When Captain Flint Was Still a Good Man
A “powerful first novel” about “loyalty and moral choice within a crumbling family” (The Boston Globe).
Every fall, the men of Loyalty Island—like their fathers and grandfathers before them—still sail from the Olympic Peninsula up to the Bering Sea to spend the winter catching king crab. Their dangerous occupation keeps food on the table but constantly threatens to leave empty seats around it.
Then Gaunt dies suddenly, leaving the business in the hands of his son, who seems intent on selling away the fishermen’s livelihood. Soon Cal stumbles on evidence that his father may have taken extreme measures to salvage their way of life. As winter comes on, his suspicions deepening and his moral compass shattered, he is forced to make a terrible choice.
“ Dybek can paint a salty landscape…but it’s the fast whirlpool of lies, murder, and moral dilemma that drives the book. “ – Outside Magazine
“Finely crafted … a taut novel juggling the sometimes conflicting impulses to do the moral thing, and to protect those we love.” – The Los Angeles Times
“A complex and riveting tale about deception and betrayal, asking us how far we would go to preserve what we hold dearest ... In this magnificent debut Dybek’s incommunicable thrills shock us and disturb us and make him one to watch.” – The Daily Beast
"Dybek brings serious talent to bear … Powerful.” - The New York Times Book Review
“[A] powerful first novel … [that explores] loyalty and moral choice within a crumbling family.” -- The Boston Globe
"Dybek constructs a suspenseful novel, and the quality of writing is enough to engage the reader...the themes that [he] tackles are universal and are sure to resonate with all." -- Fredricksburg Free-Lance Star
“Hypnotic, relentless…Dybek’s strength of voice and confident command over Loyalty Island’s obsessive fishing community is enough to cement this seaside tale of morality’s limitations as a terrific debut.” – The Onion A.V. Club
“[A] striking debut novel, thick with a sense of maritime freedom, lawlessness and tragedy” – Minneapolis Star-Tribune
“There is…wisdom here, and the momentum of a thrilling yarn, delivered as if by a scarred man by the consoling light of a fire.” – The Economist
“Potent …Dybek conjures his island with rich physical details… marshaling the narrative along with an almost flawless sense of timing and pace.… [An] impressive debut.” – The Millions
“Engrossing, often haunting … When the deck is stacked against us, when the wind is up and the cry comes from the crow’s nest, will we ultimately act as Young Jim or Long John Silver? That’s the dilemma Cal finds himself in and one that readers will toss about in their minds long after finishing this fine debut novel.” –Washington Independent Review of Books
“Incandescently imaginative and suspenseful...Dybek has created a superbly orchestrated and soulful drama of loyalty to family and an imperiled way of life and the fathomless forces that make a good man go bad.” – Booklist
“Dybek proves himself an observant, appealing writer…the story [is] peopled with multidimensional characters and featuring well-drawn settings. [He] writes well about family, about relationships and loyalty, about responsibility and community, and about all that passes from father to son.” --Kirkus
On Writing a First Novel
When I was twenty-two, I moved from Michigan to rural Mississippi. I lived alone, in a tiny room above an eccentric couple’s garage. Every morning, the mechanical lock on the double security doors of Bolivar Correctional Facility buzzed me through to teach literature to inmates.
My students hated To Kill a Mockingbird (we don’t have to read about this, one of them pointed out), but they loved Lord of the Flies. Naively, I attributed their enthusiasm to the novel’s resonance with their circumstances. But what really appealed to them was the island, the ocean, the sand, the jungle; they liked occupying an entirely imagined place.
I have to admit I took the job in part because to give myself something other than my stable Midwestern upbringing to write about. But I failed miserably at fiction that year. It became clear that I wouldn’t be able to write anything a reader would want to escape into if I restricted myself to the things I saw and heard each day, to material that was still – only – my own.
When I did discover a story I wanted to tell, I didn’t find it in my life, or in any real life. I read Shakespeare’s Richard II for the first time in my apartment above the garage, and the image of a deposed king sitting in prison, listening to mysterious music, stuck in my mind. That image, invented hundreds of years before by someone else, led easily to other images, images I invented without intending to. As I began to trust the power of invention—to let myself imagine a family, a community, an economy unlike any I had known—I had the outline of a narrative.
I spent part of the next summer traveling through the Olympic Peninsula and found myself wondering: what would my characters make of this place? I decided to set the book there, and moved out to Washington state. But now, as I imagined those characters in an unfamiliar setting, details from my own life found their way into the narrative, unforced. What had so recently seemed the trappings of an uninspiring existence—my parents’ huge record collection, my childhood obsession with Treasure Island, family stories about suitcases packed with broken jars and pickled animal parts—came newly alive.
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