East of Newport Harbor, where the Atlantic verges into the Narragansett Bay, the crewmen of the Aquidneck Trapping Company stand inside three dories, elbow to elbow, dressed in yellow oilskin bib overalls, without gloves. They reach into the sea to grab a net. At skipper Sonny Lombardi's command, they pull at the same time. Shouts volley across water. Some men groan. Others spit obscenities. The sea lies calm, but swelling tides affect each pull. A rising swell helps the men, the sea ridding itself of the net, the men bundling slack inside their respective dories. The tide falls, sucking the net down, forcing each man to let go at the risk of losing fingers.

Four boats are used, each one tied alongside the square net. Three longboats of heavy aluminum, pointed at both tips, are called dories because they're cubs to their mother vessel, the 72-foot Iron Jane, her green hull lined with bald tires that from a distance look like a bracelet of black washers.

One foreman for each dory shouts orders to his six men, striding back and forth behind them in the hope of establishing a rhythm. Mitch McSherry shouts the loudest. His green eyes flinty, he stands in his dory's middle, fists on hips. He's red-faced, shouting over the gulls.

'Harden 'em up, let's go, harden 'em up. Don't lean over. Bend with your knees. Pull with your legs. Together ' pull together, for Christ's sake.'� Mitch cups his hands and shouts at Sonny. 'We're gonna have to bail. We got squid, Sonny, I'm telling you, I got a sixth sense about these things.'�

Woody Holly, dealing with new workers known as greenhorns, is more instructive in his approach. 'Flow with the tide. Keep the back straight. Up with the tide. Out with the tide. Pull with, let go'�with, let go'�c'mon, Boys, c'mon now.'�

Tony Silva appears relaxed, clapping his hands as he shouts and paces, 'Hands inside the boat, keep your hands inside the boat.'�

Mitch shouts, 'I see one more of you suckers bend over and I'm gonna boot you in the ass all the way back to the harbor.'�

'Pull,'� cries Gunther Stephens, waving his arms in the air. At 60, Gunther's the oldest man out there, stationed in Tony's boat. At 32, Tony's the youngest foreman. 'What are you girls? Put some muscle into it.'�

'You tell 'em, Gunther. Harden 'em up, let's go.'�

Sonny Lombardi watches from the bow of the Iron Jane. He yells at Woody Holly to grab a greenhorn from behind and stand him up. Woody instructs the greenhorn. 'You're wobbly. Get under it. Keep that back of yours stiffer than a pecker in a whorehouse.'� The greenhorn laughs. Woody cuffs him against the back of his head.

Sonny yells, 'That's it, Woody. Show 'em how it's done.'�

Brandon Donnelly, in Mitch's dory, hears Mitch use a rare quiet tone with Eddie Dean. 'Feet under your can, Eddie. That sea will take you right in. Eyes on hands. Knees and elbows like hinges. Show me something, Eddie. Let's get this.'�

Brandon tries to ignore the scorch in his hands as the tide pulls the net down and the net slices into his fingers. He ignores the roasting in his elbows and shoulder sockets. Pulls with both hands, keeps his back locked and his knees pointed straight ahead. Pulling again, again and again.

No time to think. Pull-pull-pull pumping in his head. Salt on his lips as the sea splashes into his face. Doesn't look up at the gulls, or Mitch, or the progress of the other boats. Hears the gulls and his breathing. Straightens his legs, clenches buttocks and lower back. Blood pounds up through his thighs, into his chest and arms, warming his face as the net rises, soaking his oilskins. He lets some of it fall to his rubber boots. He stands on top of it to keep it from sliding back into the sea. His hands run down the net, groping for more. He drives his fingers in deep for a firmer hold.

The tide shifts. He feels as if he's been dropped, his hands out over the water as his elbows twist, over-extended. Bending backward with all his might, dropping his rear, he fights the tide in a furious attempt at balance.

A hand grips his arm, yanking him back. It's Mitch. 'Christ-Jesus-sakes, Donnelly, what are you Irish or something? Keep your chassis in the boat. Pull with them long legs of yours. How many times I need to say it?'�

Brandon nods and keeps pulling. Mitch moves along to help Eddie, more or less telling him the same thing.

Gunther shouts, 'Sonny, we got to drop it.'� The loaded net has started to tilt Woody Holly's boat as if all of Woody's men will spill overboard.

Sonny shouts, 'Leave it. Don't drop it. Just leave it.'�

Gunther crows, 'But Sonny, could capsize.'�

Woody cups his hands around his mouth. 'Should we drop the slack?'�

'What?'� cries Tony. 'What's going on?'�

'No, no, no,'� cries Sonny.

'Winch it up,'� cries Mitch.

'Listen to Mitch,'� cries Sonny. 'Get them winches running.'�

All three foremen follow the order and move to a winch fastened to one end of each dory. They insert a bent rod and crank-start the winches the way drivers once cranked Model T Fords. Loud and smelling of hot oil, the winches sound like lawn mowers without mufflers. They help pull a yellow line guided around a spool attached to the winch. Made of polypropylene and hemp, the yellow line starts to move out of the water. Leafy red and green seaweed hangs from the line as it runs like a seam down the middle of each dory, waist high, taut, dangerously close, and in back of each man.

Brandon grins at Eddie next to him. Pudgy and squat, Eddie remains quiet, his hair bouncing in the wind.
Brandon keeps both hands on the net and continues to pull. Tall and rangy, Brandon starts to feel momentum as he realizes all the men are being helped by the sputtering labor of each winch. More and more, the net begins to emerge.

Mitch claps his hands. 'Harden 'em up.'� Clap clap. 'Let's go.'� Clap calp. 'Harden 'em up.'� Clap clap. 'Makin' progress.'� Clap clap. 'Harden 'em up, let's go'�.'�

As the net rises, so do the fish trapped inside. Mitch positions himself between Brandon and Eddie. He leans over and studies the water.

'What you see?'� asks Eddie.

Mitch ignores the question. He waves to Sonny. 'Squid, Sonny, a shitload. You owe me a hundred bucks. We're gonna have to bail.'�

Eddie looks at Brandon. 'How can he tell?'�

Brandon shrugs. 'He's Mitch. He knows everything.'�

Leaning over the dory's edge, Eddie takes a closer look. He flinches, hearing a shout from across the water. 'Shark!'�

Eddie looks out and sees a fin cleaving the dark water of the Iron Jane's shadow. 'A big sucker.'�

'Great white?'� asks Brandon.

Mitch laughs. 'Forget the shark you guys. We got work to do.'�

Brandon continues to pull. He eyes the shark fin. The bundled net at his feet is a tangled mess, but his footing remains secure. He's uncomfortable with the sharp yellow line that grazes his back, but it's necessary, and it helps. Won't be long before they start seeing the catch.

Exclamations of, 'Shark, squid, shark,'� fire off between the men. An increasing number of seagulls know where to hover, waiting to inflict their cruelty on the feast to come. The net begins to take shape, like a bowl, as it curves over the edge of each dory.

It's full of squid. An amorphous pink cloud dirties the thirty square yards of hissing bottle-green water framed by the dories and the Iron Jane. With each inch of the net's ascent, the pink cloud expands, shining with a glassy radiance.

The shark fin moves away from the Iron Jane's shadow. It's all happening too fast for Brandon. The winches sputter, making conversation impossible. Within the net, a slow boil begins. Trapped fish slash frothy seawater.
The shark fin moves closer at a steady clip. Brandon can make out the shark's body, a vague gray presence under the roiling surface. It's a few yards from his dory.
'Huge,'� he exclaims.

He won't show fear. He glances at Eddie, who's leaning out over the water. Why? A chill races through him. What the hell is Eddie doing?

Mitch shouts, 'Hey, don't lean out like that.'�

The fin is so close that Eddie can reach out and grab it. Now the shark is under them. It nudges the dory.
Brandon's thrown sideways, but keeps his balance. He sees Eddie paddling the air, falling toward water.

Brandon lunges, keeping his feet beneath him, and grabs a suspender strap of Eddie's oilskins. This slows Eddie's descent. He clutches Eddie's wet shirt, bends his knees, lowers his rear and pulls, holding on.

Eddie flails his arms, his face inches from water, spitting and gasping as a look of terror distorts his usually placid features. Waves slap his face.

Brandon tells himself not to let go. He can feels his body being pulled over. He clenches his teeth and grunts and snorts and pulls as hard as he can against the dropping weight of Eddie's body.

A wave lifts the dory and throws Brandon and Eddie backward away from water. For a moment Brandon feels no resistance. He's soaring through air, weightless, and all is silent as if he's falling in a dream.

Then his oilskins tighten and ride hard up his crotch. He gags, queasy, wanting to vomit. He clutches Eddie's oilskins, saltwater stinging his eyes. Is that Mitch who grabbed his suspender strap?

It is. Like a trio in a slapstick routine, they tumble into the dory, soaked, panting and dazed.

Hard laughter swells around them, pierced by derisive shouts and curses. Mitch, stone-faced, shoves Brandon aside. He pops to his feet and moves nimbly in the boat. Mitch then leers at all the men who've been watching. He sneers, flipping all of them his middle finger. This prompts more laughter. Sonny's laughing, too. The laughter grows louder when Mitch, after helping Eddie to his feet, slaps him against the ear.

'What the hell I say about leaning over?'�

Eddie sulks, struggling to regain his breath.

Brandon asks, 'You okay, man?'�

'He ain't hurt,'� shouts Mitch. 'Jesus H. Christ you two. Get back to work.'�

Sonny shouts from the Iron Jane, 'Hey Mitch, this is better than the movies.'�

Everybody laughs. Gunther, slapping his knees, is loudest. Brandon, back in position with his hands in the net, sneaks a glance over at Eddie and manages the suggestion of a smile. Eddie doesn't look back at him.

The shark has returned to the Iron Jane's shadow. Colors begin to emerge from the sea: pink, orange, silver, gold, yellow and green, the spangled scales of fish swarming and battling. Like blades of all sizes gone berserk upon contact with air, fish fling their bodies, squiggling and lancing. They glitter, snap, and spank the water. Zigzagging and erratic, they sound a torment of complaint in a chaotic last-gasp thrust for survival.

Then the bailer appears. Like a gigantic butterfly net, it hangs from its stays over the Iron Jane's side. Glenn Lesley and Shrimper Keith from Mississippi man the bailer's long boom. They dip its net in a scooping motion through the fish. Shrimper Keith controls a sliding mechanism on the handle that opens and closes the net. Glenn makes sure the boom hangs high enough so the net will pass unobstructed over the deck.

The bailer's rising net releases a glistening excess of water that sounds like glass nails showering back into the sea. A few lucky fish fall away, curling and twisting as they smack against waves. All eyes watch as the bailer bulges with fish that gleam, flap and spit. The bailer soars through the air above the Iron Jane. Swoosh. It opens. Fish spill from its bottom, flesh spanking flesh, smacking against each other. Some of them bounce with a thud against the deck.

Mitch shouts, 'Harden 'em up. Let's go. Harden 'em up.'�

Eddie mumbles under his breath. Brandon glances at him, but doesn't speak. Now isn't the time.

With each dip of the bailer, the net feels a little lighter and rises higher with less effort. Each foreman works his winch, making sure the yellow line stays wrapped around its spool.

'There goes the shark!'�

Brandon stops and looks up. The shark lies curved, the color of wet earth, inside the bailer net, passing overhead. It's the largest he's ever seen.

'I was right,'� says Mitch. He spits. 'Basking shark. Harmless.'�

The bailer lifts the shark over the deck, but this time Glenn doesn't release it. Instead, he and Shrimper Keith swing the net to the far side of the Iron Jane, where they open it and drop the shark out of sight. All hear its loud splash.

'So much for Jaws,'� says Mitch. He snickers at Eddie, who ignores Mitch, keeps his back straight, his legs beneath him as he pulls.

'That shark had him in a trance,'� explains Brandon.

'Trance my ass,'� says Mitch. 'Keep focussed.'�

Eddie remains silent. Brandon stretches his fingers, working out a cramp in his palm. The pulling has slowed and will soon cease. As Mitch predicted, the trap is loaded with squid. The Iron Jane's deck holds a mountain of fish, and she creaks overburdened in the water. Maybe half of the contents of the trap will be emptied. The other half must wait until tomorrow.

A new slice in one of Brandon's fingers begins to sting. He flicks his hand back and forth. It's a small wound, but annoying. All the sorting is yet to come, every fish must be culled and boxed on ice. For that work, he can wear gloves, but he'll still need mobility in both hands.
Can't complain. Sure, it hurts, but the hurt in Eddie must be bigger, emotional, tinged with shame. So what if the men laughed. He saved Eddie from danger and humiliation. Has to count for something. Later, maybe, they'll talk about it.

Looking around, Brandon can see he's in better shape than many of the others; the greenhorns in particular, who'd been so chatty back at the wharf, before any work had begun. They stand bent over in Woody Holly's boat, breathing hard, their arms dangling.

Hardly any of them are talking. And it's late now, almost seven a.m.

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