It was about that time of day, the familiar moment for Jack when he would first feel the weight of his own body and all the moving he’d done since breakfast. No matter where he was, dock or sea, resting offshore or like now working long hours on his boat, the moment always caused him to sit on whatever was close at hand, barrel, crate, railing, and stare at nothing in particular, which to anyone watching appeared to be an invisible thing only inches from his face. Today, in the middle of summer, in the middle of the Pacific Salmon run, Jack sat in his captain’s chair, if only for a few minutes, some newly opened envelopes on the console and one, the same he’d been carrying all morning, still in his hand.

It was also about that time of day when Samson looked over the railing of the rolling boat and studied the waves. Little grooves that matched his front claws were etched into the wood from his standing in this position on his hind legs in the early afternoon of every working day for the last three or four years. And every day that Samson did this Jack had the same thoughts. He wondered if Samson understood how the ground could be so fluid. If it reminded him of his pee. Over the last couple years Jack had formed a habit of thinking for Samson. Until today, not much else caught his attention. He found it easy to do.

The deck was clear of bustle now, affording Samson an instance of peace, no longer having to hide under chairs or dodge wet boots. Most of the men ate, taking their cue from Jack as they waited for their own bodies to kick in with that all too necessary second wind.

Jack didn’t eat, not now at least, only breakfast and dinner for him and Samson, but it was still one of his favorite parts of the day. Reflective. He could tell it was the same for Samson, the way the tail maintained a certain wag, or like him that definitive, sudden look at nothing in particular when a distant wave broke by itself. From the view of his captain’s chair Jack could see the breaking white caps on the water. They had grown bigger since the morning and he knew it was a storm’s distant reach just touching them with its outer ripples.

The photograph had arrived with nothing else, no letter or note, no explanation, just a single photograph in an envelope. But even before Jack checked the return address he knew from where and whom it had come. He just couldn’t comprehend how she all of a sudden had become so intuitive, how she just now understood things, only now understood him. The envelope itself went unnoticed for two days, sandwiched in the bound mail brought on board the last time at dock. It was posted from Tokushima City, Japan, the stamp a beautiful colorful image depicting an origami crane, the envelope’s style distinctly foreign in design. Jack noted these things and tried to reconcile them with his memory of her. She had never been one for intrigue or mystery which made the lack of any explanation all the more puzzling. But the meaning existed. The photograph said it all.

Jack had no idea if Tokushima City overlooked the coast, but if he assumed the photograph was taken there then it certainly did. He had no idea how she had gotten there, or for how long and to what purpose. He looked at the photo again. It showed an elevated view of a harbor spanned by a bridge with the greater ocean behind it. There were little whirlpools in the photograph, eddies, that swirled around the footings of the bridge, and, in the harbor, making its way between these flowing circles, passing under the bridge towards the sea, sailed a tiny fishing boat. What caught Jack’s eye was a nearly solid wall of clouds in the distance, the ominous dark mass of a severe storm that sat in the direction the small fishing boat traveled. She must have noticed the same thing and saw in this scene an image of his own face. None of it needed an explanation. She got it perfect. The photo was filled with danger and had a tragic sense of comedy. It had looming romantic possibilities, a small stalwart ship braving the whirlpools to charge into a menacing monsoon. To Jack the photo showed an ideal balance between terrible nature and man-made constructions. Everything fell in a hazy light due to the impending storm. The colors were gorgeous. He had to admit that he liked the image very much.

Jack looked at the corkboard above his console, to the picture of himself younger and smiling in front of his new boat, of Samson on top a pyramid of crated fish, to the scrap pieces from his past, tickets, postcards, bits of random paper that otherwise captured his imagination. He tacked the photo to the board and wondered if maybe this simple act fulfilled the goal she had when taking the picture. No matter, it was still lovely.

The unopened mail hadn’t left Jack’s console during those two days but it already smelled of fish. Everything smelled like fish. Along with the constant sprays of salt water the smell made the air sticky and thick as Jack tried to swallow it away. Jack looked out from the cabin to the men lined around the deck talking and finishing their sandwiches and sodas. He reflected on the unity in their group, his own role of silent leader. And how the little, black Samson filled the gaps between them. He talked to everyone in turn. Jack had already resolved that he would stuff Samson when his time finally came, display him seated, peering out the window in the main cabin behind the built-in row of seats, above the stored storm-window latchings, and looking very much like a leaded, doggie doorstop with his strict Scottish Terrier outline intact forever. With them always for meals or breaks. But his coat wasn’t fading yet or turning grey or dull anywhere. It was still jet black. His scottie dog mustache still had meat and strength to it, his tail straight and stiff, shouting upwards. He wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. So Jack felt free to ruminate on other things, his mind swimming, while he sat in his captain’s chair, at the edge of the group, adding only pieces of information when pressed or asked a question directly: their boat was almost full of salmon, the brewing storm shouldn’t affect them too much, it would only be another couple days until they could head back and unload their catch. Only a couple days longer to soak in this paradise of hard work and well earned rest.

Jack reminded himself that nothing but the good life existed on the boat. It had been this way for a while. The work was hard while it lasted but Jack could always say not much else was for want. The food was very good and well stocked. They had a full shelf of books, a large television with an extensive video collection (leaning to the action/adventure side), and comfy seats and cots. Most down time took place in such good rapport and rest, lounging, watching movies, eating the best food they got throughout the year, that hardly any of it felt like work. And probably the one thing this kind of life, this polar opposite living, from redemptive rest to long and painful, monotonous work, encouraged more than anything else was the simple act of daydreaming.

Jack wondered if Samson was remembering the spy movie they watched the night before with the underwater fighting scenes while he studied the increasing high waves. It must be confusing, the people on the screen not being tied to the ground as they usually are. Those flat people twisted and fought each other while turning upside down or sideways and little bubbles maybe resembling the ones that happened in Samson’s dish came out their mouths. Jack often thought of those same kinds of scenes from other films as well, underwater and fighting for your life. Images flashed to him as he continued to stare at that small spot right off the cliff of his nose, the envelope and photograph still in hand, images of the mute, soundless water surrounding the bodies. He saw a gurgled cry, blurred flippers, a flash of a knife, bright and shiny against the blue-black ocean water. He saw a girl’s eyes open wide, a close-up shot, through the goggles. They were blue. And he also saw the faint cloud of red, floating slowly away from an otherwise motionless man whose only real movement came from a slight, almost non-apparent ascension to the surface. Something about this notion of being mute and muffled underwater appealed to Jack, that constant pressure around your body and face which could force your words back into your throat. It was overpowering. Heavy. He saw how that could be a good thing. Just like an exhausted night’s sleep after standing all day on a moving boat.

Before, while watching the movie with the underwater fighting scenes, the boat had dipped with the waves, their deck raised and lowered with rhythmic timing. Jack laughed a little at the idea that he and Samson, when nestled in a wave’s valley between the crests, lived at those times at the same vertical level, in the same underwater arena as the struggling men in wetsuits. He loved movies, and he often dwelled on the delayed kisses and strong embraces that filled the screen. The scenes became genres on their own, each one separate from the movie that gave it birth. They blended together for him. The constant rolling of the boat mixed them into one long movie, and, after these years alone, after all the time spent living on a rocking boat, it had started to mix in some of his own scenes as well.

On his first boat, green and much younger than now, he sailed with only the captain. A small, two man troller with a handcrank for halibut. No room for a dog, let alone a full crew. They stacked the flat fish like bricks, alternating their direction, head on tail, to make them even out on top. He remembered how sore his arms ached after the trip, after having to crank the line for twelve hours a day. He remembered how hard he slept, how peaceful and deep, his head enveloped with a thickness of dream he’d never experienced before. After this first ocean voyage he realized this was the only thing he wanted to do, to sleep that soundly, be overcome that completely all the time.

He remembers a time with her, squeezed as usual into the few hours it took to unload the catch and resupply the boat. They rested, the two of them, by an inland river on a rocky shore, her head on his stomach, as they listened to the salmon struggling their way up stream. He could hear the fish splashing against the current through the shallows, a loud and reoccurring thread of sound as each expelled burst after burst of their final energy. It was late summer. The salmon were dying. Half rotted but still alive. When he closed his eyes then and listened to the sound of all the fish at once it was continuous, the zipping splash of dozens trying to move forward. It filled his ears like water in a bathtub. At the time, he wanted to tell her how soothing the sound was, the sound of them struggling, gaining so little, being consumed by fate. Even the failing was beautiful. None of these would make it far enough. It was too late in the year for them. But Jack didn’t speak. He could sense the head resting on his stomach was already starting to pull away from him. Their quick time together was an obstacle she could never breach. And in turn he kept the silence between them intact.

Lunch tapered off and work gradually resumed. The wind picked up, another offshoot of the distant storm, taking care of the few empty soda cans left by the crew. They floated on the ocean for a second or two before sinking slowly. Jack steered the boat in the direction of a fresh hunting ground. Samson retired to a coil of rope near the cabin door. Jack could tell Samson considered himself a worthy sidekick. A sentry to the cabin, although one that never sounded, a stone sentry, immovable. Jack knew Samson wanted to bite the fish they brought on board. Make them stop moving. Mush ‘em up. They brought on so many, but Samson could get to all eventually. If only they’d let him. Samson watched closely as the full nets emptied into the belly of the boat, some of the salmon smacking their large heads on the deck as they went down. They would drown very slowly in a sea of their own. Samson must have thought it a terrible waste. There are better ways to kill things.

The sky then took on a hue of diffused light and Jack saw clearly now out the window to his left the large storm cloud on the horizon. It was massive. It had rolls and rolls of dark fat. It made an almost recognizable shape to him, almost like a body or obese arm reaching out. She had walked to him like that, when alone, like a powerful storm or monsoon. That’s even what he said to her. You cross the room like a monsoon. He saw her image now, a composite of all their short scenes together, in a dark room her face streaked with light from an open window, the horizontal blinds casting shadows across her head and upper chest. It seemed to move with her, keeping her eyes always in light. And right before she would make the final sweep into his bed with him waiting she would stop for a second in the doorway, her hands on the jam leaning forward a little. Maybe it was because she knew the light fell from outside just so or that the lamp she left on in the bathroom outlined her, showed through her white nightie and gave just a taste of shape, but she did always pause like this for effect and drama. Then she would let her hands drop and swing hard as she walked briskly to him, brushing her nightie so sharp with her inner arm that it snapped like a wind-whipped sail.