at him when the boat was in position, unwrapped the rest of the stern line from the bollard and stepped onto the stern deck with the line in my hand. We smiled at each other. The slack wind had helped us to execute a flawless cast-off, but no one would notice except us.
During the next half hour I made sure everyone had their licences and that they were properly completed. I also went through the routine of demonstrating how to flush the toilet in the head—the W.C. Although I’d made many upgrades to the boat, the toilet was still operated manually with instructions attached to the back of the head door. At least twice a week one of our guests would emerge from the head with a bewildered look and ask for help with flushing. It was simple: use the toilet, lower the lid, put your right foot on the only pedal available and work the lever back and forth to pump the bowl clean. Easy, but more complicated than pushing a handle, and baffling to many members of the general public.
While I checked fishing licences, poured cups of coffee and pulled hot Danishes from the oven, Sten took us at planing speed to our first fishing spot. As we approached, he throttled the engine back slowly, and the boat settled from its plane into the water. Sten turned on the paper sounder—also known as a depth sounder or echo sounder—and I heard the click, click, click of the stylus scoring the thermal paper. In five minutes Sten would call out that we were ready to begin fishing. Before going to the stern deck to set up the fishing gear, I’d have a quick look at the paper sounder, which would show us the baitfish; this in turn would give me an idea of the depth at which to start fishing. Sounders were originally developed to show depth; revealing the presence of fish turned out to be a bonus. The downriggers were already in place and the lead weights ready to be mounted onto their stainless steel cables.
The routine of setting out the fishing gear always attracted a crowd on our spacious stern deck. First I set up the downriggers, then the rods with the lures at the end of their lines. On this day I wanted a slow roll to our bait, meaning the lure imitates a wounded spiralling herring. Sten throttled back as I lowered the gear to fishing depth. And just like that, we were in business.
With everything set and in place, I turned back to the group of fishermen and explained that when a salmon took the bait, the bell on the arm of the downrigger would ring and the fish’s strike would release the line from the downrigger. I would pick up the rod and crank in the slack line until I felt contact with the salmon on the end, then hand the rod to the first designated fisherman.
“Have you decided who’s going to take the first strike?” The group of eyes was staring at me intently, but I directed my question to Jake.
“I think that should be Chuck,” he said tapping the tall Texan on the arm. Not a surprising choice, I thought.
“Aw, come on, Al, you take the first strike. You’re local—show us how to lose a fish.”
Al? Jake? Okay, whatever. I laughed along with everyone else. “Show them how it’s done, Jake,” I said. “You’re not going to let some Texas greenhorn jerk your chain, are you?”
As I spoke Sten’s hand shot up; simultaneously the portside downrigger bell gave a single ring. Out of habit I snatched the rod out of its holder, cranking furiously on the handle until I felt the heavy weight of the fish at the other end. Sten had put the engine into neutral and come down to help me. I held the rod tip up and tightened the drag slightly. I could feel the fish thrashing at the end of the line but not running.
Sten raised both downriggers and unclipped the weights. “Any size?” he asked.
“Under twenty pounds, over fifteen.”
“You going to hand it off?”
“Uh-huh.” I knew what he meant with his question. We would have a better chance of landing the fish if I played it. Returning to port with a fish on ice is important for the overall experience. Still, I knew Jake and Chuck would be eager. I called over my shoulder, “So who’s it going to be?”
Jake was standing beside me, trying to say something. I grabbed his right arm and placed the rod firmly into his grip. “You play it,” I said. “It’s a good fish.”
As I handed him the rod, the fish took its first run. When a fish “sounds,” it is heading for the bottom of the ocean. This salmon didn’t sound—it didn’t head for deep water—but screamed to the surface in a headlong rush for the horizon, trailing line behind it.
“How much line do you have on this thing?” Jake asked under his breath. I could tell his adrenalin was pumping by the quiver in his voice and his jerky movements.
“Enough. Keep your rod tip up and keep pressure on the fish.”
His rod tip came up twenty degrees and he stopped reeling as the fish peeled out line, pulling against the drag on the reel.
“Watch out,” I said. “It’s going to stop and thrash, so keep pressure on it.” Before Jake could follow my instructions, the salmon sounded then came streaming back at the boat.
“Reel!” I shouted. “Come on, reel faster or it’ll throw the hook. If that happens, I’ll throw you overboard.” My joke didn’t go over too well. Jake was quivering and barely able to turn the reel handle in a circle. We called these fishermen square shooters because they turned the handle in a jerky manner instead of a smooth circular movement.
“Faster,” I said in his ear. “Come on, catch up to him.”
He was reeling frantically now, picking up the loose line. At the moment he caught up to the fish, his rod doubled over and was nearly yanked out of his hands. The entire length of the rod was jerked up and down forcefully as the salmon thrashed underwater in a desperate battle to save its life. The reel again began to creak out some line.
“Drop your rod tip and reel as you do, pull up slowly, then drop your rod tip and repeat the action. It’s a pumping action,” I told him.
For the next fifteen minutes, the salmon fought for its life while Jake struggled to bring it alongside. Each time the fish saw the boat it screamed out line, which had to be retrieved with some effort. Each time it took a run it was shorter; exhaustion was setting in and no amount of courageous instinct could match the sophisticated reel and line we were using.
The smooth, stainless steel ball bearings in the reel rotated flawlessly as the monofilament line stretched instead of snapping and the rod acted as a shock absorber, reducing the thrashing of the salmon to manageable bounces at the end of the rod. A brief but courageous final run and the salmon turned on its side. I netted it and swung it onto the deck. It was gasping, its gill flaps working to extract oxygen from the air.
The boat erupted in cheers and Chuck gave a loud “Yee-ha!” Looking at the salmon, I knew that even if I could persuade the fishermen to return this beautiful, rainbow-silver fish to the ocean, it would die. The effort of the struggle and the shock of being caught were too much.
I reached for the Priest and banged the fish on the head. “Go home now,” I said softly—a ritual that was an act of respect for the life we had just taken. A “priest” is a small club used for ending a fish’s life. They are sold in stores but I made mine. The name comes from the idea of administering last rites to the fish, or perhaps from stories of priests beating the tar out of young boys who were the unfortunate targets of their disciplinary measures. I still have the Priest from my charter boat.
Jake was quivering.
I shook his hand, saying, “You played that well.”
“No,”
