The Falling Tide Showed Who Emptied Bins Beside My Raft

The towboat captain said his name was Pete and asked if I had anything in writing.

"A filed case," I said. "A survey. A recorded agreement."

"Send them. I'm not dragging a raft out of a disputed mooring on a manager's word."

I sent Nina his number. She sent him the filing. He confirmed by email that he would take no job until the dispute was cleared.

I slept on the raft anyway.

Rain tapped the tarp above my cot. Each time a diesel started, I sat up. At fifty, I had thought I was past lying awake because a louder man might take something while I slept.

At two, I got up and opened my camera files.

My notebook had a column for tide height and a column for the camera clock. On Sunday, I had checked the clock against my phone. It was nineteen minutes fast. I had left it alone and written down the error, as I always did before changing a battery.

Changing a clock midway through an archive made a mess I did not need.

I found Thursday's dawn by the white numbers on the tide board. The water had just dropped below the two-foot stripe.

A cooperative charter boat, the Morrow Bell, eased into view.

I knew its chipped yellow rail. I had repaired its bait net in March.

Two crewmen stood at the stern. One lifted a gray bin. The other held the boat off my fender with a pole.

The bin tipped.

Fish scraps slid into the water beside my raft. A second bin followed. Then the boat backed away, leaving a pale patch that spread beneath my deck.

I watched the whole file again.

My raft was empty. My bicycle was still locked at the shore gate. At that hour, I had been upstairs making oatmeal.

I stopped with my finger above the keyboard.

It would have felt good to send the clip to every boat in Sitka.

Instead, I called Nina when her office opened.

"Don't trim the original," she said. "Keep the card. Bring the notebook too."

Her assistant made two copies and recorded a digital fingerprint for each file. Nina put one sealed copy in her safe. I kept the memory card in my dry box and used a new one in the camera.

I marked the envelope with red whipping twine.

"What's that for?" Nina asked.

"A tear that still needs closing."

"We'll need more twine."

We gave the cooperative notice that the recording existed and asked them to preserve the Morrow Bell's trip sheets, crew messages, and disposal bills. Nina told me the film showed an act. It did not, by itself, show who had ordered it.

On Monday morning, we went to court.

Bryce had hired a lawyer. For once, he let someone else speak first.

His lawyer called my papers old and the waste issue urgent.

Nina placed the lease map beside my agreement.

"Urgent enough to justify a tow before the boundary can be heard?" she asked.

The judge asked for a channel photo. Then she asked Bryce which part of the cooperative's lease included my mooring.

He stood halfway up.

"I've managed that harbor for eight years."

"That was not my question," she said.

His lawyer touched his sleeve. Bryce sat down.

The judge issued a temporary order: no tow, no blocked access, no interference with the raft while the claim was heard. The fine remained disputed. We would return with evidence for a fuller hearing.

It was a pause, not a final win. Still, my knees nearly gave out on the courthouse steps.

Leona handed me a paper cup of coffee.

"Your raft has a better weekend planned now."

"It's Monday."

"Then it's overdue."

That afternoon, I returned to work. Eli helped spread his seine. We found a run of split meshes near the bunt, where the fish gathered under load.

"Can't just fix the first hole," he said.

"No. Have to follow the strain."

I called Ruth and asked for the cooperative's waste charges. I said I was still a member, share number forty-one.

There was a long pause.

"Bryce's current list marks you inactive," she said.

"My share was never redeemed."

"Bring your receipt tomorrow."

At dusk, a young deckhand stopped at the shore end of my gangway. I recognized his orange rain bibs from the film.

He kept both hands where I could see them, though I had made no threat.

"I'm Owen Pike," he said. "I was holding the pole."

I set my needle down.

He lifted a folded bill from his pocket.

"We were told disposal was paid for. Why does this charge say you signed for it?"