in with the rest, and loud cheers and a round of applause ensued after the group had clapped out the time to his dancing. I wagged my finger at him, threatening to incorporate his jig into all future charters.
“Performances cost extra,” he said with a smile.
By this point, any remaining barriers among the group had come down. Everyone congregated on the stern deck. From the chatter you would have thought they’d known each other for decades instead of hours. For a while I thought they were going to forget the purpose of the charter, but soon Jane, clearly the most competitive of the group, was stripping out line and counting the pulls aloud. The sight of Jane peeling out line acted as a catalyst, and the entire group was soon fishing but this time exchanging anecdotes. The charter had taken on a life of its own, driven by the energy of the guests.
Within ten minutes we had our first fish on. Matt hollered, “I got one!” He struck so hard I was sure he had snapped the rod.
“It’s not yours yet,” I said as I checked the tension on his drag.
Out of courtesy everyone reeled in their lines to avoid tangles and formed a half circle around Matt. It was a stubborn fish, taking runs of ten or twenty feet before stopping and thrashing. Matt had his hands full allowing the fish its short burst before retrieving the line. Vic was standing next to me, shouting expletives at the fish every time it took a run. I had to ask him to keep the decibels down until the fish was in. Both brothers had told me they were experienced trout fishermen, which had led me to think they understood the principle of playing a fish. But Matt seemed so anxious to land it he had little interest in playing it. With a bit of coaching from me, Matt had the fish in the boat in twenty minutes. As soon as we dragged the net in, with the fish still wriggling in it, a round of applause broke out with shouts of “the luck of the Irish!” Matt and Vic could hardly contain themselves. They slapped each other on the back, twirled, slapped their own knees and shook everyone’s hand. They grinned so widely I thought it must have hurt. It was a beautiful fourteen pounder stuffed full of krill, a tiny crustacean that looks like a shrimp.
“Goddamn, goddamn,” they kept saying. “This sure beats milking!”
Having a fish in the boat allowed Sten and me to relax. In spite of the aesthetics of being out on the water, we could never allow ourselves to lose sight of the business aspect of charter fishing. A salmon in the boat takes the hex off the charter; everyone relaxes and fishes with more optimism. The most important thing is that the guests realize the ocean does indeed contain some fish and that they can be caught. Once a fish has been netted and landed, everyone’s mood is upbeat. It’s contagious. In this case everyone was shaking hands and congratulating one another as though they had each caught the fish themselves. It is a magical time of smiles and collaboration.
Pictures were taken of Matt holding the fish, of Matt and Vic holding the fish, then of the entire group standing around Matt with the fish. They even squeezed me into one of their pictures, but they could not persuade Sten to pose. One of his idiosyncrasies was that he did not like to have his picture taken. I used to tease him that it was because his picture was in every post office across Canada and someone might recognize him.
While Sten dressed the fish and put it on ice, I moved us back to our original spot and the whole crew stripped their lines down to thirteen fathoms. The chatter was intense. Alice and Ethan bet Jeff and Jane they would land the next salmon. The wager was for a dinner at a terrific restaurant in Sooke that I’d recommended. The two brothers chose not to join in the bet; they said they already had their fish and they did not like food in “fancy” restaurants.
Over the next hour, we picked up a couple of seven to eight pounders. Both were caught by Matt and Vic, who used their good fortune to poke some fun at the other two couples. Matt even offered to give Alice and Ethan a lesson in fishing and to change rods with Alice. She turned down his kind offer with a good-natured shake of the head.
Time to move, I thought.
I looked over at Sten, who was talking to Jeff. As soon as he saw my look he nodded, called for all lines to be brought in and went up to the helm, where he fired up the engine. This time we motored to one of our quiet spots. We used this location only when we were looking for a slug. It’s a tricky place to fish and requires the engine to be left on to keep the boat in the right place and to prevent it from drifting onto the rocks. When you are properly positioned, you can reach out with your rod and touch the rocky shoreline. We used this difficult spot only when the tides collaborated.
Jane was the first to strip out twenty-five pulls. I watched her count each pull and set the drag before I turned to assist Alice.
“How many pulls did you say?” Jane asked again.
“Twenty-five,” I said without looking back at her.
“You sure?”
I looked back at her. She was in a classic fisherman’s pose. Her right and left hand were holding the rod straight up at ninety degrees. The rod was bowed, the tip nearly bent double, and her right foot was flat on the deck and her left on tiptoe. What made the pose classic was her straight back. For a fraction of a second, I took in the beauty of her stance. With the tension of action captured almost in a freeze frame, it had Greek proportions.
“Lines up,” I called.
I heard the buzz of reels bringing in line, but I was focused on Jane. Her rod remained bowed; the reel was beginning to creak.
“Perfect!” I called to her. “Keep the pressure on but let him run.” I moved as I talked. I checked the drag on her reel and lightened it slightly, which allowed the line to creak out faster. The fish was now directly at our stern and swimming away, about forty feet below the surface. Sten slipped the engine into reverse to move us away from the shoreline and the kelp. The fish was moving with authority, cruising away from the boat and pulling out line as it went.
Sometimes it takes a minute or two for a large salmon to react to being hooked. You’d think that a sharp hook in its mouth would attract its attention immediately. I could almost hear the theme music from Jaws playing in the background. With or without musical accompaniment, this beauty was going to streak out line as soon as it realized it was threatened.
I looked at Jane. She was composed but I could see the shivers going up and down her back and the slight trembling of her legs. She looked great. I knew that our chances of landing this fish were only fifty-fifty. The line was fifteen-pound test and the fish had to be forty pounds.
I glanced up at Sten. He held up four fingers. I nodded.
“This is going to take a while,” I said to Jane, “so pace yourself. If you get tired there’s no harm in asking for a break.” She gave me a withering look that made me smile. “Okay, I want you to relax your shoulders and arms but keep pressure on the fish. Rest the rod butt on your hip if you like.”
“I’m fine, Peter. How big do you think it is?”
“Forty.”
This caused a collective gasp from everyone on deck.
Until then, Jeff had given Jane lots of space, but now he moved beside her. “This is what we came for, honey. I’ve got my money on you.” He kissed her left temple. “I’ll let the skipper do the talking. I’ll be right behind you with the camera.”
There was no time to answer. The fish had decided to shoot out of the bay; line was screaming out and spray was spinning into her face from the reel.
“How
