The first rays of sun etched the outline of the Klamath Mountains in the pre-dawn dark.
The sky was clear, and the emerging dawn began to wash over the starry night. I hid from the wind and the salty ocean spray in the lee of the wheelhouse as the captain motored the 52-foot steel boat to the next string of Dungeness crab pots. Clear skies on Northern California winter mornings mean cold air, and when combined with the maritime dampness of a fishing vessel, there’s a deep chill that’s hard to shake. I sipped the last of my cold coffee, remembering I didn’t make another pot before we started hauling gear four hours earlier.
I felt the boat throttle down and turn away from the coastline some five miles to the east. I glimpsed a few patches of snow on the peaks through the early morning grayscale before my view changed to the dark horizon of the Pacific. I grabbed the buoy stick, tested the hydraulics, stuck my head over the starboard rail, and took a splash of cold water to the face as I looked forward to the oncoming buoy.
I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt at the moment. I was exhausted, cold and sore with a cacophony of competing voices in my head: You’re too old for this shit…pretty good for a middle-aged man with graying hair…what horrible choices have you made to leave you with risking life and limb for crab as your best option for making rent…if the season is good I could pay off a credit card, add to my savings, and buy a new camera…shut up and look at what’s in front of you…
outside-in 
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