Blue Highways: A Journey into America

by William Least Heat-Moon

Ken begins winching in the net as Ron pries with a length of pipe at the cable on the drums to keep the lines from snarling. The cable jerks and flings water. “If she’s going to part, now’s the likely time!” Tom shouts from the wheelhouse. The weight of the net pulls the boat backwards until we are above it. An aura of anticipation. A crew gets paid only for its share of the catch. There are no salaries. Gulls, spotting the activity on deck, come from invisibility and plunge to the ocean to bob and wait. White on blue. Then the orange floats break the surface, then the doors, then the forward portion of the net called the “square” is up. Caught in it are several small starfish—white and brown ones—and a herring. Ron jumps to secure the deadly crash of the doors against the gallows. The net is entirely out of the sea and swinging like a giant pendulum above the deck. Ken reaches under the cod end to pull a line tied in a slip knot, and the bag opens and seven hundred pounds of bottomfish pour all over the deck. We stand ankle-deep in marine quicksilver and opalescent eyes. There isn’t a thrash anywhere. I ask, “What’s wrong with these fish?” “They’re dead.” “Not already.” “Look at them.” The rapid decompression has bulged their eyeballs into spheres. Stomachs swell out of some mouths, and guts dribble from anuses. “The bends,” Tom says. “You should see the bag surface with a big load of cod. It explodes from the water when the fish blow their pokes. Their air sacs bust like...