Adrift in the Blizzard

Many years later as he stared down NSAA agent, Lucas Trafalgar Bonham was to remember that distant morning his buddy sent him off on that damn crabber boat.

November 13, 1969. The weather wasn’t too bad—thick clouds loomed overhead, but the sun still managed to push through, casting a pale warmth and a dull yellow glow. LT, having just turned twenty-six, made his way down the docks of Innsmouth Harbor, alongside his new friend, Tommy Lee Stevenson, or just TL. They were headed toward the offshore crabbing boat "Blizzard".

She was a sturdy vessel, red hull, navy-blue body, stretching about sixty-two feet long. A tall cabin loomed at the bow, topped with a spread of spotlights aimed in different directions. A ten-foot diesel crane stood firm at the stern, and in the middle sat over a hundred empty steel crab pots, stacked and ready to go.

At the helm of this operation was Captain Mark Cohen—a mountain of a man, standing at six-foot-three and weighing in at over 250 pounds. Bald-headed, thick dark-gold beard, and a broad anchor tattoo on his neck. His skin was tanned from years at sea, his eyes sharp, and his mouth? Big. Really big. Almost twice the size of a normal man’s, full of straight, white teeth. His voice carried like a foghorn, his laughter even louder.

As LT stepped up to the gangway, Cohen leaned on the railing and boomed, "First lesson before you get on this boat—look at your captain and ask, ‘Captain, requesting permission to come aboard!’ Loud and clear!"

LT stiffened, caught off guard by the sudden command. Before he could react, another man stepped up beside Cohen—John Kowalski, the deck boss.

"Easy, kid," Kowalski waved him in, his tone far more casual. "Don’t let this old sailor mess with you—he still thinks he’s Nimitz running the Enterprise."

LT and TL shared a grin. TL patted LT on the shoulder. "Safe trip, buddy. Bring back a haul—I wanna hear all about it when you get back."

LT gave TL a light punch on the arm, then picked up his M-1961 field pack and started up the gangway. As he walked, he called out, "Captain, requesting permission to come aboard!"

Cohen and Kowalski chuckled.

"Welcome aboard," Kowalski said. "You’re Lucas, right?"

"Just call me LT. Everyone does."

"Alright, LT. Say your goodbyes—we’re heading out."

LT gave TL one last wave as Kowalski pulled up the gangway.

"Alright, Captain, all set," Kowalski called.

Cohen nodded, stepped into the wheelhouse, grabbed the radio, and after a quick exchange, got the green light to depart. He sounded the horn, and the boat rumbled to life, slowly pulling away from the dock.

Kowalski was a middle-aged man—fat, with a large belly, always wearing a smiling expression, yet his limbs were powerfully built, his palms calloused from years of labor. He wasn’t tall, standing only about five-foot-five, more than a full head shorter than LT. His golden-blond hair had already begun to thin, and his ruddy cheeks were speckled with prominent freckles. Both his eyes and nose were round and large, but his gaze was razor-sharp—like a lone wolf or a hawk scanning for prey. His mouth was wide, his teeth stained yellow, and he reeked of cheap tobacco. His thick tongue lay inside his mouth like a massive pink octopus nestled within a bed of yellow coral.

He wore a deep-green, heavy Henry shirt, layered under a woolen cardigan of nearly the same green, buttoned open. The style was unmistakably outdated. Kowalski clapped LT on the shoulder. "So, first time on a boat?"

"Yeah, sir."

"I’m John Kowalski. Call me John when we’re off job, but when we’re working, it’s Mr. Kowalski. I’m the deck boss and the mechanic—the captain drives, I tell you when to drop the pots." He sized LT up. "Don’t stress too much—we’re a small operation, just crabbing and lobstering near the coast. A week, maybe ten days, and we’ll be back."

He took a moment to size up the new guy—six feet, maybe 140 pounds, lean but strong, broad-shouldered. Thick black hair, sharp brows, hazel eyes that still carried a bit of nervous energy. Strong nose, a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth—not a bad-looking boy, all things considered. But his skin was rough, and his hands? Big, calloused, worn—he was no stranger to hard work.

"Alright, kid—you know how to swim?"

"More or less. I can do a couple hundred feet in a river."

"That ain’t swimming, son. That’s just not drowning." Kowalski smirked. "Alright, first rule on this boat—if you’re on deck, you must wear this all the time."

He tossed a bright red life vest into LT’s arms, then pulled on a yellow one himself. "If I ever catch you on deck without a life vest, that’s five bucks outta your pocket. Every time."

"Understood, Mr. Kowalski. Deck, life vest. No exceptions."

Kowalski nodded, pleased. "Good. LT, you used to hard labor?"

"I’m from Wisconsin, sir. Farm boy. I’ve done just about everything, and good for everything."

"That so? You hunt?"

"Not to brag, but I’m the second-best hunter in town."

Kowalski chuckled. "Well, hell, your old man’s gotta be first, huh?"

LT just grinned.

Then Kowalski glanced down at LT’s boots. "these won’t do." He shook his head. "I would find you a pair of non-slip rubber boots. Until you’re in your bunk, you keep ‘em on at all times." He stomped on the deck. "Looks dry now, but in half an hour? It’ll be slick as hell."

"One last safety rule, and you better burn this into your brain. If you forget, don’t worry—I won’t have to remind you. God will take care of that."

Kowalski picked up a safety line and gave the metal triangle hook a shake. "As soon as we start working, this rope stays clipped to your belt at all times. You never know when the sea's gonna come for you, when a wave’s gonna slam into the deck. This rope and your life vest? That’s your last insurance. Got it?"

"Got it, sir. Step onto the deck, wear a life vest, non-slip boots, and keep the safety line on my belt."

"Good. You learn fast—just make sure you never forget. I’m not gonna run around checking every man’s gear every second. It’s your own damn life."

"Yes, sir. Also… this?" LT pulled a small whistle off the left shoulder of his life vest. "What’s this for?"

"If you’re unlucky enough to go overboard but lucky enough to stay afloat, blow that whistle. And pray to God that the waves aren’t so loud nobody hears it."

LT stared at the whistle for a moment, not exactly comforted by that explanation, then stuffed it back where it was.

"Alright, first lesson’s over. I’ll grab you those boots in a bit—what size?"

"Eleven."

"Good, we got plenty of those." Kowalski gave LT a firm pat on the back. "You’ve met Captain Mark. Now let me introduce you to your other two shipmates—good guys, been with us for a while. If you’ve got questions, ask ‘em. No need to play tough out here."

He glanced at LT’s resume. "Right, says here you can cook. What can you make?"

"The usual stuff—burgers, sandwiches, pizza. If there’s an oven , I also can do roasts, lasagna. I am good at the soups, cream-sautéed veggies—things like that."

"Not bad. I’ll show you the galley later. You’ll take turns with Jack in the kitchen. A hot meal makes all the difference when you’re working these shifts."

As Kowalski spoke, he led LT deeper into the boat, down into the cabins. "All that gear up on deck? Jack will walk you through it later. But one thing, kid—when someone tells you to do something, you must do it." He gave LT a pointed look. "This ain’t a place for hesitation. A boat’s got no extra hands. Every man pulls triple duty. You understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Kowalski." LT nodded.

Kowalski gestured toward the biggest space inside the wheelhouse. "This is the wheelhouse. Unless the captain or I say so, you don’t come in here."

"Understood, sir."

"Over here—head’s in there." Kowalski tapped the door to a cramped little bathroom. "Not much, but it beats pissing into the wind and getting it all over yourself."

LT let out a small chuckle.

"If you’re using the head, tell someone. If we can’t find you, and nobody knows where you went, we’re gonna assume you fell overboard."

"Got it, sir."

Kowalski moved on, opening the door to a small cabin with two sets of bunk beds. "This is the sleeping quarters—four bunks, four men. It’s a small boat, which means somebody’s always awake." He eyed LT. "You’re rookie, so we won’t put you on night watch right away. But out here, there’s no day or night. You’ll see soon enough."

He knocked on one of the lower bunks. "Bags go under the beds—yours too. Keep it tight, keep it dry."

Then he pointed to one of the bunks, where a slim, dark-skinned young man was sitting up. "This is Jack—deckhand and cook."

Jack Thomas stood up and offered a handshake. "Hey, man. I’m Jack. Glad to have someone to split kitchen duty. These guys start getting picky after three days of my cooking."

LT shook his hand. "Lucas Bonham. Middle name’s Trafalgar, but everybody calls me LT."

"LT, huh? Easy to remember. Listen, out here—don’t be shy. If you need something, ask. We all look out for each other."

"Appreciate it, Jack."

Kowalski glanced around. "Jack, where’s Luis?"

"Lucho went down to the engine room. Captain wanted him to do a last check on the motor."

Just as they were talking, a stocky middle-aged man climbed up from the lower deck. He wasn’t very tall, maybe five-foot-three, and clearly Mexican by descent, his voice thick with a Spanish accent.

"John, I finished the check," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Everything’s in order. I filled out the log—you can look it over and sign off."

"Got it. I’ll check in a bit." Kowalski nodded, then turned to LT. "This here is Luis Fernández González Martínez, but around here, we just call him Lucho. He’s the most experienced deckhand on this boat—been at sea longer than the captain. If I’m not on deck, he’s your boss. Got it?"

"Yes, Mr. Kowalski, I got it." LT gave a firm nod.

Lucho was short but built like a tank. His square face was tanned and lined with deep wrinkles, etched by years of wind and salt. His black hair looked stiff as wire, and his brown eyes had the sharpness of someone who'd spent a lifetime reading the waves. His hands weren’t big, but the knuckles were thick, the fingers broad and flat, and the skin on the back was so rough it looked almost like fish scales. Around his neck, he wore a gold chain with a crucifix pendant.

Lucho stuck out his hand. "Luis. Just call me Lucho. I’m a hell of a fisherman and know a thing or two about fixing boats."

"Lucho, find LT a pair of rubber boots—size eleven," Kowalski said. "I’m heading down for the check."

"Got it, John. Who’s cooking lunch today?"

"I was hoping LT would. But check with the captain."

The boat wasn’t that big, so their conversation carried easily into the wheelhouse.

Captain Cohen called back from inside, "LT. Let’s see what our new kid can do. And since we won’t hit rough water until later in the afternoon, it’s a good chance for him to get used to cooking on a boat."

"Settled, then," Kowalski’s voice echoed from the engine room. "And for the love of the Holy Mother, don’t cook fish. Anything but fish."

Lucho chuckled as he rummaged through a storage bin for boots. "I’m Catholic, John’s Orthodox, and Jack’s a Protestant. What about you, LT? You religious?"

"My family goes to an Episcopal church," LT said. "But I wouldn’t say I’m all that devout."

Lucho laughed. "Jack was the same way. Didn’t care much for church. Then he spent six months at sea."

Jack leaned against the wall, nodding. "The ocean will teach that to you," he said, serious. "Out here, you realize just how small you are. And just how big God is."

"Amen," LT answered without thinking.

Lucho finally found a matching pair of rubber boots, set them down, then pulled out a sheathed sailor’s knife. He glanced at the hunting knife on LT’s belt and shook his head. "That thing’s no good on a boat. Too easy to cut yourself or someone else. Use this instead."

LT took the rubber-handled sailor’s knife and pulled it from its plastic sheath. The six-inch blade had a rounded sheepsfoot tip, its serrated edge running most of the length—only a small section near the guard was a straight cutting edge. The blade spine was thick, with a short false edge at the top. The guard and grip were rubber, deeply textured for grip, and unlike the square handles of hunting knives, this one was round and solid in the palm.

LT frowned slightly, slid the knife back into its sheath, then tossed his hunting knife into his canvas pack and strapped on the sailor’s knife instead.

"This knife ain't any good?" Jack asked, curious.

"It’s fine," LT shrugged. "Just not the kind of blade I’d use when hunting." He stowed his gear. "Jack, mind showing me the kitchen?"

Captain Mark Cohen knew his waters. He had called it right—the North Atlantic started showing LT a little of its true nature by 2:30 in the afternoon. What had been small waves around noon gradually built up, and by mid-afternoon, they had turned into rolling swells, mixed with choppy whitecaps. Empty crab pots slid back and forth on the deck, rattling against each other with a harsh metallic scrape every time the boat rocked.

LT followed Jack out onto the deck, dressed in a raincoat over his life vest, non-slip gloves, and rubber boots. Just to be safe, he clipped on an extra safety line.

Afternoon's task was to set the pots. Each crab pot was round, wider at the base than the top—about two feet across at the top and four feet at the bottom. The frame was aluminum, with one-way entry gates—crabs could get in but couldn’t get out. The netting was woven from thick nylon rope, tightly meshed. Every pot had a bright yellow plastic tag marked with "Blizzard", the boat’s name. Each pot was threaded onto a thinner rope, which was connected to two large buoys—some of them even had radar reflectors attached.

LT’s job is baiting. That meant grabbing dead squid and other scrap fish and tossing them into the pots—three per pot, at least, letting the rotten stink do its work.

Jack and Lucho took turns heaving the pots overboard, following the directions Kowalski called out. Meanwhile, Kowalski stood near the hand-drawn sea chart, keeping one eye on the LORAN-C’s coordinates, and jotting down notes in a logbook. Every so often, he’d glance over at LT. "Hurry up with that damn squid, rookie! The pots ain't gonna bait themselves!"

After forty pots were set, Kowalski headed back into the cabin, yelling up to Cohen that the first set was down. He handed the chart and LORAN readings to the captain, who took his time marking the positions on the main navigation chart—noting the drop time, ocean currents, and estimated drift speed. These pots would sit in the water for at least twelve hours, maybe more, before they could expect a haul.

Cohen steered them toward deeper waters, where the sea was even less forgiving. That’s when LT lost his lunch.

Jack laughed and clapped him on the back. "Next time, just puke straight into the pots! Might attract more crabs than that stinking squid!"

LT’s face was ashen, but he forced himself to stay on deck, watching as Lucho showed him how to toss the pots at just the right distance. The second drop was another forty pots, and by the end of it, LT felt like he was barely holding himself together.

"Alright, LT!" Kowalski shouted over the wind. "Now we’re heading further out—no land in sight. You got that?"

"Got it—ugh…" LT barely got the words out before another wave of nausea hit him.

"New guys are always fun to watch," Kowalski grinned. "Hold tight, stand firm. Don’t even think about going below deck. That diesel stink will finish you off for good."

"Thanks... sir."

LT was finally starting to understand—that good pay didn’t come easy. Right now, he’d rather wrestle a grizzly bear in the woods than spend another second looking at those grayish-white, slimy, stinking squid.

His legs were shaky, but his grip was steady. He clenched the handrail by the door, leaned out as far as he could, letting the cold, salty spray lash his face. It helped—a little. The worst thing at sea wasn’t the dizziness—it was losing your footing. Compared to him, Jack and Lucho stood firm as boulders, barely shifting even as the waves tossed the boat around. LT figured that on a clear day, with calmer waters, those two probably didn’t even bother clipping in their safety lines.

But LT was stubborn. Always had been. He wasn’t about to let this beat him. Just two trips out to sea—that’s all he needed. Two trips, and he’d have enough cash to keep himself afloat at Miskatonic University until Christmas. Then he’d hitchhike back to Wisconsin. That was the plan. And he wasn’t about to let some damn squid and a few waves ruin it.

By the time the third batch of pots was in the water, it was 9:30 at night. LT had forced himself to keep going, hurling another thirty crab pots into the sea. By the last few, his arms felt like they were made of lead.

Dinner was Jack’s job, and he had intentionally left out any meat for LT. Instead, he set down a bowl of salad and two boiled eggs in front of him.

"This is easy on the stomach," Jack said. "Even if you feel like you can’t eat, force it down. You’re gonna need the energy when we start working again later tonight."

"Later tonight?" LT mumbled, still a little dazed.

"Yeah. In about an hour or two, we’ll be back at the first batch of pots. Around three in the morning, we start hauling them in. Everyone needs to work—even the captain. He helps measure the size."

LT blinked. "What if the crabs are too small?"

"Throw ‘em back," Jack said simply. He considered clapping LT on the shoulder, but thought better of it—one wrong move, and LT might be throwing up again.

For the first time in his life, LT realized eating could be this miserable. His senses were too sharp. He could taste everything too clearly.

The crisp bite of the salad was fine, the mild grassy smell almost soothing. But the mayonnaise? Thick, sticky, clinging to his tongue. The boiled egg whites went down easily, but the chalky texture of the yolk? It felt like it was crawling up his throat, refusing to stay down.

He wanted to throw up again.

No. No way.

He gritted his teeth.

Endure.

Predators always know when to STRIKE. LT thought of the coyotes in the Wisconsin woods. They’d stalk rabbits for hours, wandering casually, keeping their distance. The rabbit would spook and run, once, twice, three times. But after that? It would let its guard down. That’s when the coyote struck—fast, clean, no hesitation. And it would trot back to its den, the rabbit limp in its jaws.

Endure.

LT thought of the hawks soaring above the trees, circling, patient. One loop. Another. And another. To the naked eye, the bird blended into the sky, a fixture of the endless blue. But the moment it dove—when it let out that sharp, piercing cry and snatched a squirrel from the forest floor—that was when people remembered. That was when they realized the predator had been watching them the entire time.

Endure.

In the forest, the cruelty was in the waiting. You never knew where, when, or how the strike would come. But at sea? At sea, the hunter could just as easily become the hunted. Here, the waves swallowed men without warning. Here, the ocean gave no second chances. In the woods, the red stains of the hunt stood out, bright and brutal. On the ocean, the hunt was bloodless, merciless, silent.

And in both places—whether in the woods or at sea—the hunters were also prey.

3:30 AM.

Under the harsh white glare of four floodlights, the five-man crew was working full tilt to haul up the crab pots. Of course, they had the winch doing the heavy lifting—no one was foolish enough to try and drag up a waterlogged metal pot by hand. Not unless three or four men worked together.

"Not bad for the first pull!" Lucho grinned, pulling open the hatch on the first pot. "Seven or eight lobsters in here already!"

"Crabs look big too," Jack added, just as pleased. "Now if only the currents carried us some king crabs, that’d be a real treat," he joked.

"Dream on!" Kowalski smirked, carefully maneuvering the winch controls as another dripping wet crab pot was hoisted up. Then he let out a laugh. "We’re in the money, boys! Half this pot is lobsters!"

LT and Captain Cohen were already busy—calipers in hand, they moved quickly through the pile of crabs, measuring each shell one by one.

Anything under the legal size? Straight back into the ocean. Big enough? Into the live tank on deck. Handling crabs was a tricky business, too. LT learned fast—you had to grab them from the back or else those claws would clamp down hard. And if you reached in wrong? The other crabs weren’t about to sit by and watch—they’d snap at you too. He got pinched twice, but after that, he figured it out. His measuring speed picked up, and before long, he was moving just as fast as the others.

"Thirty-nine pots pulled! One got lost!" Kowalski called out.

"No big deal." Cohen tossed his calipers to Jack, wiping his hands on his coat. "I’m moving us to the next drop site. Currents picked up since this afternoon—we’re drifting faster than expected."

He headed back to the wheelhouse, and a few moments later, the boat lurched forward, rolling up and down between the swells as it made for the next location.

LT could feel himself adapting.

The boat’s chaotic movement no longer threw him off. He braced himself naturally, shifting with the deck like it was second nature. It felt like he'd gone from being a top hunter in the woods to becoming a damn fine fisherman overnight.

Even better? He was keeping his food down. LT wiped his mouth, then turned to Jack. "How do you tell male from female crabs?" Jack raised an eyebrow, impressed.

"Not bad, kid. You’re catching on fast." Kowalski glanced over and nodded in approval. "Good work, LT." he said. "Looks like you’ve got a future in this business."