Levi
IT'S A STRANGE FEELING to have every tiny moment of my life documented.
Granted, I should be used to it by now: last fall a camera crew boarded the larger of our two boats--the Linda--and, aside from the few precious moments we're in the bathroom each day, have barely left our sides since.
There's not much else that's off limits. The Fishermen airs on The Adventure Channel every Thursday during primetime and chronicles the lives of my two older brothers and me as we fish up and down the Pacific Northwest, spend our downtime at the local bars, and generally try not to make complete asses of ourselves on national television.
The constant presence of cameramen and boom mics is why, as I step through the tiny pocket door from the bathroom and into the sleeping quarters I share with Finn and Colton, I've put on a towel. Dave stands, tinkering with the settings on his camera for dim light. Ellis is watching him, waiting for the go-ahead.
Colton is mumbling something as he fully comes to, cranky. It's three in the morning, and Dave woke us all up a half hour early when he knocked his equipment box down the narrow steps into the belly of the boat. Of course, Colt can't complain about that on camera so he's staring at the floor, face a tight portrait of Irritation.
I try to maneuver around the crew as I gather my clothes and head into the bathroom to dress. When they're not filming, we're on the boat for twelve, maybe fifteen hours, and then back to land and home to our own beds. Much preferred by all. But our producer, Matt Stephenson-John, likes the "dynamic of the brothers on the boat," which I really think means he likes when we get at each other's throats. So, when the film crews are here, the three of us stay for an entire week in the Linda's cramped sleeping quarters. Colton complains about every damn thing, and Finn wants to murder us after two nights.
The worst part is right now we're not even out on open water; we're still docked at the slip, awaiting a shipment of lumber we need to fix a couple of interior walls. The life of a fisherman often includes more maintenance than actual fishing.
Like today. While we do the repairs, Hollywood will be shooting filler footage--the stuff that's coupled with dramatic music or narration to set up a subplot about the rough life we have out here or to lead into some much-deserved down time with "locals" (aka models flown in from Vancouver). If there's one thing I've learned so far, it's that shirtless filler footage seems to trump everything else. I'd like to pretend the focus of the show is the plight of the modern-day fisherman, the changing environment, and our constant struggle to keep up with it all, but as my sister-in-law, Harlow, repeatedly points out, the show is really just about the man candy.
And by points out I mean she sends us Tumblr memes, GIFs, and, once, notice of the hashtag #noshirtthursday trending on Twitter.
It drives Finn crazy but, to be fair, I'm not really bothered by it. The show is the reason we still have a boat and the reason we're even still on the water. Without it, we would have lost everything, and the life I've always known--along with the company my grandfather started--would have been gone for good. Fishing these waters isn't the same as it was when my great-great-grandfather was doing it. There's more competition and fewer fish. The odds are against all of us. So if I get to be out on the water, who cares if there's a camera in my face?
The air is cold as I make the short climb to the deck. I hear Finn before I see him, already shouting orders to Colton as they attempt to untangle a net that snagged on some debris.
"Walked up here to find him like this," Colton says, unruly hair covered by a wool cap. I can still see the pillow lines on his face as he squints down at the wire he's splicing. "Thought I'd at least give him someone to yell at."
I look past them to the pallets of wood on the weathered dock. "Everything here?"
"Yeah, delivered about an hour ago." Colton looks up. "Rain coming in. Probably need to get it all on board and covered before it starts."
I follow his gaze to where the sun should be, but there's nothing but gray sky and angry clouds in the distance. "Let's get to work."
I stand on the deck, watching as the crane operator lifts the banded material and the machine creeps toward me.
"Easy," I shout, motioning for him to come forward, keeping an eye on the bottom of the cradle as it swings in the air. It's even darker now; the incoming storm is reflected in the gunmetal waves as they lap with increasing force against the hull. The temperature continues to drop and the air smells of pine and salt as the wind picks up, whipping at our clothes and jostling the Linda against the dock.
"A little higher." I lean farther over, needing the load to clear the side. "A little more ..."
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the camera rolling and, for a split second, I take my eyes off the crane. And that's when it happens. The operator swings a hair too wide as the wind whips through the harbor, and the entire thing tips. Two boards slip from the center of the bundle and hit the deck with a thundering crack, a section of one shearing off with the impact and ricocheting against the wood and then up, straight toward me.
I'm thrown back from the force of it.
I hear Finn and Colton's voices--they're yelling, they're running--before I realize what's happened. Warmth seeps along my leg, and when I push myself to sit, I see a two-foot-long shard of wood going through my pants and straight into the center of my thigh.
WHEN I OPEN MY eyes again, my head feels fuzzy.
"There you are," Colton says. His fingers are cold against my arm. "Should have known you'd try to get out of work."
"Holy hell." My throat is dry and my voice cracks. When I try to sit up, I find that I'm tethered to the bed with about a dozen tubes and cords. My leg feels like it's on fire. I just hurt.
Finn leaves the group of men he's been talking with and moves to stand on my other side. "If you needed a nap, you could have asked."
The doctor is at my side almost immediately. "How're you doing there, Levi?"
My voice is broken glass and sandpaper. "I've been better."
"You've got a pretty nasty puncture. We were able to get most of the splinters out, but because of the nature of the wound and the chemicals used in the pressure-treated lumber, we're not going to stitch it up yet."
I blink at the group of men in the corner, including Matt and the other producer, Giles Manchego. Panic clenches in my gut. Although the first season has started to gain steam, and we've just begun filming the second, I know the contract allows for termination at any time if we're unable to perform our regular duties.
Like, one might think, fishing.
Finn correctly reads my expression and squeezes my arm. "It's okay, Lee," he says quietly. "I don't think they'll admit it, but they fucking love this. They got it all on camera." He motions to my bandages. "Something tells me they're going to milk the shit out of it."
I
ignore him.
"What do I need to do to get back on the boat?" My voice is stronger now, and I push up onto an elbow.
Finn and Colton share a look before being joined by the producers. "I had a feeling you were going to say that," Giles says, pleased. "We've come up with a compromise. If you agree to it, of course."
"Okay," I say, wary. Finn's jaw is tight, and I know him well enough to know--whatever the idea is--he doesn't love it, but isn't going to say no, either. Colton, on the other hand, looks like he's about to laugh.
"We're going to let you return to the boat next week, on the condition that you allow a nurse on board," Matt says, and manages to deliver this news without giggling gleefully.
A nurse on the Linda, tending to my injuries while we shoot filler footage of Finn and Colton throwing nets and rewiring the fuse boxes?
The hell?
"A nurse?" I repeat.
Matt nods. Finally, Colton can't contain his laughter, and a giddy bark breaks free of him before he covers his mouth with a fist, coughing out, "Sponge baths, man."