Chapter Text
A long stretch of dock. A tapestry of sounds, gulls, bells, the tides sloshing against the dock and rocks on the shore. Lobstermen in green and gray and yellow rubber boots and bib pants held up by suspenders. Derek knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. He was fascinated by the bustle of activity, dozens of men, and some women, walking onto shore after a long day at sea. Some boats were just now pulling in, folks tossing ropes to their crewmates onshore to tie off.
Derek flipped his journal closed when he saw the boat he’d been waiting for. He walked down the dock. And yes, there was the bright red hair Chris had described.
“Will Poindexter?”
Will looked up from tying off his boat. He had a somewhat weathered face for someone so young, like so many others Derek has met since coming into town two days ago, ruddy and worn from hundreds of hours in salty, rough sea air. His red hair streaked off his forehead, sticky. Freckles spattered across his nose and cheeks, and on his strong-looking arms, where they come out from under his T-shirt. There was clearly a farmer’s tan at work, as a sliver of pale skin stuck out from the edge of his shirt, separate from the tan of his biceps and arms, developed from the long summer months spent hauling. Most of all, Derek was struck by his eyes. Brown, but so light in the bright late-July sun as to almost be gold, framed with pale blond eyelashes.
Will adjusted his blue baseball cap to look up at him, leaving damp fingerprints on the worn blue fabric. He remained in a crouch, elbows on the knees of his coveralls. “Yeah?”
“Hi. Derek Nurse.” Derek stuck his hand out to be shaken.
Will looked at his hand, then back up at his face. He reached out and shook it briefly before yanking the rope tight and standing up. His hand was rough and calloused, cold and wet, almost slimy, and Derek had to resist the urge to wipe the residual wetness on his pant leg.
“Okay,” Will said.
“Right, sorry; did you not get my emails?”
“It’s the busy season. I’ve been busy.” He looked over his shoulder, oh-so subtly, at the crates stacked on his boat, ready to be unloaded for the day. Derek had been watching lobstermen unloading crates just like it for the last two hours, waiting for this boat, the Lucy, to come in.
“Oh, sure, totally understand that. I can summarize. I’m an author, and I’m doing some research for a Netflix series that’s being developed as an adaptation for my book. Dream of the Pale Blue Lobster?”
Derek waited for recognition in Will’s face, but it stayed surly. “Should I know what that is?”
Derek could not help but be surprised. “Really? New York Times Bestseller? Inspired by the blue lobster that you caught and donated to the New England Aquarium? I think my agent sent you a copy?"—(Derek had personally mailed him a copy, but)—"No?”
Recognition was not forthcoming. Derek pressed his lips together. “Okay, I kind of thought you would have heard about it, but that’s chill. Anyway, you caught a unique pale blue lobster five years ago, and I read about it—”
“Look, maybe I failed to mention this, but it’s the busy season. I’ve got a couple hundred pounds of lobster to offload, so.”
With a grimace, he turned around and stepped back onto his boat.
Derek stood there watching, bristling a little but also absorbing Will's movements. Derek was here to observe for research purposes, after all; the producers adapting his book wanted him to write the screenplay, but were adamant about including the lobsterman’s perspective as well, which hadn’t been a large part in the book. Derek wasn't sure how he was going to do it yet, but he didn't mind that. One of his favorite parts of the writing process was this immersion-based research, and he cherished every time he was lucky enough to get a chance to do it.
“Can I buy you a coffee then?”
Will looked up, looking vaguely surprised and annoyed that Derek was still there.
“I’m working.”
“I meant when you’re done.” Obviously.
“Busy season means I have time to go home, eat dinner, and pass out before waking up at three to come back down to the wharf.”
“When’s your day off then?”
“I don’t have one during—”
“—busy season. Got it.”
Will frowns at him. “Right. So if you could find something better to do than bothering me…” He nodded and walked back into the small cabin of his boat.
Chris had warned Derek that Will was not exactly the warmest person, but he had hoped that he could at least get something out of this trip. One interview over coffee, was that too much to ask?
Derek was waiting in the same spot when Will came back out. Will jumped at the sight of him.
“Jesus.”
“Listen, man. I flew here from New York to do one thing, and that’s talk to you. Presumptuous as it may have been.” Derek shrugged, giving what he hoped to be a self-deprecating, charming smile. Will rolled his eyes. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Will folded his arms and glared at Derek for a moment before stepping down onto the pier, right in front of Derek. At eye-level with him properly for the first time, Derek realized they were precisely the same height.
“What you’re here for,” he said flatly, “is not my problem. I’m here to harvest lobster. I didn’t ask you to come here, didn’t ask you to write a book. I handed a lobster over to an aquarium. That’s it.”
He stalked off without another word.
Derek decided that maybe he would have better luck in the morning. Surely Will was a morning person, unlike himself. He knew, painfully, that lobstermen were typically on the water before the sun was up. Regretfully, he set his alarm for three a.m., and lay awake staring at the ceiling, trying his best to fall asleep early.
The garish green of the hotel alarm clock shone in his face for hours as the conversation with Will turned over in his mind. Yes, he had been presumptuous. He had to be. As a writer, good research demanded a measure of presumption, or you’d never get anywhere.
He supposed he should have taken the hint of Will’s email silence and simply reached out to a different lobsterman, but for some reason, Derek felt it was deeply important to meet this one, the one who had found the lobster that had stuck Derek’s inspiration so deftly and had produced such life-changing results. True, the pale blue lobster could have been picked up by anyone; it had taken no particular skill to catch it, and any other lobsterman, in the right place and time, would have found it themselves. But they didn’t; Will Poindexter did, and instead of throwing it back or throwing it in with the rest of his daily catch, Will had called Chris, had thought to bring it to the aquarium’s attention, and surely thought, this is special. This should be studied, seen. This is beautiful and should be shared.
Along with studio-mandated first-hand research into the lobster industry and accompanying culture, that was what Derek wanted out of this trip. To hear what was so special about the creature, to Will Poindexter. To hear from someone who believed it was special, like he did.
Derek woke up, already groaning at the early hour, and dragged himself from one task to another until he was making the short commute to the docks, walking through the small, sleepy, tourist-enticing downtown toward the active wharf. Birdsong chirped around him, and each streetlamp illuminated a small section of foggy morning.
It was still fully dark at only 3:30, but the wharf was much more brightly illuminated. Artificial light from floodlights around the co-op and softer, more yellow lamps along each pier.
He made his way down the wharf, weaving past lobstermen and women loading up their boats for the day, determinedly ignoring the looks he was getting, down the pier. It was almost surreal, being in such a busy place so early in the morning. By the time he made it to where he'd found the Lucy yesterday, she was nowhere to be seen. Derek checked his watch. It was only 3:33, meaning legal hauling time didn't start for nearly an hour yet. He couldn't help but wonder whether Will was deliberately avoiding him.
He stopped a man. He was middle aged, white, bearded, a cigarette hanging loosely between his lips as he worked; probably the dozenth person of the exact same description Derek had seen that morning alone.
“Excuse me?” Derek said. “I’m looking for Will. Captain Poindexter? His boat is usually moored here?”
“He’s already left.” The man looked out, pointed to a boat, one of just a few already out, illuminated slightly and chugging out to sea. “That’ll be him.”
He went back to work without waiting for a response. Derek watched the slowly shrinking shape make its way through the bay.
Shit.
There were probably numerous other avenues of research he could pursue without Will to make good use of the morning hours. Unfortunately, Derek couldn’t think of any that would be more appealing than going back to bed.
Derek took a long nap, wrote for a few hours, and tried again.
The Lucy came in late again that evening, and Will looked exhausted. Derek’s appearance at the buying station where he was unloading did not seem to cheer him up.
“Seriously, man,” he said as soon as he saw Derek walking down the dock toward him. He set down the dripping crate of lobster he was holding on the dock and wiped at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “I do not have time for this.”
“Look, Will—”
“It’s Dex,” he barked.
“Dex.” Derek smiled placatingly. Noted. “I’ll make you a deal. You answer any questions I have about lobstering, I’ll be your sternman. For free. For as long as you like, the rest of the season.” Or until I get called back by the execs to work on pre-production, Derek thought, but he was pretty positive that he and Dex weren’t going to get along well enough to make it work longer than a week or two anyway.
Dex eyed him with something like disgust. “You really have nothing better to do than follow me around?”
A week or two, if that. Derek bit his tongue. “Nope.”
“I don’t have the time to train you up as a sternman. You’ll only slow me down.”
“No offense, man, but seems like you’re pretty slow on your own as it is. I don’t see many others leaving as early and coming back as late as you do, with as little to show for it.”
“I don’t need you,” Dex snapped furiously. “And I don’t need you telling me about my business.”
“Just calling like I see it, man,” Derek said. “And I don’t see it being easy to run this whole operation by yourself.”
“Oh fuck off, will you?”
“I’ve already done a lot of research,” Derek insisted. “I’ll be a quick study.” Dex gave him a look dripping in skepticism; Derek tried not to take too much offense. “Hey, you said it’s the busy season, right?” Dex glared at him, but Derek grinned, sensing he might just be getting through, by the sheer power of being annoying enough to wear someone down. “I don’t see anyone else lining up to work for you for free.”
Dex hauled another crate and dropped it with a bit more force than necessary at Derek’s feet, scowling. Derek waited, arms folded, as Dex stepped back onto his boat. Derek looked down. A good thirty lobsters squirmed in the crate at his feet, antennae swishing. Derek felt a wave of fondness for the creatures he had spent so much time researching, thinking about, trying to find the right words to use to describe their movements, their appearance, their essence, and their activities. He’d spent hours at the New England Aquarium just watching the pale blue lobster that Dex had caught and that he, Derek, had spent a feverish year and a half writing about. And then hours more talking with the ever-helpful marine biologist Chris Chow, learning more information about lobsters and marine life (as well as the San Jose Sharks) than he knew existed. Not that he was complaining. It was those kinds of people, people who give up their time to provide glimpses into different worlds, that made a writer’s job truly doable.
Derek reached down into the bucket and picked one up. It was a strange sort of relationship he had with these crustaceans. He’d never been this close to one outside an aquarium, yet he had spent so much time in their world, the one he’d built inside his head. They’d lived there, right alongside the themes he’d built and characters he’d invented and mythologies he drawn from in his book, with the pale lobster at the center. He held this doomed lobster up to his face, its claws taped shut, its antennae whipping around as the beady eyes seemed to watch him angrily. He felt a strange sort of gratitude toward the whole species.
Derek felt his neck prickle. He looked up to find Dex watching him, and jumped slightly. Dex’s frown deepened. Derek sighed.
“Well, thanks anyway, Captain.”
He turned to go, thinking he might see if any of the other dozens of lobstermen in town might be more willing to give at least an interview, before he booked a flight home.
“Those need to be counted before I take them to sell.”
Derek paused. He carefully stifled a smile before turning back around.
“You’re the boss,” Derek said, half joking, testing the waters.
Dex rolled his eyes again and handed him a clipboard.
Dex told him in no uncertain terms to be at the wharf the next morning at 3 a.m., making it very clear that this was a whole hour earlier than he usually had to arrive, and that he was displeased about it. Derek could have pointed out that Dex clearly didn't have a problem waking up that early to avoid him; but he bit his tongue and nodded.
By the end of the first hour, Derek was seriously wondering whether it was worth coming back the next day, if indeed Dex would permit him to set foot back on Lucy at all. Dex was grouchy, rude, oversensitive and snippy. And Derek, try as he might, could not seem to stay out of Dex’s way on the small boat.
“This is where you told me to stand.”
“When I’m steering! When I’m hauling you go there!”
“Sorry, I’m trying to observe you, doesn’t really work from all the way stern.”
“All the way aft, aft is the direction, stern is the place!”
“You know what I meant, what does it matter?”
“I thought you wanted to learn the industry, pretend you have a real job.”
“This is my job.”
“Wow, tough work, bothering me all day.”
“You have absolutely no respect for the arts.”
“Me not wanting to spend half my day explaining things to you has fuck all to do with the arts.”
“But you don’t. Have respect for what artists do.”
“Actually, I could care less what artists do when I’m trying to make a living—”
“Actually, Captain, I think you meant to say ‘couldn’t’ care less—”
Dex hurled the trap he just emptied back into the water, and then growled in frustration.
“I forgot to bait it. You know how many years it’s been since I sent a pot back without bait? Probably a decade. One day with you, and I’m leaving the kitchens empty.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Derek said sourly. He was sitting on the smelly floor in the corner of the cabin, right next to the steerage, which was right next to everything else because the boat was tiny. The cabin was little more than an overhang over the wheel, sonar, and radio equipment. Even though Dex glared at him every time he took the wheel, as if Derek was purposely bothering him by sitting in the corner, it seemed the only place Dex hadn’t occupied at any moment of the voyage so far, and thus the best place for Derek to be. Right now, it seemed like a better option would be leaping into the sea and swimming to shore. At least lobsters were good company.
Dex exhaled a quick sigh and started to navigate to the next buoy, steering in silence.
Derek took a deep breath. “You know, if you spend your time telling me what you were doing instead of yelling at me, I might actually be able to help. You know, as your sternman. Which I’m supposed to be.”
Dex scoffed but said nothing.
Derek folded his arms, shivering. To top it all off, it was probably the one day in the whole summer so far that it had rained. Derek was freezing and wet, not having thought to bring a raincoat (he hadn't complained about it because he was sure Dex would have something to say about what a stupid decision it was to assume it would be sunny in the middle of July). He had thought it would be best, for his first day, to observe and take notes rather than try to help. But taking notes had been next to impossible in the rain, which drenched his notepad, and which probably would have been useless anyway, since Dex clearly had no desire to tell him anything.
Also, Derek felt viciously seasick.
Also, headache.
It was a truly miserable day. As Dex walked up the pier to the buying station, Derek stepped off the boat, trying to get his bearing on the pier, legs feeling surprisingly shaky.
“You look like you’re fresh off a first day at sea.”
Derek looked around. Stepping off the boat moored at the buying station next to Lucy was a woman, probably five to ten years older than himself, somewhat gangly but clearly strong-armed, dressed in coveralls over a tank top and wearing a rather crooked pair of glasses.
Derek grimaced. “How’d you guess?” he said ruefully.
She held up a finger indicating him to wait there, and hopped back on her boat to duck in the cabin. She came back out with a handful of chewy ginger candies.
“Would you believe I still get seasick every once in a while? Been on boats since before I could walk.” He took the candies and she stuck out her now empty hand for him to shake. “Karen Clark. You Dex’s sternman?”
“Derek,” he said. "And kind of. I’m actually just shadowing as part of a research project. And thank you, by the way.” He holds out the candies.
“Not a problem. My advice, take a walk, if your legs miss the movement. That’ll get your land legs right again.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.” Derek filed this nugget away, both to mitigate any future land sickness and as a phrase to include in his Maine trip journal. Karen had an accent that told him she was born and bred Maine, and that was exactly the kind of character he needed to emulate in his script.
Karen’s attention caught on someone behind him. She waved someone over.
“Derek, this is my sternman Laura.” Derek turned to shake the hand of a considerably shorter and stockier woman. Karen added, “Also my wife.”
Laura grinned at him, a wide, beautiful smile. “She always lists the sternman title first, notice that? Laura González.”
Derek laughed as he shook her hand. “Seems like they should at least be in the same sentence. Derek Nurse.”
“This one’s trouble,” Karen said, laughing too.
Laura squinted at him. “Derek Nurse? Where do I know that name?”
After Dex’s reaction the other day, Derek felt almost embarrassed to have to explain his book, and hesitated. It turned out there was no need to.
Laura snapped her fingers. “Dream of the Pale Blue Lobster! You wrote that book about Dex’s catch.”
Derek cocked his head. “Inspired by, but yeah, that was me.” He smiled. “Have you read it?”
“I haven’t, planning to when I have some down time this winter.”
“I would love to hear what you think, if you get a chance to read it.”
“Laura’s a marine biologist,” Karen said.
“Are you? So would definitely love to hear what you think. Although I’ll warn you, it’s not the most scientifically-minded book. Lots of mythology, magical realism type shit.”
“I’ll try to keep an open mind,” Laura said.
Someone cleared their throat behind Derek. He turned to find Dex, standing there, watching them awkwardly.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but my sternman has work to do still.”
Karen took it in stride. “Right you are, Captain. See you later, Derek.”
They went off to unload their own catch. Derek turned to Dex, eyebrows raised.
“Wasn’t sure you were gonna keep me on.”
Dex shrugged. “Wasn’t sure you’d want to be,” he muttered.
Derek recognized this for the closest thing to an apology he could ever hope for, and smiled.
“Not that I need your help,” Dex said quickly, “because I ran Lucy just fine on my own last year. But if you want to stay on to learn the ropes, for the busy season, I won’t stop you.”
Derek nodded and bit his tongue, something he was clearly going to be doing a lot of. “Well, thanks. Listen, tomorrow, I’ll bring the coffee. What’s your order?”
Dex narrowed his eyes. “Black.”
Of course it was.
“With honey,” Dex added, almost defensively.
Derek blinked. “All right."
Dex pointed at him. "All right. At 3 a.m., no later."
Derek saluted. "Got it. See you tomorrow, 3 a.m., black coffee with honey.” He nodded at Dex and started to make his way past him, looking forward to a long, hot shower before collapsing in his hotel bed.
“Hey, did you think I was kidding?” Dex said, and when Derek turned, he indicated the crates of lobster he has yet to take down the pier. “Get back here. First lesson: Boat to buyer.”
Derek—queasy, cold, and tired—smiled. The shower could wait.