Burrard Inlet

by Tyler Keevil

He didn’t answer. His line jerked once and he had another. I stopped jigging and let my own rod go limp to watch him reel in. The fish came out, trembling and flicking its tail, and Dale waited for it to settle. This one was smaller, but its fin was already stapled, too.

  ‘Got me another gobbler,’ Dale said.

  I tried to make some joke about these fish being really loco, but Dale wasn’t having any of it. He didn’t say much after that first big one came back, and even less after it came back a second time. There must have only been about twenty fish out there, all taking turns to chomp down on our lures. We stapled a dozen of them twice, and then a few others three or four times. Most of all we stapled the big one – the one Dale called Dimwit. With Dimwit we had to stop using the stapler after seven times, because there was no more room on his fin.

  Dale always put the staple in. He wanted to. He said he liked it. I was the opposite, but I didn’t say anything as I held the fish for him. I just cupped them cold and slick in my hands and wondered what they wanted, these fish that kept coming back for more.

  ‘I know – these fish ain’t so dumb, after all. They’re pretty smart, right Dale? I mean, they know we throw them back, so they figure it’s okay to keep on being caught since they get a bit of bacon for all the trouble. Man, these fish ain’t loco. They’re real savvy, right?’

  Dale wasn’t listening. He was crouched down, fiddling with his hook. The sun had slid behind the mountains, and the waves had settled, and the inlet had gone all dark and lonesome and still. Most of the fish had stopped biting. That wasn’t why I’d given up casting awhile back, though. I’d caught so many bullies I’d had a bellyful by then. I was beginning to feel as if I was the one who’d eaten all that bait, not them.

  ‘Gonna try it without any bacon,’ Dale said.

  It took me a second to figure out what he meant.

  ‘That won’t work,’ I said. ‘Even a bullhead isn’t as stupid as that.’

  Dale just shrugged. I started packing up our stuff. I put the lures in the tackle box, flipped shut the lid, and snapped the clasps in place. Then I squatted down on it and waited with my rod lying limp across my lap. Dale lifted his own rod high, stiff and straight, before whipping it forward. Line whizzed from the reel, and the hook traced a long, loping arc that disappeared into the murk. A second later the splunk of the weight on water came back to us.

  ‘I want to go, Dale. They’re not biting any more.’

  ‘He’ll bite.’

  We waited. All the crows had gone quiet. A breeze rustled the sycamores and stirred the surface of the water. In the distance you could hear a siren whining, but that was the only sign of the city. We peered into the water and the dark. You couldn’t tell which was which by then, since they seemed to blend together out there. Dale’s lips were half-parted and he was breathing through his mouth. Every time he inhaled there was this sucking noise, eager and hungry, like somebody sipping hot soup. That happens sometimes, when Dale gets excited, on account of the asthma he had as a kid.

  ‘No fish is gonna bite a bare hook,’ I said. It didn’t make any sense. I mean, you snag them sometimes – in a gill or under a fin – but that’s different. ‘Even if they got no memory, and can’t remember, why in the hell would they bite a hook without any bait?’

  ‘Maybe they do remember. Maybe it ain’t the bait they like.’

  I had a think about that. I was hugging myself, even though it wasn’t really cold.

  ‘Course it’s the bait. It has to be the bait.’

  Then Dale grunted, in the way we did when we’d got a bite, but this time it was different. It was closer to a groan – as if he’d tasted something sweet, or seen a pretty girl.

  He began reeling in. The tip of his rod bent low towards the water, but there was no tugging or fight in the line. I figured it was just a snag. Something that big had to be a snag, or else it wouldn’t have been so willing. Then the white shape rose up from the depths like a torpedo and breached the surface.

  ‘It’s him,’ Dale said. ‘It’s Dimwit.’

  Dale hoisted him up, and held the line steady as he stroked the belly-flesh with his forefinger. He cooed at it like a lover. The fish blinked and puckered its mouth repeatedly, sucking at the air. Between its soft, rubbery lips, I could see the gleaming barb of the hook.

  Carving Through Woods on a Snowy Evening

  ‘Imagine that. You’re up the mountain, having a blast, and then – bam.’

  ‘I know. It doesn’t seem real.’

  The exchange was greeted by nods and murmurs of solemn agreement. Half a dozen of them sat around the basement, nursing cocktails, nibbling on rum balls, and gnawing over the same subject matter. Some of them were Mark’s friends; others he’d only met in passing.

  ‘I don’t even like to think about it,’ the girl to his left said. She’d told him her name but he’d forgotten it. Crossing her legs, she took several seconds to adjust her dress, which was sleek and black and hugged her knees, and they all watched her doing this. ‘I mean, it’s the kind of freak accident we always assume could never happen to somebody we know.’

  She glanced at Mark for confirmation, and he took a sip of his rum.

  ‘Tell me the whole story,’ Rob said. He’d had a few highballs, and since it was his party he was talking with a certain authority. He leaned forward and rested one hand on his knee, looking around the circle. ‘Does anybody know exactly what happened to this guy?’

  Everybody did, apparently. Or they claimed to.

  ‘It was some kid called Damian, from Windsor.’

  ‘Half the mountain just fell away.’

  ‘Harsh.’

  ‘I heard he was sponsored, or semi-pro, or something.’

  ‘Did you know him, Mark?’ Rob asked.

  ‘I’d met him a couple of times, up the mountain.’

  There was a respectful silence. They were all looking at him, now, as if expecting him to elaborate, so Mark said, ‘He rode for Endeavour, I think. He was good. A decent guy.’ He stopped, made a circular gesture with his glass, slinging the ice around the base. ‘But what you gonna do, right? When your number’s up, it’s up.’

  The girl in the dress made an affirmative sound. Somebody mentioned their friend from school, who’d died in a car crash up Indian River Road, and they started talking about that. Mark didn’t listen; he was thinking about what he had just said, and how stupid it had sounded: when your number’s up, it’s up. He tossed back the rest of his drink and excused himself, saying that he was going to get a top-up. Nobody paid him much attention; his exit didn’t even disrupt the flow of conversation. He could still hear them as he headed upstairs.

  ‘Did your grade ever see that drinking and driving slideshow?’

  ‘Yeah – the one with all the photos of crash sites and bodies.’

  ‘That was sick!’

  ‘This one guy was even decapitated.’

  The voices faded as he entered the kitchen.

  *

  The fridge was loaded with cases of beer and twixers of hardbar. He stood in front of it and held the door open, letting the chilly air wash over him, feeling numb. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking when he was on call, but he needed another; he dumped some rum in his glass, added a splash of orange juice, and wandered around the main floor, looking for different people, different conversations. In the hall two guys were leaning against the wall, shrouded in a cloud of haze, smoking a bowl. One of them he didn’t know. The other was Brian, who worked as a liftee and dealt a bit of weed and had been a half-decent skier at one time.

  They were talking about it, too.

  ‘You heard about Damian, eh?’ Brian asked him.

  Mark nodded. ‘Shitty luck.’

  The other guy said, ‘Fuck luck. He shouldn’t have been riding up there.’

  ‘Mark’s ridden up there.’

 
Mark said, ‘A lot of people ride that valley.’

  Brian held the pipe out to him. ‘Hit this, man. We’re burning one for Dee.’

  Mark took a few token hoots, not really inhaling, faking it a little. When he handed it back, Brian sucked on it anxiously. He thumped his chest with a fist, fighting a coughing fit.

  ‘He was a fucking bro, man. You know?’

  Mark agreed and listened to them talk about it awhile longer – saying the same kinds of things that were being said downstairs, but in a different way. When he got the chance, he asked them if they knew where he could find some grub, and Brian told him to try the living room. He went that way, assuring them he’d come back later to burn another one.

  The living room was empty. Christmas lights lined the window, flashing on and off like a department store display, and in the far corner a plastic tree stood planted on a metal stand. Atop the tree was an angel with a gold halo and rice-paper wings. She was tilted too far forward, and seemed to be leering down at him, looking slightly drunk or deranged. Next to the tree, laid out on the sideboard, were various snacks: bags of cheese puffs and pretzels, a plate of Nanaimo bars, a carton of eggnog. Somebody had also assembled a nativity scene made up of chocolate figurines. The manger was in disarray: baby Jesus overturned, Mary lying on her side, animals all over the place. Mark picked up one of the three wise men and bit off his head. The chocolate tasted dry and bland as plaster. He put the figure back and stood gazing out the bay window that overlooked Rob’s yard. A few inches of crusted snow covered the ground. The sun was still up, but its light was watery and yellow, fading. The evening sky remained clear, just as the forecast had predicted. He pressed his palm to the glass, feeling the cold through it. The conditions would be perfect up the mountain tonight.

  He heard footsteps and looked back. The girl in the black dress came into the room; when she saw him she changed directions, veering towards him. She was tall and wearing heels and walking slightly off-kilter, like a horse that had been tranquilized but was still stumbling around. She came and stood too close to him, so that he had to look up at her.

  ‘Rob wondered where you’d gone,’ she said.

  ‘Just needed a drink.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’ Something about her expression – the leering smile, the look of drunken concern – reminded him of the tree-top angel. ‘It must be even harder for you, since you knew him.’

  ‘Only in passing.’

  ‘But you’re a snowboarder, too, right?’

  ‘I’ve been in a few competitions.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. It’s that much more real for you.’ She lowered her voice, as if confiding something. ‘You know what’s weird? My friend was supposed to go up with him that day but he got sick. Isn’t that creepy? It reminds me of La Bamba – when they do that coin toss to see who’ll ride in the plane, and then it crashes. Have you seen that movie?’

  He said that he had. He liked it, too.

  She said, ‘Lou Diamond Phillips was the best.’

  ‘The Eighties was the best.’

  ‘Young Guns, anyone?’

  She kept talking about that, as they drank. The rum was warming him, but he found it hard to hear what she was actually saying. That happened to him, sometimes. It was as if the words didn’t register. They were just consonant and vowel sounds. Like listening to another language. He was looking at her, and nodding, but what he was seeing was the view through the window behind her: the snow smothering the lawn, the hedges, the boulevard opposite.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Just tired.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ She sighed and took a swig of her cocktail. ‘This kind of thing just takes it out of you. It seems wrong, somehow, to be having a party after somebody’s died.’

  Down the hall, one of the stoners laughed and said, ‘Totally, man. Totally.’

  In the back pocket of his jeans, Mark’s pager started vibrating. He slipped it out and checked the display: it showed 888, the code for a search. Apparently they’d gotten some action. The girl leaned forward, peering incredulously at the device in his hand.

  ‘Is that a pager?’ she said. ‘Oh my God. I haven’t seen a pager in years.’

  He told her that it was, and that he had to make a phone call. He ducked into the front hall and used his cell to call in. It rang a few times, and clicked.

  ‘Mark? Hello? Are you hearing this?’

  The line was faint and crackling – at the edge of reception – but he could tell it was Minette, their team leader: she spoke in slightly broken English, with a Québécois accent.

  ‘What’s up, Min?’

  ‘Where are you, superstar?’

  ‘Christmas party.’

  ‘You are not drinking?’

  He looked at the glass in his hand. It was half-full. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Good. I am so sorry, Mark. But we’ve got one up on Seymour. This snowboarder – he has gone missing. We think he was riding out of bounds. He was meant to be back for Christmas dinner, and his family, they are totally freaking out.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘We’ll get a big ground crew together for a night operation. But I want to sweep the slopes with the helicopter, first – and drop a few people in the back country. You up for it?’

  ‘For sure.’

  ‘Wicked. Jamie’s coming too. But we do not have long until civil. You must hurry.’

  They weren’t allowed to fly past civil twilight, which occurred about half an hour after the sun went down. Beyond that, all rescues were supposed to be ground based. He checked his watch: it was coming up on five. He said, ‘I can be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘You are that close?’

  ‘I’m right in the Cove.’

  ‘Perfect. We will pick you up in the upper parking lot.’

  After ending the call, he ducked into the front bedroom to get his jacket. He didn’t go back downstairs to say goodbye to Rob, or anybody else. He didn’t have time, and doubted they’d notice his absence anyway. On his way out, he glanced down the hall. The girl in the black dress had joined Brian and his friend. In the haze of smoke they looked like a mirage.

  ‘You knew him, too?’ she was saying to Brian.

  ‘We used to ride together. We were pretty tight.’

  ‘Oh my God. What was he like?’

  ‘He was golden. A cool fucking guy.’

  ‘His poor parents.’

  They hadn’t noticed him. Mark slipped out and eased the door shut behind him.

  He had all his gear in his Jeep, so he was able to go straight to Seymour from the party. It only took a few minutes to reach the base of the mountain. The woman working the gate recognised him, and waved him through without any questions. Only rescue crew would be allowed up. The resort shut at four on Christmas Eve. Whoever they were looking for would have been riding during the day, and must have stayed on after the lifts closed down.

  The radio in his Jeep was broken and he drove in silence, with his board wedged sideways between the front seats. Pine and Fir trees formed walls on either side of the road. The asphalt had been ploughed that afternoon, and salt kicked up by his tires rattled and spat off the undercarriage. On the shoulder jagged snow banks – stained brown by dirt and grit – rose and fell like miniature mountain ranges. He opened his window to let in a blast of alpine air, which tasted crisp and sharp and painfully cold. He suspected that it was going to snow, regardless of what the forecasts had indicated, and if it did they’d lose any chance of finding tracks. There was also the fading light, and the fact that they didn’t know where to look. Each of those things would make their job more difficult, but of course that was part of it. Already he felt the prickle of anticipation on his forearms, his neck – like static electricity. It was the same feeling he got while waiting in the starting gates,
before a boardercross race.

  As he considered that he thought he glimpsed something moving out the window to his right, but it was only the reflection of his snowboard. He was sponsored by Osiris and the design on the tail of the board depicted an Egyptian figure: a man standing in profile, holding a flail and a crook, with feathers arching on either side of him. In the window-glass, the man’s image seemed to be floating past the tree trunks and branches, keeping pace with the Jeep.

  Mark stepped on the clutch and downshifted.

  The parking lot – normally so crowded by day – was empty except for a small cluster of cars, all coated with frost. At the far end crouched the Talon rescue helicopter, its rotor blurred like the blades of a fan. Mark pulled up about twenty yards away. When he opened the door he felt the wind whipped up by the blades, and shivered at the surge of cold. While he sorted his gear Minette hurried over from the helicopter to meet him. She had a stocky build and long arms and walked with a gangling gait, like an orangutan. She gripped his bicep in greeting and thanked him again for coming. As he pulled on his gear – helmet, gloves, jacket and goggles – she explained a little about what was going on. The majority of the crew was assembling at the search and rescue hut in preparation for the larger ground operation. But before they lost the light, and the helicopter, she wanted to drop him and Jamie off higher up the mountain, in the hope that they could find some sign of where the missing rider might have gone.

  ‘It’ll mean rappelling,’ she said, raising her voice to be heard.

  ‘Safer than the long-line, in the dark.’

  They approached the chopper together and Minette climbed up front with the pilot. Mark slid his board in first, through the open side door, and clambered over the landing skid into the back. The helicopter was already rigged for the rappel, and Jamie was already there, slouching in one of the seats that faced the tail. He was a muscular guy, part Hispanic, with a day’s growth of stubble on his chin. He looked at Mark and yawned languidly, like a bear that had been prodded out of hibernation.