I didn’t want to get into a discussion about an eighteen-pound salmon being small. Instead I said, “How about if we run the same routine we did with the last one? I’ll pick the rod out of the holder and strike the fish. If I think it’s over ten pounds, I’ll hand it to Chuck, and if I think it’s under ten, I’ll hand it to Jeannie. Does that sound okay?”
Some mumbling and murmuring ensued as they all looked at one another and tried to decide what to say. Finally, Jake agreed with a nod of his head. “Okay, let’s do it that way.”
I glanced up at Sten but he was staring ahead, so I made my way up the companionway to the helm and had a look at the paper sounder. There was lots of feed and we were on the edge of a large haystack that started at around two fathoms and went down to six. Six feet to a fathom meant thirty-six feet to the bottom of the haystack. Salmon usually lurk just below the feed.
“I’m going to drop the starboard line down to sixty feet,” I said.
“Good idea.” He kept his eyes focused ahead.
“Anything up front?”
“Kelp.”
“Much?”
“Enough.”
“Let me know if it’s going to be a problem.”
“No problem yet.”
I went to the stern of the boat and checked the tension on the reels. It is important to have the drag set tight enough to set the hook when the fish strikes, but not so tight that the fish cannot run. A light breeze was blowing and I could smell the herring and the kelp in the air. When the ocean has an abundance of feed, the air around you starts to smell of fish oil. While it is not a strong smell, there’s nothing better to make a fisherman feel optimistic. Kelp, with its smell of iodine, is always welcome.
Sten was moving the boat forward slowly on a zigzag course, partly to avoid the islands of kelp floating toward us on the flood tide, and partly to alter the movement of the bait and flashers at the end of the downriggers. When kelp is around it’s important to check your lines frequently to be sure you are not trailing some of it from your lure.
For the next while I worked the lines. The whirl of the downriggers became commonplace to the guests, who had spread throughout the boat and no longer stood around as I brought up the lines to inspect the bait.
As noon approached, Jake and his friends busied themselves unpacking their hampers of food and setting it out on the table in the galley. The smell of the food imposed itself on the fresh sea air, so I kept my distance and stayed as close to the stern as I could. Something about some picnic foods and the aroma of damp, limp sandwiches can turn my stomach, especially if tomatoes are involved. Sten, on the other hand, kept peering expectantly down the companionway into the galley like a wolf in search of a carcass.
The sounder was still showing dense feed so I altered the depth of the lines a few times to see whether that would draw a strike. It didn’t. I decided to change the bait from the fresh herring we were using to a Tomic plug—but only on the portside downrigger. I had a favourite beaten-up plug that often produced a fish when little else was working. I brought up the downrigger and swung the weight into the cleaning trough before unsnapping the flasher with the bait attached to it, then replaced it with my plug using an eighteen-inch leader. After lowering the weight back into the water, I watched the action of the plug for a few minutes, trying to understand why this plug worked so well. I had no idea—it seemed like all the other plugs I had in my tackle drawer. I put the line down to forty-eight feet. I wanted these people to go home with memories of catching a slug—a really big fish, the kind you might lie about—off the West Coast of Canada.
We fished through the flood tide and into the slack. The activity was good, with the bell on the downrigger continually ringing and giving everyone a chance to play a fish. By the time the tide began to turn we had five salmon on ice. We had lost as many.
Chuck and Jeannie caught a brace of salmon between them. Sten and I had both been wrong. Despite her delicate, polished appearance and her initial trepidation, Jeannie surprised me by playing her fish with easy skill, which made me realize there was depth to this young bride. She also had a sense of humour. While they didn’t break world records, they had some good fish that had fought with courage. Just before the tide started to run I suggested we pull up all our lines, find a quiet spot and finish our lunch. Everyone agreed, so Sten cruised us to a serene eddy we often used, cut the engine and came down to the galley to plough down some food. I was surprised to see him mingle with the guests since he had been adamant about remaining apart from them, but I kept my thoughts to myself. I’d remind him later that I’d won our bet.
At the stern of the boat I kept an eye on our drift; although we were in a back eddy, the tide was changing and currents could shift abruptly. This is perfect, I thought. There was just a slight breeze, the sky was a crackling blue, the Olympic Range was crystal clear from twenty-two miles away and the rumble of the changing tide was just beginning to build.
And I have a nice bunch of people. These are the good old days.
At the start of the day, I had been concerned Chuck was going to be a loudmouth who ruined the fishing for everyone; instead he’d turned out to be a thoughtful fellow with a fine sense of humour. Of course, he couldn’t let an occasion go by without pulling our legs about how much bigger and better everything was in his home state of Texas. I’d guessed him to be a rancher, but during one of our conversations he told me he owned a string of fast-food franchises—over thirty of them, Jake later told me. I did the math and realized that Chuck was in a financial comfort zone enjoyed by very few. To his credit he had done it all on his own, starting with one franchise he could barely afford to purchase and sleeping and eating in the back room. Here he was, nearly twenty years later, living the good life. How can you complain about one man’s well-earned success?
“What are you thinking, Skipper?” Chuck had come up behind me.
“I was thinking it’s about time we caught you a real Canadian salmon.”
“I don’t think you’ve got any real fish up here. If you ever come down to Texas, give me a call and I’ll take you out to catch some real fish.” There was humour in his voice and laughter in his eyes. He looked around and took a deep breath. “But it sure smells good up here, and it’s sure pretty.”
We stood quietly, soaking in the scenery and feeling the boat gently shift in the current. Without warning, an orca breached twenty feet from the stern of the boat. Behind it, a second orca propelled its glistening black and white body into the air, landing its massive nine-ton hulk on its side and seriously rocking the boat.
Chuck was thrown back, and as he braced himself against the bulkhead, I saw real fear in his eyes. “What the hell is that?” he yelled.
Without hesitating, I shouted back, “Canadian salmon!”
chapter 2
A Man of Grace
The first time Cliff fished with us, he was in a mixed group of guests aboard our newly refurbished Kalua. His sister, Alison, had made the booking based on a glowing recommendation from her friends. When she called, the only questions she asked were the time of departure and whether her brother should pack a lunch to bring with him.
Subsequently, for four consecutive years, Cliff booked at least one charter with us each summer. During
