“We’re about two miles from the nets,” said Martin, when Evans came back into the wheelhouse. Outside the snow was thick and they could see nothing but a blinding whiteness. The outline of the shore was gone. Evans checked the time and the chart. He figured that they were less than two miles from the entrance buoy. In another ten minutes they should be able to see the nets. He rang Stand By. Martin went below and Evans waited for a thinning of the snow.
At last it came. Dimly he could see the great black mass of mountain that marked the entrance to the Big Harbor. He felt much better seeing this. He had never lost a ship in the fog or snow, but he knew that far better sailors than he had gone on the rocks in similar weather.
He directed the man at the wheel to pull in closer to shore. Just ahead of him, only somewhat hazed by the thinning snow, he could make out a red buoy off his starboard bow. Beyond this buoy were the nets. He rang for Half Speed. On the deck below he could see the Major standing in the wind. The Major thought Evans looked quite nautical, as he gazed sternly into the snow. Spray splashing over the bow sent him quickly to cover.
At Slow Speed, Evans glided the ship between the nets. For five minutes they vibrated slowly ahead. Then, in the near distance, he suddenly saw the spires of the old Russian church, rising above the native village.
To the right of the village were the docks. Evans took the wheel himself and the ship moved slowly around the harbor’s only reef. With a quick spin of the wheel Evans took the ship in closer to shore. The water was deep up to within a few feet of the black abbreviated beach. A hundred yards ahead of them were the docks.
Two deckhands stood on the bow and attached heaving lines to the bow and spring lines. Martin stood by the anchor winch, his eyes on the dock where they would tie up. No other ships were on the face of this dock. They would have it to themselves.
Evans stopped both engines. They drifted ahead. The wind was off their port bow, which was good. He pointed the bow toward the center of the dock and then he waited.
Ten feet from the dock he began to swing the bow away from shore. He swore loudly as the ship turned too slowly. He had mistimed the speed. Quickly he gave the off shore engine Slow Astern. The bow pulled out more quickly, while the stern swung in. They hit lightly against the pilings. A man on shore had already taken their spring line. Evans stopped the off shore engine and waited to see if the lines were under control. They were and he rang off the engine room. The landing had been good. His heart was fluttering, he noticed, and the sweat trickled down his left side. These landings were a strain.