15
“If this is a typical Russian fishing boat, I feel bad for the Russian fisherymen. Let me tell you, I wouldn’t want to go out fisherying in this.”
Mick couldn’t agree with Patty more. When they’d flown in last night and he’d spotted the craft, he’d assumed it was a wreck left to sink beside the rotten dock when the base was abandoned. Now that he was aboard her, he saw no reason to revise that initial assessment, except that she was actually afloat and showed recent usage. She was sixty feet of sad.
He. Russians called their boats by the male gender.
He was clinker-built, with overlapping boards stuffed with caulk to keep her—him—sealed. Sixty long, fifteen feet wide on the beam, he had a wheelhouse forward and a terribly cluttered main deck. The crane, winches, and net labeled him
