Wild Bill FURIOUS When 19-Year-Old Rookie Quits | Deadliest Catch

Greenhorn Faces the Ultimate Test on the Bering Sea

On the unforgiving waters of the Bering Sea, everyone must pull their weight. There’s no time for hesitation.

“Everybody needs to help out. We need to get through this and get out of here,” the crew urges.

With just five and a half miles left to go, it’s time for 19-year-old greenhorn John Walek to step up. After recovering from a severe hand infection that sidelined him for weeks, he’s heading back onto the deck.

“Yeah, it’ll be good to go outside again,” John says. “A little cabin fever… help the team out a bit.”

But out here, there’s no sympathy. John is in the big leagues now.

Back to Work, Back Under Pressure

After spending days in the rack recovering, John must now prove himself. The work is relentless, and the pressure is mounting.

“He’ll be fine,” a crew member remarks.

John, trying to stay optimistic, adds, “I’m feeling a lot better—happy to be out here with the guys. Feels good.”

But the fishing isn’t going well.

“We’re not getting enough per mile, and that’s not going to cut it,” the skipper warns.

The crew needs to move faster.

“Okay, okay—you guys heard the boss. Speed it up! Go, go, go!”

But John is struggling.

“Johnny boy is slowing down!” someone shouts. “Come on, guys! Go, go, go!”

Fatigue is setting in.

“Are you tired? Because we got plenty of rest,” a crew member taunts. “Hope we can pick it up. We’ll see.”

John looks exhausted. He almost seems like he wants to tap out.

“Man, hope to God this ends soon,” someone mutters.

Falling Behind and Feeling the Burn

To stay on top of the biomass, the crew must work fast. But John is lagging behind.

“Come on! Somebody help him! Go, go, go!”

The others take notice.

“John’s obviously dying on the vine here,” one crewmate observes. “Is he that weak?”

John had a full week to rest and recover, but now it looks like his body isn’t keeping up.

“You’d think that muscle group would be ready to work by now,” another crew member adds.

John pushes on, but it’s clear he’s struggling.

“We’re trying to set some gear, but our greenhorn is taking his toll,” the skipper says.

“Hard for me to keep up,” John admits.

“You’re going to run out of setups!” someone warns. “You should be grabbing them right now!”

The crew grows frustrated. They know the job demands everything. And right now, John isn’t delivering.

“It seems like his condition has improved dramatically,” the captain observes. “I think a big portion of his problem is mental.”

He calls John over.

“Hey, John, get over here.”

Physical Weakness or Mental Struggle?

In a tough work environment like this, morale is everything. If one guy slows down, it drags everyone else with him.

“If a guy isn’t giving it his all, it affects morale,” a crew member says. “Like single-ply toilet paper—just falling apart.”

John appears shaken. As the guys give him a hard time, he starts slipping into what the captain calls a “pseudo-depression.”

“I don’t think anybody’s ever told John he didn’t do a good job before,” the skipper says. “I told him how bad this was going to be. He said he could do it. Now he’s going to have to step up.”

“Got anything else bothering you? Your hand okay?” the skipper asks.

John doesn’t answer. His hands are wet, and his body is trembling.

“Hey boss, what’s up?” someone calls out.

“John’s having a little bit of a problem. He’s shaking uncontrollably. He’s all wet.”

The captain knows the signs.

“He’s probably got mild hypothermia,” he says. “Give him a bowl of noodles and warm him up. We should check his body temperature.”

They take a reading.

“97.5—he’s fine.”

But the captain doesn’t buy it.

“John, you suck. Eat a bowl of noodles. Put on dry, warm clothes. We’ve got a 20-pot string to finish.”

Breaking Point

John is visibly struggling. But is it real exhaustion, or is it mental?

“I don’t know what’s going on with John,” the captain says. “But I think he read about hypothermia and is trying to play it up.”

Another check—97.8. He’s not in danger.

“I got a beanie for you,” a crew member says, handing John a hat.

“Buddy, wear that on your head,” the captain instructs. “You lose all your body heat through your head. You never have your hood up, and you’re always wet.”

“Okay, Roger,” John replies.

“Don’t call me Roger,” the captain snaps. “Just do it.”

Then, John makes an announcement.

“I’m not going to be able to finish. I stuck it out as long as I could.”

The captain doesn’t let him continue.

“Stop right there. You’ve been treated with kid gloves more than anybody in the history of the Bering Sea,” he says.

“You made a commitment. You told me 50 times this season you weren’t going to quit. You need to grow up.”

A Harsh Reality

The truth hits hard. Out here, there’s no room for weakness.

“We have an obligation,” the captain says. “An obligation to finish the commitment we made at the beginning of the season.”

John shakes his head. “The intensity is really wearing on me. The nonstop pace—”

The captain cuts him off.

“It wears on all of us,” he says. “If it wasn’t for my lead, these guys would’ve chewed you up trip one. They would’ve chewed you up and spit you out.”

John exhales. “I just… I can’t do this anymore. I gave it my best shot.”

The disappointment is thick in the air.

“It’s a disgrace, man,” the captain says, shaking his head.

The betrayal stings.

“You put your heart and soul into these guys,” he mutters. “And they just turn around and spit on you.”

As John walks off, the captain looks out at the sea, his frustration clear.

“I’m just losing faith in these kids more and more every season.”