almost no wind. The crossing was quick because George didn’t have to slow down very often, and we were safely back in our cabin in Sunshine Bay in time for a late breakfast. I had survived another crossing of Queen Charlotte Sound.
We visited Ed and Dottie Searer at the head of the inlet again. Most of the fishing guests that they had with them in the summer were from the Deep South and loved the way Dottie cooked. She fried everything in hot fat and served just about everything with delicious baked beans. Everything she made was delicious. She told us that she packed a lunch for her fishing guests with the leftovers from the previous night’s dinner. If there were baked beans left over … they got baked-bean sandwiches. One guest was moved to tears to be given a wrapped baked-bean sandwich just like his grandmother gave him when he was young.
The Searers’ cat had several wild kittens, and we were hoping to catch one. Dottie went out behind their cabin and threw a box over the head of a tiny grey one. Then she quickly taped the top of the box closed with air holes in the side so the cat could breathe on the way back to our place. When we got home, I opened the box inside the cabin. The kitten was wild all right. It ran along the perimeter of the wall looking like a rat, ran out the door and hid under the cabin for the next two days. I knelt down near the steps with a dish of milk and called, “Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.” The name stuck. I don’t think Tuki liked having a kitten around. I happened to look out the window and saw her walking gingerly across the stiff leg to shore, carrying the kitten in her mouth. I think she wanted to get rid of it. We had to go to shore and poke around under logs and roots to find the kitten before the mink, marten, otters, eagles, cougars or grizzlies found her. Kitty was staying very quiet just like her new mom would want her to, but we finally found her stashed in a little hole in the moss at the bottom of a huge cedar.
I was looking forward to starting work for Fisheries in a few weeks. The sport-fish floats would be tied up at the head of the inlet in the permit area. I knew that I would have more time to explore the area with George since the permit office had hours posted and we would work in shifts. We loved living in the inlet and so in the meantime, we made plans to earn enough money to pay our expenses so we could continue to live in the wilderness.
There were not many jobs available in the area. George had done his share of logging during his university days and was not about to go back to it, and I would never make a good commercial fisherman given my fear of the open sea. That left the sport-fishing industry, which we had experience with—and working for ourselves made sense to us. Why work sixteen-hour days for someone else when we could work eighteen-hour days for ourselves? We would start our own fishing resort.
Lady Pamela
The first thing I heard was “Lady Pamela!” in a loud, anxious British accent. It yanked me out of a deep sleep, and then I heard it again, more strident this time. I had to find out what was going on. It was my turn to sleep in but this could be fun. I leaned over and pulled the curtain back just enough to be able to see to the front of the float where the permit office was. There were several people milling about, including our friend Warren Nygaard, who worked as a fishing guide for the Good Hope Cannery Lodge.
The fellow calling for Lady Pamela was dressed in a very spiffy sporting outfit—with a vest full of pockets with spots for hooking fishing gear to—as well as an ascot and lovely shiny shoes. Very dashing sort, but possibly a little too dramatic. We were on a floating raft about forty by one hundred feet with two small buildings on it. Lady Pamela could not be too far away, and was even less likely to be lost. Indeed, Lady Pamela had walked to one side of the float and was mesmerized by the towering cedar trees that were draped in Spanish moss. She didn’t answer because she didn’t feel like answering. She didn’t feel like answering because she was Lady Pamela.
As I headed out the door of the cabin, I could hear the British fellow sweetly asking Her Ladyship if she would please sign the permit. Warren started to explain that she required the permit in order to fish in the area. Lady Pamela turned away from him mid-sentence as if he wasn’t speaking. Apparently she didn’t think she required a special permit. I thought, now I understand the British class system. When one is part of the upper class, one would no more talk to a working-class person than talk to a cow. This was a new concept to me in reality—it was funny in movies, but not so funny in person. George was quite delighted though, and was able to explain with quite sincere remorse that unfortunately, Lady Pamela would not be able to fish for our monster chinook salmon without signing for a permit.
One of the lodges nearby often sent out several boats carrying guests to fish at the mouth of the inlet. Each boat also had a “guide.” One day, one of the guests hooked into a huge halibut. There is no easy way to pull such a big fish into the boat, and it’s not a good idea to do so anyway. The fish is one huge muscle and can break the seats out of the boat—and possibly fishermen’s legs—if it starts flopping around. We had learned to use a long-handled harpoon to kill the fish, then disconnect the wooden handle from the harpoon head, which is attached to a long rope attached to the boat. This rig works well and you don’t have to try to lift the big fish into the boat; you can tow it home. The commercial fishermen usually shoot the larger fish as it is pulled close to the side of the fishboat. On this day, the guide in the guests’ boat hauled the huge halibut into the little metal skiff, and while the guests were leaping out of the way of the thrashing, the guide shot the halibut as it lay—in the bottom of the boat! Yes, we have had fun telling that story over the years.
Another day, right at dinnertime, a Fisheries officer pulled into the dock and yelled at George to “get in the boat!” George hopped aboard, and they took off at full speed. I got the story later. They pulled up to the dock at the lodge on the other side of the inlet, barely took any time to tie up and raced together up to the kitchen. There, all over the griddle in all their fresh, net-caught glory, were dozens and dozens of pieces of sockeye salmon. The lodge had bought “Indian food fish” to feed their guests. Very much against the rules. The salmon caught by First Nations people on fishboats could not legally be sold to non–First Nations people. The officer wrote the owner a “notice to appear” and had the staff scoop all of the salmon into buckets and carry them to his boat. I still wonder what they fed their guests and crew instead that night?
One afternoon, George watched as a Seabee float plane broke loose from its mooring and started floating toward the shore. Earlier in the day, the fellow who owned it had landed in the bay and quickly dropped his anchor just fifty feet from the shore, unstrapped a little boat from the side of the plane, climbed in with an armload of gear and headed out fishing. There was quite a chop on the water because of the afternoon westerly, and later in the afternoon the airplane dragged its anchor and was quickly heading into the rocks. George grabbed a rope and jumped into our skiff. He carefully pulled up beside the plane and threw the line around a spot that wouldn’t get damaged when he towed it away from imminent disaster. He slowly pulled the plane over toward our floats, and I helped get it to a place along the front of the dock where the wings wouldn’t bang into either of the buildings. A Seabee plane’s propeller is situated behind the aircraft’s cabin so we didn’t have to worry about the propeller getting damaged. George secured the plane to the float, and we waited with anticipation for the owner to return. “What would the reward be?” we wondered. Many hours later the fellow finally returned and climbed onto our dock to retrieve his airplane and to thank George. He said, “I want to give you a little something for rescuing my airplane.” He pulled his wallet out and thumbed past hundred-dollar bills, then past fifty-dollar bills, past the twenties and the tens. Then he picked out a five-dollar bill and two one-dollar bills. Seven dollars for saving his airplane that was worth well over $100,000. He really did mean “a little something.” George almost handed the money back.
