There’s a storm in the Bering Sea. The boat is roughly 75 feet and the swells are tossing it around like a plastic ball. The boat crashes through the center of the storm, its eye beating down upon the deck, and the crew pulls together to keep the haul secured and the nets and ropes from being absorbed by the ocean. The captain screams into the storm from the wheelhouse, the crew bites down on their cigarettes and clutch their rosary beads. The storm began as a light rain before sunset, and now its arms and breath are dealing blows into the boat without mercy. The sea rages beneath the roar, and they ride the storm out for hours and sit in the galley. A bottle of whiskey is produced and the shots get poured, cigarettes get lit, and the cards come out of the box for a hand of seven-card. The captain has nothing past the ante, but his mind is on the ocean, their slip of fate from the storm behind them, and talking to his men about investing in a high-end contemporary women’s fashion company…