fishing legend. I write this with a smile because I know if he were to read these words, he would punch me in the shoulder. One of his charms was that he never took himself seriously. However, he was the consummate example of how, in life, it is important to be in the right place at the right time with the right set of skills. From our point of view, he was our man.
On his first charter, Cliff—Dr. Cliff McGee—was booked with three other people. In the group was a single fellow called Rae who was togged out in camouflage pants and shirt. He had no interest in fishing; his interest was photography. During the charter Rae spent a great deal of time at the bow of the boat with his cameras and bag, taking pictures of anything that stirred him. With his own Thermos of tea and a packet of sandwiches, he was quite content to enjoy the ride. At the end of the charter he left a fat tip for Sten and thanked us both vociferously for a marvellous experience. I never saw him again, but later that year I received a large brown envelope containing an article he had written for a national magazine that included some of the pictures he had taken while he was out with us.
The two other guests on this charter were US naval officers from a war vessel moored in Esquimalt. They introduced themselves as Ricardo and Jensen. While Rae, our photographer, and Cliff, our doctor, wore idiosyncratic clothing, these two looked as though they had picked their clothes out of someone else’s locker. There was not a hint of navy apparel in their selection. They both wore jackets and shirts better suited for portly men and pants turned up at the cuff. They explained that their shipmates had hidden their clothes as a practical joke and what they were wearing had been scrounged from more sympathetic colleagues. They certainly added an interesting element to the group.
On our way out to Race Rocks, a marine ecological reserve in the Juan de Fuca Strait, I asked everyone how they would like to fish. To a man they wanted to troll, so I told them how we rotated strikes and asked them to work out who was to be first up. We would run two lines. The tide change would happen in about an hour and a half, but I expected to land some fish before then. It was a lovely cruise out to the rocks with such an animated, optimistic group.
We saw an osprey returning to its nest carrying a grilse in its talons, and the Steller sea lions were on full display lounging on the rocks surrounding the lighthouse at Race Rocks. But they stank—there was no polite word for it. The reek of their digested fish diet was so strong it made your eyes water. In the summer months, under the right wind conditions, the smell could force you to leave the area. On this particular day, the sky was overcast with a threat of showers. Fortunately the wind was not blowing in our direction, so the smell was negligible. I had spent some time in Vietnam, and the smell reminded me of a sauce they make in that gorgeous country with anchovies and salt. In North America it is sold as fish sauce; in Vietnam it is called nuoc man.
We cruised through Race Passage up to Church Rock, where Sten turned us around to face the ebbing tide and I set the lines. Ricardo, the youngest of the naval officers, had drawn first strike so I ran him through the strike procedure. Within twenty minutes we had our first hit and our first fish in the boat. It was a beautiful eight-pound coho, sparkling clean, free of sea lice. While pictures were being taken, I reset the lines and changed places with Sten.
He kept the lines at the same depth. Within ten minutes we had another fish on. Cliff was supposed to take the second strike, but he insisted Jensen take it. It turned out to be another splendid coho about the same weight as the first. In the fish trough they looked like twins; they were obviously from the same run. While Sten dressed the fish and stowed them in the ice chest, I cruised back to Church Rock and turned us back into the ebbing tide. The paper sounder showed vast layers of baitfish going down ten fathoms.
The squawking of seagulls, diving on the surface into shoals of baitfish, obscured all other sounds. At the helm I could barely hear the click, click, click of the paper sounder. I moved us farther out so we could fish the edges of the bait and avoid some of the messy debris the feeding gulls were dropping.
Before Sten lowered the lines of the downriggers, I had him change the heavy trolling rods for spinning gear with single-action reels holding fifteen-pound test line. The mood on the boat was lighthearted; it was a joy to be in a group of men who loved the scenery, the camaraderie and the fishing. Cliff and the officers were exchanging life stories and showing pictures of their wives and children. They found common ground in places they had lived and even thought they might have friends in common. Cliff kept refusing to take a strike, insisting the young naval officers have the fun. There was so much laughter at the stern of the boat that Rae joined them for a while and took pictures of the fishing activity. He didn’t say much, just kept repeating, “This is great, this is just great,” as he took a series of pictures with the sophisticated collection of cameras hanging from his neck.
Almost on schedule, the ebbing tide went slack. I made a long, slow loop and headed straight toward Church Rock. Twenty feet before we would have run aground, I spun the wheel hard to starboard. The effect was to drop the trolling gear into a hot spot right in front of Church Rock. Sometimes this manoeuvre produces a twenty pounder. But not on this occasion, so while we kept trolling toward Race Passage, Sten and I changed places. Between the two naval officers we had five fish on ice. I thought it was time we brought in a slug, something Cliff could show off to his sister.
I brought up the portside rod and attached a five-inch silver and bronze spoon to the line before lowering it to forty-five feet. This particular spoon revolved and jerked from side to side, imitating a wounded herring in escape mode. Sten, watching me intently, knew exactly what I was doing. Slowly he altered our course so we would pass directly over a sweet spot just before we entered Race Passage. As we approached the spot, I watched Sten and he watched the paper sounder. Still watching the sounder, he raised his right arm. I lowered the downrigger, with the spoon attached to it, down to sixty-four feet.
Given our speed, the tide conditions and the drag on the downrigger cable, I hoped I had placed the spoon directly into a deep channel. When Sten’s arm came down I raised the downrigger, which brought up the spoon. Before I could look away from the gauge on the downrigger, the bell rang. I jerked the rod out of its holder and reeled furiously to catch up to the fish. At the same time, Sten threw the boat into neutral and was at my side cranking in the second downrigger.
“Any size?”
I didn’t answer—I was concentrating on reeling as quickly as I could. The fish had taken the spoon and was racing for the surface. Before I could make contact it breached cleanly out of the ocean, snapping its head back and forth, trying to throw the lure. Then it sounded, and that was when I caught up to it. The speed with which the line was running out let us know it was a fish with authority.
I turned to find Cliff standing beside me. “You ready?” I asked.
He held out his right hand and I placed the rod into his grip. The line was peeling out, throwing a light spray.
“You’ve got fresh fifteen-pound test,” I said. “The drag control is in the middle of the spool.”
“I’ve got a reel just like it, only for fresh water.”
“Great. Just keep your rod tip up and keep pressure on the fish.”
While the fish continued to run, Sten unclipped the weights from the downriggers and put them in their box, then removed the downriggers and the rod holders from their brackets. The deck was clear. Cliff had lots of elbow room. This, we knew, was what we had come for.
Each time I stuck into a nice fish and handed off the rod, I had mixed feelings. While I knew I was running a business and customers were paying for the fishing experience, it was hard to hand off a rod with a strong salmon at the other end when the person taking the rod clearly had no clue about how to play it. Watching Cliff was different. I could see he was experienced and skilled simply by the way he anticipated the
