Rough seas weren't just an inconvenience they were the number one cause of accidents aboard a crab boat.
It didn't matter how experienced the crew was. On the Bering Sea, all it took was one rogue wave to throw everything and everyone off balance. Even with Captain George at the helm, even with every deckhand running at full alert, chaos had a way of crashing in without warning.
Out here, you looked out for your crewmates. That wasn't a suggestion it was survival.
No one on the Annie II operated with the mindset of every man for himself. The unspoken rule of the ocean was simple:
Out here, you've got each other or you've got nothing.
That kind of mutual reliance had a way of getting under your skin. And while Henry worked hard to keep his powers on the down-low, the truth was: the longer he stayed aboard, the harder it was to stay detached.
Sometimes, a helping hand was just a reflex.
As long as he didn't overdo it—no ridiculous feats of strength, no obvious impossibilities he could pass. Mostly.
But then came the moment where instinct nearly blew his cover.
They were mid-haul pulling in another full crab pot from the icy black deep and spirits were high. After several disappointing drops, Captain George had finally hit the jackpot. Pot after pot was coming up brimming with writhing, spiked King crabs.
A few more , and they'd be headed home. Fast.
One of the younger deckhands freshly promoted from his own "Greenie" status this season was guiding the pot in with the tether line, helping swing it in toward the deck.
That's when the wave hit.
Not a towering monster. Just a side-snapper. But it was enough.
The boat lurched hard. The pot swayed out, metal groaning as tension shifted. One of the crane lines snapped. The entire cage dropped back toward the water still tethered, but now swinging dangerously.
And worse the tether had looped around the young guy's arm.
The pot lurched outward with brutal force, threatening to drag him overboard or tear his arm clean off.
It all happened in a second.
He caught the pot with both hands, digging his boots into the slick deck and bracing against the rail. Muscles tensed, arms straining, jaw clenched in a performance of effort—because pretending to struggle was harder than actually holding the thing.
He couldn't look too strong. Just strong enough.
The younger deckhand hit the deck hard, yelling out. A second later, crew members swarmed in, one slicing the line off the guy's arm while another dragged him back to safety.
With the rookie clear, the rest of the crew turned their attention to the crab pot now dangling precariously over the edge, supported only by Henry's makeshift brace.
They had two choices: cut the rest of the lines and let it fall or salvage it.
It wasn't an easy call. That pot was heavy. It was also full. Letting it go would mean dumping thousands of dollars back into the sea.
But could the kid holding it hold on?
Before anyone made the call, Henry gritted out, teeth clenched for effect,
"Can you reattach the snapped line?"
That was all the motivation they needed.
"Hold tight, Greenie!" someone barked, already rushing to grab a spare cable.
Two crewmen climbed up onto the rig, anchoring themselves with harnesses while another clipped the backup line into place. Within seconds, experienced fingers tied the new line with practiced ease.
"Now!" someone shouted.
Henry released his grip.
The tension shifted. The new cable took the weight. The pot dipped slightly, but held.
Cheers broke out across the deck.
Together, they reeled the cage in and dropped it onto the deck.
Safe. Intact. Loaded.
And then finally everyone exhaled.
Henry slumped against the railing, sucking in air like he'd just run a marathon. His gloved hands hung limp, and no one questioned it.
You couldn't see strain through padded gloves, and no one expected superhuman endurance out of a guy who looked like he'd just aged ten years in ten seconds.
The injured deckhand sat slumped against the wall of the wheelhouse, pale and wide-eyed, cradling his arm. It wasn't broken, but it was badly pulled. He'd be lucky if he didn't need a sling.
Captain George emerged from the cabin just as the last of the chaos cleared.
He'd seen it all from behind the glass. But before he could give orders, his crew had already handled it.
He gave both young men a once-over. First the rookie shaken, but alive then Henry.
No lecture. No grand speech. Just a heavy hand on Henry's shoulder and a gruff:
"Good work. You saved his arm or worse."
No one asked how Henry had held the pot steady.
Technically, he hadn't taken the whole weight. The other three crane lines had held most of it. It had just tilted dangerously. For all they knew, he'd just kept it from swinging off.
In crab boat culture, weird saves weren't unheard of. People did crazy things when adrenaline hit. Miracles happened. Sometimes.
George barked new orders.
"Swap that snapped line for a new one. Let's clear this spot fast. We're heading back as soon as these pots are up. We've got enough to call it."
One of the crew called out, surprised. "Already? We're heading in early?"
George shrugged. "Eight-tenths full. This batch looks good. You want a bigger paycheck or a body bag?"
That shut everyone up.
Henry clapped his gloves together and stood straighter. "I'm good. No rest needed."
The rookie didn't answer. He was still shaking.
George pointed at Henry. "You're taking ten. That's not a suggestion. Head below. Grab a bottle of whiskey. One for you, one for the kid. He looks like he just saw God."
Henry headed inside. No arguments. The warmth and the drink would do them both good.
The rest of the crew didn't gripe about the break. They just got back to work. After all, the faster they loaded up, the faster they got paid and the faster they got the hell off this floating death trap.
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