Martin’s dory, the first over the side, was dropped up to windward. To the Skipper’s last word, “Set to the east’ard, Martin—it don’t look none too good, but I’ll be back to you after I’ve run the string out,” Martin waved a free arm and nodded a cheerful acquiescence.
The vessel left them astern. Martin began to heave the trawls and Eddie to row. There was a disquieting pitch and toss to the sea. Anybody but a trawler would have called it bad weather for a sixteen-foot dory to be out in. It was a much heavier sea than any Eddie had ever before tried to row a boat in, and he soon said so.
“Yes,” answered Martin, “I s’pose it do seem hard at first—a banker’s dory in a chop—but after three or four days you won’t mind it. ’Tis the cross-tide that puts that little kick to it and slats her around so. And yet the safest small boat afloat is a dory—when it’s handled right. Here we are now, away out here in this little dory.”
“And just where are we, Martin?”
“Let me see now.” Martin was a dextrous trawler, who never had to slack his work because of any little conversational strain. He kept the air full of hooks and line even while he figured it all out. “We were forty-four fifty-six north and fifty-one ten west at noon, the Skipper said. We sailed for an hour after that—east half no’the. That ought to put us about a hundred and fifty mile from the nearest point o’ land— Newf’undland that’ll be. But how’s the rowin’? A bit heavy, isn’t it? Tide and sea together’s a hard thing to buck out here, boy. You’d be surprised how they carry you out the way at times. That’s the divil when the fog or the snow comes and you drift. Or maybe the vessel isn’t anchored—flyin’ sets maybe same as now—and away she goes. And now, Eddie-lad, try and see how you make out shootin’ a trawl, and let me tend to the rowin’. Careful, now, comin’ for’ard—you’re not in a bathin’-suit in Gloucester Harbor with smooth water and no more than a hundred yards’ swim if you capsize the boat. That’s it—keep ’em whirlin’. My, but you’re doin’ fine—’tis born in people, the fishin’ ways. If you were only a bit more rugged, now, there wouldn’t be your better on the whole Grand Banks. But this life’ll soon put the strength in you, Eddie-boy.”
“If it don’t kill me first,” laughed the young fellow.
“Kill you? What talk is that? Kill you? Why, the way you’ll eat—not three, but four, and maybe five meals a day. And mug-ups? Every time you think of it, a mug-up—and when you forget, always plenty to put you in mind of it by their example. And sleep——”
“When there’s any time to sleep.”
“Time? Wait till it comes too rough to go out in the dory.”
“Too rough?” The boy looked over the gunnel and grimaced.