who have slept one-and-a-half hours out of every three, for days on end, to work on deck at 2 a.m. in the dead of winter in the wet. But this time Sal’s smile widened, even as the horn rattled him. The joke was on him, and the horn was the laugh buzzer. A buck-fifty if they were lucky and the market was good. That’s how much codfish were worth.
The men were up and dressing. Richie was nearly ready. The others were hustling. The skipper’s tolerance had a well-respected short fuse. Sal pulled wool pants over the ever-present long underwear and a sweater over his sweatshirt. Then boot socks under steel-toed rubber knee boots, foul weather pants and jacket with the hood secured over his visor cap. And rubber gloves that were still wet from the previous shift on deck. All they did was keep the wind off. Sal hung on with one hand against the violent motion, got dressed with the other. The effort always produced sweat and queasiness in the sweet, oily heat of the diesel stove. Awkward in several
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