Nude on the Bering Sea

The whine of the hair dryer came up from below, and I told the crew to get their asses moving again or I'd kick them in the balls myself. The first pot was still a mile off when Donna came up from below, her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing a pink bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, a cup of coffee in her hand and a cigarette between her lips. "How's it hangin', Hank?"

"Great, sugar. Not just anybody can flirt with hypothermia like that. You know you're out of your fucking mind, don't you?"

"Oh yes," she replied with a shit eating grin.

"And you know if we weren't coming up on a string, I'd rape you on the deck right now?"

She batted her eyes dramatically and blew a cloud of smoke in my face. "You say the nicest things. Of course, we're gonna be busy the next four days and you'll have to wait till we get to St. Paul to rape me."

"Yeah." I gave her the chair, and she settled in for a long shift. I put my arms around her from behind and gave her breasts a squeeze, she leaned back into me before leaning forward as the first buoy came into sight. Barry threw the hook on target again, pulled the line in, and put it in the block. The whine of the block was encouraging, and there was optimistic chatter on deck as the pot came up. Donna leaned forward, standing and talking to the pot, blowing huge clouds of smoke with her cigarette.

The pot broke the surface, stuffed. Saggy Ass Johnson did a victory dance and screamed: "Full of fucking keepers, full of fucking keepers." The crew started sorting when the huge mound of crab hit the table, laughing and high fiving. Full pots do wonders for a ship's morale.

"Set it back," Donna barked through the mic. The crew cheered, and two of them moved to hang bait and prep the pot for re-launch. Putting the mic down, she turned to me and said: "You can't say that didn't fucking work."

I shook my head. "Just hope the crew doesn't expect you to walk around naked on deck before every string."

She took a contemplative drag on her cigarette. "Shit, if we'd get pots like this every time, I'd consider it."

The pot had 674 keepers. We pulled up on the next pot, and repeated the routine: it was stuffed as well. "Don't you even think about gearing up," she said. "It's still too risky for you on that bum ankle. Park your ass over there and behave. I may let you cook lunch later if you're a good boy." I gave the woman I love a victory kiss and squeeze before hobbling over to the navigator's chair on the other side of the wheelhouse. The sun broke through the clouds and all was right with the world. We were on the crab.