Ronan O’Malley, 62, spent 32 years running a commercial salmon troller out of Astoria before bad knees and a widow’s grief made him sell the boat and retreat to his garage, where he fixes broken fishing reels for local guys for 20 bucks a pop, no questions asked. His worst flaw? He never gave anyone a chance before writing them off, especially not government biologists, the same crew that spent decades slashing his fishing quotas and acting like he didn’t know the difference between a Chinook and a chum. He’d avoided the annual Astoria Seafood Festival for eight straight years, ever since his wife Lynn died of breast cancer, but his 10-year-old granddaughter begged him to enter his famous alder-smoked salmon in the contest, so he caved.
He’d just placed third, had a lukewarm IPA in one hand and a cheap blue ribbon stuffed in his jeans pocket, and was leaning against the splintered beer tent pole trying to avoid a group of old fishing buddies who wanted to drag him to the karaoke stage when she stepped into his orbit. Clara Mendez, 58, the new county marine biologist who’d moved to town six months prior, the woman he’d walked out of a town hall on rather than listen to her talk about habitat restoration. She was wearing faded gray flannel, work boots caked in mud from the tide flats, a thin silver hoop through one nostril, and a scar snaking up her left wrist from a run-in with a feisty Dungeness crab she’d told the local paper about a month prior.
He blinked, thrown. He’d heard a handful of local guys muttering about how the new biologist was actually on their side, but he’d written it off as wishful thinking. They talked for 20 minutes pressed up against that tent pole, the crowd swirling around them, and every time someone bumped into them she’d lean in a little closer, her hand brushing his forearm once when she laughed at a story he told about a 2007 storm that almost sunk his boat, her calloused fingers rough from hauling net and sampling gear, the same kind of calluses he had on his own hands. He found himself leaning in too, ignoring the ache in his left knee that always flared when he stood too long, ignoring the old voice in his head that said he should go home, that he didn’t deserve to have fun, that all biologists were the enemy.
When she asked if he wanted to walk down to the old wooden pier to get away from the noise, he hesitated for half a second before saying yes. The sand was still warm from the afternoon sun under his worn work boots, the waves lapping soft against the shore, seagulls crying faint in the distance as the sun started to dip below the horizon, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and lavender. They walked to the end of the pier, the wood creaking under their feet, and she sat on the edge, her legs dangling over the water, patting the spot next to her. He sat, his knee protesting a little, and when he turned to look at her she was already watching him, her dark eyes soft, no trace of the stiff government official he’d imagined her to be.
“I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to talk to you for months,” she said, quiet, like she was admitting something she was embarrassed by. “Everyone in town says you’re a grumpy hermit who hates anyone who works for the county.” He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years, and admitted he’d been a jerk, that he’d judged her before he even knew her name. She leaned in then, her hand brushing the side of his face for half a second before she kissed him, soft at first, then a little firmer, and he could taste the peach hard seltzer she’d been drinking, the salt on her lips, the faint sweet tang of the cherry lip balm she wore. He kissed her back, his hand resting light on her waist, the old grief and anger and stubbornness melting away a little, like frost on a warm spring morning.
They sat there for an hour, talking about the boats, the runs, the best spots to catch Dungeness crab in the early spring, and when she told him she’d bought an old 18-foot fishing boat to do near-shore habitat surveys that needed a full engine rebuild, he didn’t even hesitate to offer his help, even though he’d sworn he’d never set foot on a small work boat again after he sold his own. She smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder for a second, as the first star popped out over the darkening water. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to text his granddaughter that he’d be home later than planned, his thumb hovering over the screen for a second before he typed, and smiled when he felt her hand slip into his, calloused palm against calloused palm.
