The hydraulic winch pulls the pot to the surface off Neah Bay. Jake Petersen sorts the crab quickly, checking carapace width, tossing back the shorts and females. The pot's half-full. Legal size, good weight.

Two weeks ago half his pots came up with dead or dying crabs, suffocated from low oxygen near the seafloor. He doesn't know which version he's getting until he pulls them.

Twenty-six years old. Started pulling pots at twelve with his father. Bought in as partner at twenty-two. The plan was simple: crab in winter, salmon when available, groundfish to fill gaps.

But salmon harvest is down ninety percent from a generation ago. Crab seasons have become unpredictable. Some years good. Some years the fishery doesn't open on time because of algae blooms. Some years the crabs are just gone.

Last year Jake made sixty percent of what his father averaged in the 2010s. This year might be better. He can't tell yet.

When crab fails, he switches to groundfish. Sablefish, rockfish, lingcod. The market's not as good. But it's something. He's fishing more days to make the same money. Running farther out. Checking weather more carefully.

His girlfriend left her paycheck stub on the kitchen counter last week. Tribal health clinic. Same amount every two weeks. He'd looked at it longer than he meant to.

She asked about houses that night. Could they buy one in five years. He said probably. She asked if he'd thought about doing something else.

He sits in his truck at the dock some mornings before heading out. Watches the other boats. There are fewer now than when he started. Some guys left after the 2015-16 season when the crab fishery stayed closed for months. Some retired and their kids didn't take over.

His younger brother's in community college. Welding program. He'd shown Jake the course catalog. Asked if fishing would still be viable in twenty years. Jake didn't know. Still doesn't.

You can do everything right and still come up empty. Read the water perfectly, set your gear right, work harder than anyone else. The crabs still might not be there. Or they might be dead when you pull them up.

But Jake knows things. He knows how to work in weather that would keep most boats tied up. He knows which grounds produce when others fail. He knows the other fishermen, who to trust, who shows up when someone's in trouble. His father taught him to read water, wind, how the boat handles in different seas. That knowledge doesn't transfer to anything else.

He visits his father most Sundays. They talk about what's changing. Water temperature. Species showing up that didn't used to. Old reliable grounds that don't produce anymore.

Last Sunday his father asked if he was still planning to fish next season. Jake said yes. His father nodded. Didn't say anything else for a while. Then: "Your great-grandfather bought his first boat in 1947. Fished these waters forty years. I've been out here thirty-eight. The Makah have been fishing here for thousands."

Jake knows. He's heard it before. But his father wasn't making a point about history. He was just stating what's true.

"Things change," his father said. "You adapt or you quit."

Jake finishes the string. Heads back toward Neah Bay. The dock looks the same as it did when he was twelve. But it's emptier.

He ties up. Starts unloading. The crab buyer's truck is already there. Prices are decent this week. He'll make his boat payment. Put some away. Fix the hydraulic line that's been leaking.

His girlfriend texted while he was out. Her friend's getting married next summer. Bought a house in Sequim. Two bedrooms.

Jake reads it twice. Doesn't reply yet.

Tomorrow he'll go back out. Pull the next string. See what comes up.