
He searches for a place to hide. Fear leads him to his cabin.
The door of his stuffy and tobacco- stinking quarter is open. The boy slips into his
berth without removing his boots, slowly slides its hatch closed, and locks himself inside.
Through the breathing grid, he glances at the mirror on the opposite wall.
No one else is in the cabin. No one has followed him. He lies down. His heart races as if
a venom was running through his veins. He closes his eyes and listens for voices through the
wooden panels. Nothing but the engine’s muffled drone. He wants to sleep but cannot forget the
captain’s mockery, about his poor mother. She
will never have done something like that. She works so hard at the fishing plant. The captain is
a filthy liar. The boy remembers coming home once and seeing the captain leaving his house. His
mother stood in the doorway, talking with the captain. They only shook hands. The boy plunges
his head into the pillow to scream but cries instead. He feels the need to pray for strength and
comfort, and he prays. in Spanish.
Roghart’s
holler is within hearshot. “Where is he? Where is
he hiding?” The card players’ voices sound confused. The boy listens to the doors slam and
bang, the captain’s feet pounding on the floor. I’ll find you! Through the thin partition,
he senses the ominous grunts drawing near. He crouches in a corner of his berth to make himself
smaller, sinks his chin between his curled up knees.
The
cabin door swivels open. The hinges wail. The door whacks the cupboard behind it. Finding
courage, the boy peeps through the hatch’s grid. At that moment, captain Roghart barges into
the cabin, his fists clenched, his lower jaw tight with anger. He stoops down toward the
berth’s hatch.
“I
know you’re in there, you little shit!” he shouts, gripping the grid with his lacerated
fingers. His voice sounds deeper and muffled through the partition. The boy recoils into
darkness. “I see you, you little shit. Come out here now.”
Roghart
struggles with the railing. He tries to lift the hatch with his huge hands. In the mirror, the
boy sees the hatch’s handle come off into the captain’s hands. The captain seizes a small
switchblade and dug the blade below the railing. The door does not budge.
“Come
out of there you little runt!” He hammers the partition with his massive fists. Flashes of
light pierce through with each of the captain’s knocks. The wood hatch caves in but the boy
keeps his foot pressed against the latch and it remains closed. The captain takes a break. Vexed, he props himself up against the top berth, arms
outstretched, his body tilted forward. The boy watches his head bob and quiver in anger between
his strong arms. A roll of fat wobbles on the back of his neck. His shoulders look wider in the
mirror. Roghart gazes and paces about the cabin, snorting. He glares at a pile of clothes lying
on top of a vacant bunk. He sweeps crumpled dirty socks into a corner with his foot. Near a
bulging garbage can, surrounded by empty bottles, he crushes a scattered can and kicks a
brimming ashtray across the floor. The boy shies off the grid. Roghart stands motionless in
front of the closed hatch.
“If
your deckie-brat face’s not out in two seconds, I’m coming in to get you.”
The
boy does not respond. The bald-headed captain charges towards the berth. He kicks the wood panel
to smithereens and reaches inside the nook. The boy searches for his knife. But the captain has already charged towards him,
his enormous hands gripping his boots. The boy’s thin tanned fists emerge from the dark.
“Let go of me!” he screams. Roghart holds tight to the squirming legs and yanks the boy out.
The boy tries to punch himself free, but within seconds the captain’s sturdy arms have
pinioned him down. His head is squashed under the Captain’s arm, like an animal neutralized in
a yoke. He can hardly breathe. He pulls on the Captain’s wrists squeezing his neck. He choked.
He cannot speak and rage makes his eyes water.
“Little
prick, you’re going to pay for this,” says the captain, tightening his grip. The boy coughs,
gasps for air. He stops fighting but his fear remains intense. He knows Roghart is going to
punish him.
The
captain lugs the boy back up on to the deck. There, he dips his thick hands into the boy’s
pockets and reclaims the small knife.
“I’ll
teach you.” Roghart shoves the boy towards Shit-face Paul and another fisherman repairing the
net. “You’re going to pay for this. Give them a hand.”
The
boy glimpses at an older man with a prickly silver beard and a corn paper cigarette hanging off
the rim of his lips. The old fisherman is focused on mending the net with a harpoon-shaped
heirloom. Shit-face Paul stares at the net and his purple hands tries to make sense of the
tangles meshes while he readjusts his sagging pants. The boy stays put.
“Get
to work,” the captain says, thrusting the boy towards them. Again, the boy shakes his head no.
“Here, little shit.” Roghart picks up a loom from a toolbox and shoves it into the boy’s
hands. “Old Pete, show him how to do it.”
Old
Pete pauses for a second, takes a silver Zippo out of his pocket, and lights his cigarette,
which drooped under the weight of his saliva. He leans against the banister and stares at the
sea.
“I
won’t,” the boy whispers, dropping the loom. He gazes straight into the captain’s glare.
Roghart snatches the loom up and shoves it back into the boy’s hand.
“You
destroy you fix!” He steps towards the boy with his hand up. The boy recoiles, his thin
sun-weathered arms hooked over his belly. Roghart seizes his short black hair.
“I’ll
tell my mom,” the boy says, wincing in pain. “You’re a liar.”
“Hear
the little runt, Paul? He’s calling me a liar.” The captain hurls the boy into the net
sprawled at the two sailors’ feet. Shit-face Paul staggers backwards. “I think it’s tea
time,” he says as he lurches away, his frock pants sagging down, the knee-high rubber boots
rattling on the deck.
“And
what makes me a liar?” asks the captain.
“You
told lies about my mother.”
“Oh
yeah? And what’s your Deckie-face going to do about it?” Roghart stands facing him, his wide
shoulders sheltering the boy from the sun. He bends towards him, brings his face close to the
boy’s and whispers: “Everyone in town knows what your mother’s like. Even Shit-face
Paul’s had his way with her.”
Shit-face
Paul corks up his metal flask and tosses it back in his pocket. He cracks a smile. The boy spits
at the captain but the captain has seen it coming, and he dodges sideways.
“My
father’s going to bury you,” he screams, flailing at the captain.
“Your
father’s a drunk,” the captain sneers, jabbing his finger into the boy’s chest.
“He’s
the best fisherman on the coast.”
“Out
in the sea for twenty years—and doesn’t even have his own boat. A fisherman without a boat
is like a man without a woman. Even Shit-face Paul once had a boat.” Roghart is now chuckling.
Shit-face Paul nods assent. His red eyes gleam under the sun.
“Your
dad’s been in this country for thirty years,” he says, giggling with his brandy laden
breath. “And we still don’t understand fuck about what he prats about.”
The
boy bounces towards him but the captain blocks his charge. “Come on then. Come on,” he says,
skipping around the boy, his two fists in boxing position. “That’s right, he’s probably
happy to have kicked you out of the house.”
“Mentiras.
Son todas mentiras!” Lies. Its all lies, the boy shouts before charging the captain again.
This time, the captain whacks the kid behind the head and he falls to his knees. “Don’t call
me names I don’t understand.”
The
boy finds the strength to get up. He takes aim at the captain and throws another punch, but the
captain shirks the attack and kicks the boy, sending him crashing into Shit-face Paul. They
crash on the deck. Several fishermen have gathered
around the group, and the fight fades into a public mockery. The crew picks up on it. Within
seconds everyone is in laughter, which only enlivens the boy’s anger. Legs akimbo, he stands
panting, ready to go another round. With the crew as witness, the captain explains that the boy
is lucky to be on the Suzanna, the best trawler on the
coast, when so many kids in town will kill for a chance.
“How
d’you think you got on this boat? he says, the vein in his short brawny neck inflating. “A
good woman your mother.”
Tears
stream down the young boy’s face, his lanky powerless arms resting at his sides. His yellow
shirt flaps in the wind. He is exhausted but still wants to avenge his insulted mother. He wants
to lie down on his berth and cry. He begins to walk toward the bridge. He can feel the scattered
white patches of dry salt being crushed under his boots. Roghart orders him to stay, but the boy
keeps on walking. The captain pounces and flattens
the boy down. “She knew exactly what to do.” The crew explodes in laughter.
“Dux
on starboard,” bellows suddenly the helmsman from the stem of the trawler. A shoal of haddock.
He points at a flock of seagulls derviching in the distance. Everyone turns towards the birds.
Millions of tiny flashes sprinkle the sea like raindrops balling on a narrow patch of water. Old
Pete raises his head. “Green coats,” he mumbles.
The
captain has already darted towards the ship’s bow. He
leans over the railing and stares at the ephemeral reflections teeming below the crazed and
shrieking birds.
“Green
coats! Green coats!” Mackerel! Mackerel! he repeats with trepidation. He gives orders.
Within seconds, the crew takes position around the deck. The boy dashes towards the cabin. Two
hundred yards away, above the water’s glittery surface, he glimpses at the unmistakable birds
ducking into the sea for their prey. Roghart who is passing by wrenches him with one arm and
locks him up in a storage room behind the pilot’s cabin. The boy throws himself against the
steel door, only managing to hurt himself. Blinded by the sudden darkness, he waits for his eyes
to adjust. A strong smell of spirits and paint waft in the air. He tries to open the door, a
vain effort. Near tears, he slumps down on a crate. His body convulsed with rage. Not only has
the captain humiliated his mother in front of everyone but has also mocked him in public. There
is nothing he could do to defend her. He was not strong enough. The entire crew was against him.
He feels something jabbing his back, a pot of paint. The boy hurls it against a wall. The
muffled splatter of paint drips down the wall.
For
a while, he listens to the activities on the deck. He hears Roghart’s footsteps stomping on
the deck as he rushes back and forth, ordering the second-captain to sail towards the birds. At
the stern of the ship, the boy distinguishes the slow grinding of the long cable hauling the
bag-net and the two wide pulleys hissing as they ravel the cable through the slip. The net is
raised so that it will sieve the sea close to the surface. Within minutes the trawler is on her
way to sift through the school of mackerels meandering. The boy can hear the gulls’ shrieks,
piercing through the engine’s whirring. The Suzanna is close to the fish.
Shadows
start to appear in the . . .
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