Mrs. Lindqvist unfolded the report on the terrace table, and the jazz trio put down their instruments. Out on the water a ferry slid under its string of lights. The heading read, United States Coast Guard, Sector Puget Sound, Incident Report. “Fishing vessel Margaret Ann,” she read. “Disabled, engine failure, heavy seas off Point Defiance. Two persons aboard.” She did not read the rest aloud. “The two persons aboard were my husband and his brother. Captain Nils Lindqvist, eighty one, and Captain Anders Lindqvist, seventy nine.” The man in the worn captain cap said nothing. He sat with the cap on his knee, gazing out over the dark Sound.
“They went out for a last look at the old crab grounds,” she said, “against my advice, in December, because they are two stubborn old men. A squall hit them half a mile off the point. The engine flooded. In the dark, in thirty knots of wind, the boat began to roll. My husband called the Coast Guard, and the Coast Guard said the nearest cutter was forty minutes away. They did not think they had forty minutes.” Candlelight shook on the champagne tower. At the edge of the terrace, a gull complained, and no one laughed.
“A tug was tied up at the pier in Tacoma,” Mrs. Lindqvist said. “The captain had the night off. His deckhand stood on the dock and said that he wanted to go. The captain told him the weather was too bad. The deckhand argued with him for fifteen minutes in the freezing rain, until the captain gave in.” Her eyes found my son at the railing. “For two hours that young man stood on the open deck in freezing spray with a boat hook, and he got a line onto the Margaret Ann. My husband says he never stopped talking. He told jokes, over the radio, to keep them awake.”
A folded Coast Guard report taken from a clutch on a yacht club terrace named the deckhand who had towed in a stranded fishing boat.
Erik stared at the deck planks. He is thirty nine years old, tall and spare, with a gentle face, and he had asked me twice not to tell anyone what happened that night. I kept my word. I would not have broken it now, but I did not have to. “The Coast Guard wanted to give him a commendation,” Mrs. Lindqvist said. “He declined. I have wondered since then what kind of man declines a medal. And I found out tonight.” She turned her head slowly, with great deliberation, toward the man in the white dinner jacket who stood beside the champagne tower. “He declined because he does not need the applause.”
Kurt was holding a flute in one hand, and the other hand had gone to his bow tie. His face, which had been all pleasure for three hours, was suddenly a mask. “Mrs. Lindqvist,” he said, “Captain, I had no idea. A joke. A friendly joke between relatives. Erik knows I respect the working fleet.” “You called him a deckhand,” said Captain Lindqvist. It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice was deep and low as a foghorn on the point. “It is the best job on the water, sir. Every captain I have known started on the deck. A man who is ashamed of it should not be near a boat.”
“The vote for commodore is on Saturday,” Mrs. Lindqvist said. “I hold forty percent of this club. I had meant to support you, Kurt. You have given generously. But I think a commodore must be a man that others are willing to follow into weather.” She looked at him steadily over her spectacles. “I will be voting for Margaret Hallsey.” A small gasp ran through the crowd. Somebody dropped a fork. Kurt did not move. His wife, Beth, put her hand on his arm, and he shook it off, and then, more gently, put his own hand over hers.
I thought he would leave. I think half the terrace thought so. Instead he set down his glass, took the gold ink name card from his lapel, and walked slowly across the terrace to my son. “Erik,” he said. “I have been showing off since I was a boy. I told myself it was confidence. It was a small man hiding behind a big party.” His voice cracked. “You went out into that water for strangers, and I made a toast of it. I am more sorry than I know how to say.” Erik looked at him for a long time. “I accept, Kurt,” he said. “But you can do one thing for me.” Kurt nodded. “Learn how to throw a line.”
The terrace erupted in laughter and applause. Captain Lindqvist rose, stiffly, and walked across to my son with his cap in his hand. He did not make a speech. He took Erik by the hand and held it in both of his, and then he set the old cap on the head of my son. It was far too big, and it came down over the ears of Erik, and the entire yacht club began to cheer. The captain said, “That cap belonged to my father. It has been on the water for ninety years. It should be on a man who goes out.”
Mrs. Lindqvist had one thing more. “My husband and I keep a scholarship fund at the maritime academy in Seattle,” she said. “Erik, you have a mate license examination in your future, and a master license after it. Everything is covered. Books, tuition, the hours you will lose at work. I would like to see you on a bridge.” Erik bowed his head. At last he said quietly that he had always wanted a boat of his own. “Then perhaps,” said Captain Lindqvist, “after the examination, we will talk about a small one.” He glanced at Kurt. “You can help with the paint.”
Margaret Hallsey won the vote on Saturday, thirty one to nine. Kurt, to the surprise of the whole club, moved to make Erik an honorary member, and seconded the motion himself, and stood at the back of the room with his arms folded, a little pale. In February my son passed his mate license exam. In the spring he stood at the wheel of a sixty foot tug on the Sound, in a borrowed cap that was far too large, and the whole yacht club stood on the dock to wave him through. Kurt held the line. He threw it, too, and it landed right on the cleat.
