Intro/Disclaimer: This being my first try at the genre of 'Deadliest Catch' fan fiction, I hope it all comes out right, people enjoy it and I get reviews. I DO NOT own the Hansens, or any of the crew of the F/V Northwestern. I make no profit from this work. I have no money. Please don't take my pocket lint! NOTE: Italics denotes a dream session.

The Rigors of the Bering Sea

A storm was lingering on the horizon. The sky was a murky mix of dark grays and blacks. To make matters worse, it was Friday. As the superstition went, it was bad luck to leave port on this day. Many a crab boat claimed that they experienced mechanical breakdowns and worse when leaving on that fateful day. With the weather broadcast over the radio promising freezing spray, 40 foot seas, snow and rain, it wasn't looking promising. With the chance of the ice from the far north compromising choice Opilio fishing grounds, the choice was made, Friday or no Friday, the Northwestern was going to fish, weather be damned.

Meanwhile, up in the wheelhouse, Captain Sig Hansen, was anything but ready. Cluttered on the control board before him, was his spiral notebook cluttered with ink denoting weather patterns and nautical positions. A kit-kat bar lay unopened near the throttle control. A coffee cup sat half empty on the wooden ledge of the window, to his right. He was oblivious to the commotion occurring on his deck behind him. Edgar and Norman, his brothers, were busy getting a few last things prepared before they left port, along with deckhands, Jake Anderson, Matt Bradley, and Nick Mavar, Jr. Edgar was manning the hydros getting the last pots stacked on board, as Nick, atop the stack, secured them down with chains. Matt helped Jake attend to the rigorous hell that was preparing bait. In as short as a few hours, the fishing vessel, Northwestern, would be steaming from port and heading out to sea, out to greet a massive winter storm. Little did the crew know what perils laid ahead for their captain?

Rain slathered a windshield, as a pair of wipers sloshed wildly back and forth in an endless battle to clear the glass. Three dark splotches huddled inside, one behind the driver's seat, one in the passenger, and the final in the rear seat. Lightning flashed outside the rain slicked windows, not enough to reveal the faces of those in the vehicle. The sounds of twisted metal rang in his ears, cries of pain mingled with the chaos. A body lay, half ejected from a truck's windshield, the torso splayed on the crumpled hood. A smaller car lay a few yards away, parts torn off from the jolt of the impact were scattered between both vehicles. A shadow enveloped a face, cheek down in a puddle of congealing blood. Thunder boomed in the distance, as an explosion rocked the cab of the truck, sending it bursting into flames, enveloping the deceased. The noise was deafening, the roar of the fire, the fit that Mother Nature was giving, nothing seeming to drown out the flames, no matter how hard the rain fell. Just then, a sound of a door slammed shut…

The wheelhouse door directly behind the captain's chair slammed shut.

"Hey, rise and shine, Princess Toadstool!"

Edgar's voice broke the silence. Ripped from his trance like dream state, Sig's eyelids flipped open, deep cobalt blue eyes slid to the far left and quickly narrowed, as he whirled in the seat, determined to give the unlucky invader of his sleep a piece of his mind. A native Norwegian curse fled his lips, as a palm scrubbed at his face, and then slid up into his tousled dark platinum blonde hair. Edgar came into view, one hand in the front pocket of his Helly Hansen emblazoned maroon hoodie, and the other stuffed into the pocket of his blue jeans. Un-thwarted by his older brothers' foul mood and curse, Edgar continued.

"The crabs aren't gonna haul themselves into those pots!"

Edgar made a gesture with his arm, waving it back towards the deck of the boat.

"We got to motivate them and the only way I know how, is to get his boat in gear, dude. C'mon, it's bad enough it's Friday, I'm looking at biting the heads off of two herrings."

He emphasized this, as he held up two heavily calloused fingers in Sig's face. A gravelly chuckle rose from Sig's chest, at his brother's dedication to the cause. It was a tradition to start the season with someone biting the head off of one of the bait herring. That task usually fell on younger brother, and Deck Boss, Edgar Hansen. Withdrawing his hand from his hoodie, Edgar scratched his nails against his brown whiskered goatee chin, and heaved a sigh, taking in Sig's wrinkled blue denim, long sleeved, Northwestern polo, before shooting a glance out the forward wheelhouse windows. The storm was beckoning them to come join it, and Edgar turned his face away, shaking his head and crossing the floor to the stairs that descended down into the galley.

"We're in for an ass kicking." Sig heard Edgar say as he departed, leaving the frazzled skipper to himself.

The radio crackled, as a familiar voice came over the airwaves.

"Hey, Sig, you guys heading out? Cause that storm is bearing down on us, and we only have a small window of opportunity. I bet I can beat you out there. What do you say?"

It was no other than Andy Hillstrand, of the Time Bandit. In the back round, Sig could hear the cackle of Andy's older brother, Jonathan. Were they going to beat him to the prized fishing grounds? He knew the Northwestern had the power and speed to one up most of the fleet's boats. The Northwestern was fashioned as a cutter, being able to 'cut' through the worst seas with ease and even some ice. Feeling his pride in his ship and crew bubble up in him, Sig, shifted his jean clad ass in the seat, a tad bit on the cocky side.

"You'll have to jam down on that gear, Andy."

He paused and took a glance out of the side window, noting the Time Bandit already heading out of the harbor, and ready to do their traditional bad luck breaking, 'Swedish' circles. That was their cure to break the bad ju-ju of leaving port on a Friday.

"While you're wasting time doing circles over there, I'll be steaming past you, on the way to the chosen grounds. I'll see you back at Dutch. Make sure you got that money ready."

Sig ended the conversation with a rough chuckle, before hanging the mic back up, while he engaged the throttle and eased the Northwestern from Dutch Harbor. All joking aside, he couldn't shake that edgy uneasiness that lingered after that dream he had. It wasn't the way he wanted to go into Opilio season, heavy with jitters and physical exhaustion. All in a days work, he had to remind himself. This was his profession and he'd be damned if he'd let Mother Nature ruin his plans.