Interview

The nameless town had a dock, but most of the boats moored there were small cargo steamers. The dock where the crab boats departed was in the southern part of the town, another, livelier spot with a larger pier.

The two towns weren't the sort that never interacted. So when Henry wanted to get on a crab boat, the old-timers in town helped him contact an experienced captain.

Old John even drove Henry over himself.

In the passenger seat sat the town elder who'd made the connection, a man everyone called the Pole. Henry was in the truck bed, wrapped in a coat, lazily soaking up the October sun.

Though October counted as autumn in low latitudes, Alaska was already bone-chillingly cold. Henry, who couldn't squeeze into the cab and had to make do in the truck bed, actually considered this sunlit spot a blessing he wouldn't trade.

Even though he suspected he might be a Kryptonian, Henry didn't rush to sunbathe at every opportunity. Doing so would be too obvious.

Besides, his current strength level was enough for daily life. Even if he sunbathed until he could move mountains and fill seas, where were the mountains to move or the seas to fill?

The Purple Sweet Potato Spirit snapping his fingers was about thirty years away. It was only 1990 now—no need to worry about troubles that far off.

But when the chance came, Henry still enjoyed basking in the sun, just like now.

And according to Old John, when he'd washed up on the beach, it was this very truck that had carried him back. He'd been tossed in the truck bed then too, so this was like reliving old times.

As for the "nearby" southern town they'd mentioned, Old John drove at speeds of seventy or eighty kilometers per hour for a full three hours before they reached their destination.

That gave Henry a real understanding of just how "nearby" Alaskans meant. It was the kind of nearby only a long-necked dinosaur's nerve reflex could appreciate.

Alaska's crab season was October and November each year, the time when King Crab was at its fattest and most delicious.

Every year, hundreds of crab boats set out from various parts of Alaska to harvest King Crab in the early winter Bering Sea.

As a delicacy on the dinner table, the King Crab catch, limited to just two months, was worth nearly five hundred million dollars.

This wasn't just a pillar industry for Alaska; countless businesses and communities depended on it, especially the crab fishermen.

Many people earned enough in just those two months to live leisurely for the remaining ten.

But because the working conditions were so harsh and the process so dangerous, fishermen or entire boats failed to return every year. Captains and boat owners were constantly recruiting, never a year when they weren't short-handed.

Even so, not just anyone could get on a boat led by an experienced captain.

The people who made a living here knew who had real skill and who could only bluff outsiders or hire locals with higher pay.

No captain dared cut corners by loading up a boat with clueless rookies to catch crabs.

Unless they planned for the whole boat not to return and were angling for insurance fraud. Usually, if the insurance company caught on, they wouldn't pay out anyway.

Besides, boats with too many rookies were far less efficient at harvesting than those packed with veterans.

To avoid having money but no life to spend it, most people sought out crab boats captained by steady hands and crewed by old salts.

Old John and the others had contacted exactly that kind of boat for Henry.

The Annie No. 21, whose owner was also the captain, George Jefferson III. Anyone unaware might think two U.S. Presidents had merged into one.

Old George was a traditional crab fisherman, having taken over his father's and grandfather's boat and business, fighting on the front lines of this trade since childhood. So he wasn't just experienced—he was great at training people.

If a family had a kid wanting to go into this line of work, they'd send him on a trip with Old George. If the old captain gave the nod, the rookie would transform into a veteran, welcomed on any boat.

If a kid wanted to make quick cash for just one or two trips, they'd still aim for Old George's boat. At least they'd come back safe and sound, with all limbs attached.

But don't think just anyone could board Old George's boat. Unlike other boats struggling to hire, where any warm body would do, Old George's boat was so popular that the captain could pick and choose.

So Old John and the others brought Henry over before the crab season started for an interview with Old George. If it didn't work out, they'd find another old captain's boat.

Since the crab season was approaching, many people at the dock were busy with their boats—doing repairs, maintenance, or stocking up on supplies for the voyage.

Old George was on his own boat, personally checking every piece of equipment with his crew.

The Pole, who'd brought Old John and Henry, had once been a crew member on the Annie No. 21 and worked as a crab fisherman for a while. So when he saw the boat, he stepped nimbly onto the deck and found Old George in the cabin doing repairs.

"Hey, old man, I told you I was bringing a young guy over. You didn't forget, did you?"

"Let me see, you Pole." Old George came out of the cabin, wiping grease off his hands, then hugged the newcomer warmly.

The old captain, bare-chested, was powerfully built. Not like a bodybuilder with chiseled muscles, but not flabby with gut and beer belly either.

His balding head and stubbly beard were both white, showing he was no young man.

Spotting Old John following behind, he stepped forward, shook his hand, and said, "Hey, old timer, there's no bar on my boat. You'd better crawl back and wait for me to come drink at your place if you want a chance to take my money. Otherwise, no dice."

"The Pole didn't tell me you poor blind bastard couldn't see the living person standing next to me. Or is it that besides crabs, your eyes can't see anything else? Then I'll be visiting your wife tonight."

"Haha, old man, your mouth's still as foul. No wonder your bar's about to go under."

"It's been that way for thirty years, and it'll be the same thirty years from now," Old John shot back.

Old George raised his hands and stepped back in mock surrender, finally noticing the only young man present. "Greenie, what's your name?"

"Henry, sir."

"Henry what?"

"Just Henry. I haven't figured out what last name I want yet."

"Ha." Old George chuckled and didn't press further.

He circled Henry once, then gave his shoulder a heavy slap. Unsurprisingly, Henry didn't budge. It felt like slapping a rock.

"Not bad, Greenie," Old George praised.

Then he said to the two old men, "I agree to let him on the boat."

And to Henry, "But crab boat work is tough. You'd better be mentally prepared. Once the boat leaves port, there's no room for regret."

Old John chimed in from the side, "I should warn you too—this kid can eat like crazy. Don't end up making him cook crabs for himself on the boat."

"Ha, as long as you don't get seasick and throw up everything, I guarantee you'll be stuffed twenty-four hours a day."

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