Landlord in the Arctic

The deck of the River Beach.

With the powerful combined force of the winch and crane, the heavy trawl net, full of Atka Mackerel, was steadily hauled onto the sorting area on deck.

The crew expertly unfastened the knots on the net, and with a tremendous WHOOSH...

The net burst open like a collapsing dam, dumping its entire catch onto the sorting area.

The Atka Mackerel with any fight left in them struggled desperately within the pile, their tails slapping against the deck and sending up splashes of water. They fought to return to the sea, but their fate had already been sealed the moment they were caught.

The crew, however, was in no mood to savor the magnificent sight of a bountiful harvest.

They immediately threw themselves into the tense, busy work of sorting the catch.

The sorting process for this fishing trip was relatively easy compared to the usual frantic pace of crabbing.

After all, Emperor Crabs were aggressive, and a moment’s carelessness could result in a nasty pinch. Furthermore, during crabbing season, the sorting process was incredibly complex and demanding to ensure the crabs stayed alive and fresh.

Fishing, however, was a different story.

The target catch was clear: Atka Mackerel.

The bycatch was negligible, consisting of only a small number of cod and halibut.

The crew members, with their designated roles, moved with practiced ease.

First, they sorted the small amount of bycatch into special bins placed at the edge of the sorting area to keep them separate from the main haul.

Next, the mountainous pile of Atka Mackerel was sent to the fish hold via the deck’s conveyor belt.

Since this haul wasn’t crab, the live wells normally used for keeping them alive were useless. To maximize freshness, the newly caught Atka Mackerel were sent directly to the freezer hold to be flash-frozen.

"Captain, we brought in thirty tons of Atka Mackerel this haul." The First Mate trotted hurriedly into the wheelhouse, tightly clutching the freshly tallied data sheet.

His expression was odd, a mix of satisfaction at completing the task and resignation over the meager profits.

"The estimated... estimated revenue is US$14,000."

Alvin’s body went rigid when he heard the figure.

His already furrowed brow tightened even more.

Though he had prepared himself for it, knowing that fishing for Atka Mackerel was bound to be a losing proposition for the River Beach, hearing the actual number still sent a faint chill through him.

His thoughts drifted back to the recent, incredibly profitable crabbing season.

Back then, every trip the River Beach made felt like sailing toward a golden banquet.

Snow crab, red Emperor Crab... market demand for them was voracious.

A single trip could easily rake in several hundred times what they just made.

Wads of cash flowed into their pockets. The crew was all smiles, and the atmosphere aboard the ship was always electric.

Nothing like now, where they worked themselves to the bone for half a day only to earn a paltry US$14,000.

’If the owner hadn’t forced the issue, I never would have gone after cheap fish like Atka Mackerel.’

Alvin silently ran the numbers. On paper, this one haul might look like a US$14,000 profit.

But once you did the math, the deficit was staggering.

First, you had to subtract the mandatory fishing taxes—a fixed expense.

If they didn’t pay, those sons of bitches at the Internal Revenue Service would eat the River Beach for breakfast.

Then there were the expenses for the trip: fuel, equipment maintenance, daily supplies... it all added up to a substantial sum.

And finally, after factoring in the crew’s wages, this trip was a guaranteed money-loser.

The kind of loss that leaves you without a shirt on your back. The phrase "losing your shirt" wasn’t even strong enough to describe how bad it was.

What was even trickier was the crew’s pay. Their compensation had always been based on a share of the profits.

Take this haul’s US$14,000 revenue for example. Divided among the thirty-plus crew members, each man would only walk away with a few hundred dollars.

In a high-cost-of-living place like Alaska, that amount of money was barely enough to survive on, let alone support a family.

If this kept up, the crew was bound to get restless.

The First Mate could see the captain was lost in thought.

But the fishing operation couldn’t be paused for long. Steeling himself, he finally broke the captain’s reverie.

He cautiously approached the captain and asked quietly, his voice so soft it was as if he were afraid of snapping the captain’s taut nerves.

"Captain, should we keep fishing?"

"Fish? Of course we fish! The owner hasn’t texted us to stop, so we keep fishing!" Alvin exploded like a lit barrel of Gunpowder. He whipped his head around, a fierce light in his eyes, and repeated through gritted teeth, "The owner hasn’t texted us to stop, so we keep fishing."

At this, Alvin paused, took a deep breath to compose himself, and continued giving orders.

"Tell the guys in the hold to keep a close watch. The second we’re full, we head back to the nearest port to unload, refuel, and get right back to it."

After giving his orders to the First Mate, Alvin happened to glance up and spot the second mate eavesdropping nearby.

He shot a vicious glare at the man.

In that instant, his eyes became as sharp as a sea eagle locking onto its prey as he roared,

"Second Mate! You have one job now: keep your eyes glued to the fish finder twenty-four-seven and locate schools of Atka Mackerel!"

Ah!

Hearing his new assignment, an expression of pure agony appeared on the second mate’s face. He was cursing his luck internally.

’This fishing trip was already such a pain, and now this? A round-the-clock shift. Just great.’