How can these gruff, rough, old-salt fishermen so constantly break me down like a baby? Perhaps why, two years ago, they all but got me through my shipwrecked summer, and Tuesdays try to fool me into thinking (so deludedly) that I could last a second on an ice-packed Bering Sea.

“You guys are gonna make me cry, you’d rather work a four-man deck than hire somebody else,” says Jake, all choked up, to Edgar, all choked up, with me, all choked up, over last night’s Deadliest Catch.