In the heart of Kodiak Harbor, beneath the ever-gray skies of Alaska, two payphones stood like silent sentinels. One by the B and B bar, the oldest in town, and the other in front of Tony’s, a former strip club infamous for sparking deadly feuds among fishermen over its dancers. These phones, relics of another time, were a lifeline for fishermen like me—when they worked, that is.

I was a deckhand aboard the Susan Marie, a purse seiner captained by Danny Gilbert, a man whose voice was as loud as the Alaskan rain. For Danny, there was no such thing as a gentle request. Every command was barked across the water, clear enough for half the harbor to hear.

“Pick up that shit! Not that shit—the other shit! Don’t you know what shit is?”

Danny wasn’t easy to work for, but I was new and didn’t know any better. Besides, Susan Marie had a toilet. On other boats, men used buckets tied to ropes—a grim necessity in a place where it rained almost every day.

Kodiak wasn’t much kinder on land. The bars were packed with broke fishermen, the library offered respite for the rare quiet soul, and the streets buzzed with hooded figures roaming for distraction. It was a town where anonymity was impossible and where being noticed could mean trouble.

One day, I found myself drawn into a peculiar circle of men. Okie, the ringleader, danced with an American flag no bigger than his hand, commanding salutes from the group. When he noticed me standing with my hands in my pockets, he stumbled over, waving the flag like a sword. “Where do you want it?” he slurred.

Before I could answer, Sean—a man known for hurling glass bottles into the air—yanked Okie back. It wasn’t an act of kindness but a trade. Sean expected a round on me, a debt I never had to pay because, not long after, he fell off a bridge and broke his back.

That year was 2006—an even year, which Danny swore were always worse for fishing. For two months, we scratched the coast, hauling in meager catches of salmon. By August, my beard was thick, my hair matted, and I had earned just enough to smell like hard work and desperation. But when the pinks finally ran, the Susan Marie came alive. By the end of the season, I’d pocketed $14,000.

On a rare day off, I jogged to the payphone by Tony’s to call home. A drunk staggered by, kicking a wall and throwing insults. “You think you’re a fisherman,” he jeered, stopping just short of where I stood.

Maybe it was the blood dried on my clothes, the stench of weeks without a shower, or the way I gripped the phone receiver like a weapon. Whatever it was, he kept his distance and disappeared around the corner. I didn’t even watch him go. I was too busy punching in my calling card.

When my dad answered, his voice was both relieved and exasperated. “Boy, your mama was about to call the Coast Guard if you didn’t call today.”

I sighed, turning to face the brick wall to muffle my voice. “Dad, you can’t let her do that. I’m a fisherman.”

Mamma wasn’t having it. She got on the line, her worry cutting through any bravado I might have had. “I don’t care what you are—you better call me before I have to send a helicopter after you!”

For a moment, I imagined the humiliation. A chopper hovering over Susan Marie, broadcasting my mother’s voice for all to hear: “BEN THOMPSON! CALL YOUR MOTHER! SHE’S WORRIED ABOUT YOU!”

Alaska had taught me how to act tough, but I knew no amount of toughness could stand up to a mother’s worry.

“I’m sorry, Mamma. I’ll call more often. Just…please…don’t embarrass me in front of my friends.”