The Fisherman's Daughter.

Chapter 1

"Forty-seven minutes late," I whisper aloud under my breath. I squint to see the second hand as it rounds the clock face. "Forty-eight." I say aloud again. The clock hanging on the wall behind the bar counter has been my only companion for the past forty-eight, wait...forty-nine minutes that I have been waiting for him.

The hard, unforgiving wood stool I have been perched on is killing my ass and the tiki bar's cocktails are starting to go to my head. The cheap drinks are weak but I haven't eaten anything today so they are affecting me more than they should. I glance over at the unhygienic bar nuts and realize that I have to eat something soon because they are starting to look more appealing with each passing minute.

I readjust my position on the hard stool and motion to the bartender for my third Mai Tai. I'm not a rum fan but all the drinks in this shitty tiki bar are made with rum, and what else am I supposed to do while I wait? I might as well keep drinking.

"He's an idiot." The bartender says to me as he hands me my drink.

"Excuse me?" I ask and cup my hand around my ear to hear him over the music.

"You have been sitting here for almost an hour--he's an idiot for making you wait." He clarifies his meaning and hands me the drink.

The bartender is in his late fifties and the tattoos up his arms have aged into greenish blobs. He has the face of the men I grew up with: nordic genetics that have been weathered by the harsh sea air. The hand that slides the frilly drink to me could belong to my father, uncles, or brothers. They are a working man's hands, hands that have chapped and bled season after season and have grown a thick, rough callus of protection.

"He is a fuckin' idiot." I reply under my breath. I take a sip of my freshened Mai Tai and taste the strong, sweet bite of rum. The bartender has taken pity on me and made me an actual drink this time.

The bartender was waiting for my reaction and a smile spreads across his face when I look up at him wide-eyed and surprised at how strong it is.

"There ya go." He says with a wink and he passes me a fresh bowl of nuts then bends behind the bar and produces a couple of bags of chips.

"It's the beginning of the season." I say to him as I shove the fresh nuts into my mouth then wipe my salty palm onto my jeans. "Do you miss it?" I ask.

Yesterday was the beginning of the commercial fishing season in Washington. I know Washington fishermen have a love-hate relationship with the sea. The work is brutal, strenuous, and deadly but the sea calls to them and will always be their first love. My father is this way. He loves the first month back on land after a long, back breaking season, but after that month ends he grows anxious and is ready to return to those dark, deadly waters.

He begins polishing a glass with a clean towel and stares ahead with thoughtful eyes, contemplating my question. He looks down at the now sparkling glass in his hand then finally turns to me and says, "I will always miss it."

I nod, understanding his answer.

"Your pops a fisherman?" He asks me, more as a statement than a question.

"Yeah, I grew up in Westport." I answer.

He nods, "those Westport boys are a rough group. What's your last name?" He asks.

"Sjöberg." I reply between mouthfuls of chips and slurps of my strong drink.

A smile comes across his face in recognition at the mention of my surname. "Are you Anders' daughter?"

I smile at the mention of my father's name and nod my head in the affirmative.

He whistles a low whistle then says, "Your dad and your brothers would not want to hear that some loser stood you up." He says with a bright smile.