Technically, Henry's little town had a dock—but that was mostly for tiny freight boats hauling in supplies. If you wanted real ships, real work? You had to head south, to the next town down the coast. That's where the crab boats launched.
Fortunately, the two towns weren't strangers. Everyone knew everyone—or knew someone who did.
So when Henry said he was serious about getting on a crab boat, the local old-timers made a few calls. Put in a word. Passed his name along.
Old John even drove him there himself.
John took the driver's seat. Riding shotgun was "the Pole"—a grizzled old fisherman who used to run with one of the local captains. Henry? He rode in the truck bed, bundled in an oversized coat, soaking in what little sunlight October had to offer.
Technically, it was fall.
In Alaska? It felt like winter had already arrived.
But Henry didn't mind. The chill air didn't bite as sharply as it used to. Not anymore.
If anything, he welcomed the sun. Just sitting there, arms folded and face tilted upward, he felt... charged.
He wasn't stupid enough to sunbathe like a lunatic in front of everyone—just in case his "Kryptonian theory" turned out to be true—but that didn't mean he didn't enjoy it.
And riding in the back like this?
It felt familiar.
John had told him—after he found Henry unconscious on the beach, he'd tossed him in the truck bed just like this and drove him back into town.
Full circle, in a weird way.
"Not far," they said.
Which, in Alaskan terms, meant three and a half hours of doing seventy on half-frozen roads. Henry now understood that "close" meant something very different up here. Maybe it was measured in dinosaur spinal cord lengths or some other impossible metric.
When they finally pulled into the harbor town, Henry caught his first real glimpse of what crab season looked like.
The docks were alive with noise and motion—grizzled men hauling gear, welding equipment humming, crates being loaded, ropes coiled and uncoiled with practiced speed. Boats lined the wharf in long rows, hulls stained by rust and salt.
This was crab season. October to November. The only time of year when hundreds of boats launched into the freezing waters of the Bering Sea to catch king crab—the kind of beast you paid top dollar for at fine restaurants.
Two months. Five hundred million dollars.
That was the scale.
People made their year's wages in weeks. Some lived like kings off a single run.
But others? Never came back at all.
Which was why the right boat mattered.
Some captains would take anyone with a pulse and a death wish. Others ran a tight ship, staffed by veterans. Nobody wanted to be on a "rookie boat"—the kind that sank because no one knew what they were doing.
That's why the old guys back home hadn't just sent Henry to any boat.
They sent him to the Annie II, captained by George Jefferson III.
Name sounded like a presidential merger.
But around here? The man was legend.
George had inherited the boat from his father, who'd inherited it from his father. He'd been on deck since he was old enough to tie a knot, and every fisherman on this side of the state knew his name.
You wanted to learn the ropes? You went with George.
You wanted to survive your first season? You begged for a spot on his crew.
Which made this interview something of a big deal.
As they pulled up beside the Annie II, Henry could already see a storm of movement on deck—men repairing gear, loading supplies, checking hydraulics. The whole vessel looked like it was preparing for war.
The Pole didn't wait. He leapt onto the deck like a man half his age, shouting, "Hey, old bastard! You remember I said I'd bring you a greenhorn?"
A voice shouted back from the engine room. Moments later, a mountain of a man emerged, shirtless despite the cold, wiping grease from his hands.
George Jefferson III looked like he'd been carved out of ship steel. His frame was all bulk and calluses, not gym-built muscle, but the kind that came from decades of hauling rope and slamming steel.
What little hair he had left was white, and his beard stubble matched. But his eyes were sharp, like seawater and sky mixed together.
He stepped onto deck, squinted at the truck.
Then he saw John.
"Look who it is," George barked. "Unless you brought a bar to my ship, old man, I ain't payin' a damn dime for whatever overpriced swill you're pushing."
John fired back instantly. "And here I thought your eyesight was only good for spotting crab. Can't you see the human I brought with me? Or do I need to swing by your house and check if your wife's still alive?"
George grinned, hands raised in mock surrender. "Same old bark, same old bite."
Then he turned, finally sizing up Henry.
Up close.
The kid was tall. Solid. Not gym-sculpted—but dense. Like he was built for impact.
"Name?" George asked, voice gravelly.
"Henry, sir."
"Just Henry?"
"Still figuring out the rest."
George circled him once, then gave his shoulder a heavy smack.
Henry didn't budge.
Felt like the guy had just slapped a concrete wall.
George nodded, impressed. "You'll do."
Then, turning to the others, he said, "He's in."
To Henry, he added: "Don't get cocky. This ain't a joyride. It's cold, it's wet, and it hurts. Once we leave port, you're stuck. No backing out."
Henry nodded. "Understood."
John chimed in with a smirk. "Just make sure you've got enough rations on board. This one eats like he's prepping for hibernation. Don't come crying when he starts boiling the catch for lunch."
George laughed, deep and rough. "Long as he doesn't puke it back up mid-storm, we'll be fine."
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