Although the small nameless town also had a dock, it was mostly used for small steamships and cargo transport. The dock where King Crab fishing boats departed from was located in a southern, busier town—larger and far more active than this one.
The two towns weren't completely isolated from each other; they interacted from time to time. So, when Ryan wanted to board a King Crab boat, the old man from his town helped him get in touch with an experienced Captain.
Old John even drove Ryan there himself.
Sitting in the passenger seat was Polan Lao, the man who had made contact with the Captain. Everyone in town called him that. Meanwhile, Ryan was riding in the back of the truck bed, wrapped tightly in a coat, enjoying the rare warmth of the October sun.
While October is only autumn in lower-latitude regions, Alaska was already bone-chilling. Ryan, unable to squeeze into the cab, didn't mind the exposure. In fact, he welcomed the sunlight. Though he had an inkling he might be a Kryptonian, he didn't run toward every sunbeam like a sunflower. That would be far too conspicuous.
Besides, the strength he already possessed was enough to handle daily life with ease. Even if he sunbathed until he could split mountains or part oceans—where would he even find such mountains or seas to work with?
The purple sweet potato monster snapping his fingers? That was still thirty years away. It was only 1990, and those troubles didn't warrant his attention just yet. Still, when given the opportunity, Ryan appreciated the warmth—just as he did now.
According to Old John, Ryan had originally been found unconscious on the beach and carried home in this very truck. Back then, he'd been tossed into the truck bed just like cargo. Riding here again felt like reliving that moment—an echo of the past.
As for the "very close" southern town they were heading to, Old John drove seventy to eighty kilometers per hour for over three hours to get there. That gave Ryan a better understanding of what Alaskans meant by "very close." It was probably the kind of "close" that only something with the reflexes of a long-necked dinosaur could relate to.
In Alaska, King Crab season runs from October to November. This is when the crabs are at their fattest and most valuable. During this two-month window, hundreds of King Crab boats set off into the Bering Sea to fish in near-winter conditions. This brief period yields nearly $500 million in revenue annually. It's not just Alaska's economic backbone—entire communities and businesses rely on it.
For some fishermen, two months of intense work is enough to afford a comfortable ten-month break. But the work is hazardous, the environment unforgiving. Every year, some boats don't return. Some fishermen are lost at sea.
Because of these risks, experienced Captains and reliable crews are in high demand. No one wants to go out with a boat full of greenhorns. Not unless you're looking to commit insurance fraud and never come back.
Insurance companies are wary of boats stacked with too many rookies. If fraud is suspected, they won't pay a cent. Beyond that, a crew without experience simply can't fish efficiently. To avoid making money at the cost of their lives, most fishermen seek out stable boats led by seasoned Captains and filled with veteran crew members.
The boat that Old John and Polan Lao helped Ryan get in touch with was exactly that sort—the Anne II, captained by George Jefferson III. Anyone hearing the name for the first time might think two former U.S. Presidents had merged into one man.
Old George was the third generation of King Crab fishermen in his family. He had inherited both the boat and the business from his father and grandfather. Since childhood, he had worked in this brutal, demanding industry, gaining both skills and respect. Not only was he an expert fisherman, but he was also exceptional at leading a team.
If a local family wanted their child to get into the industry, they'd make sure the kid did a run on Old George's boat. Just one season with him could turn a rookie into a veteran, opening doors to future opportunities. And if someone only wanted a quick score—one or two trips to earn fast money—they still had to pass through Old George. He might not guarantee you riches, but he would ensure you came back alive.
But getting a spot on Old George's boat wasn't easy.
Unlike Captains who were desperate for manpower and willing to take anyone with a pulse, Old George had the luxury of being selective. That's why Old John and Polan Lao brought Ryan to see him before the season began—for an interview of sorts. If it didn't work out, they'd still have time to try with another Captain.
As they arrived at the southern town's dock, they saw that it was bustling with activity. Crews were busy preparing their vessels—conducting maintenance, stocking up supplies, checking equipment.
Old George was onboard the Anne II, personally overseeing the inspection of every piece of gear.
Polan Lao had once worked aboard the Anne II and had spent years as a King Crab fisherman himself. Familiar with the layout, he confidently stepped onto the deck and located Old George, who was in the engine room at the time.
"Hey, old man! I told you I was bringing someone today—you didn't forget, did you?"
"Let me see... you're Polan Lao, aren't you?"
Old George emerged from the engine room, wiping oil from his hands. Then he gave Polan Lao a hearty hug. He was bare-chested, his frame still sturdy and muscular despite his age. He wasn't a bodybuilder, but he wasn't soft either. His white stubble and balding scalp made it clear—he was no young man anymore.
Noticing Old John approaching, he reached out to shake his hand.
"Hey old man, no bar on my boat. You'd better wait ashore and save your pennies for drinks. Don't count on earning them here."
Polan Lao chuckled. "Didn't I tell you this guy's eyes only see crabs? Can't even spot the living man standing next to him."
"I'll visit your wife tonight then," Old George fired back.
"Haha! Your mouth is still as foul as it was thirty years ago," Old John replied.
"Some things never change," George said, raising both hands in surrender.
Finally, his eyes turned toward the young man—Ryan.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Ryan, sir."
"Ryan what?"
"Just Ryan. Haven't decided on a last name yet."
Old George laughed and didn't press the issue. He walked around Ryan slowly, then gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder.
As expected, Ryan didn't even flinch. It felt like hitting a boulder.
"Not bad," Old George muttered with approval.
He turned to the two elders and said, "Alright. I'll take him."
Then, to Ryan: "But you'd better be mentally prepared. Life on a King Crab boat is brutal. Once we set sail, there's no turning back."
Old John added, "Also, let me warn you—this kid eats like a beast. Don't be surprised if you have to make him cook his own crabs."
George laughed. "As long as he doesn't get seasick and throw up after eating, I'll make sure he's well-fed around the clock."