Burrard Inlet

by Tyler Keevil

  ‘Got to be – it’s too big for anything else. Maybe a sockeye?’

  ‘It’s so red.’

  ‘I think that happens, when they spawn. They go red and swim upstream.’

  ‘It’s nearly spring, I guess.’

  ‘Unreal,’ Jake said, shaking his head.

  We were both covered in water and blood and scales that glistened against our skin like sequins. Jake had cuts all over his hands and forearms, from clutching at the fins, and being lashed by the tail as it whipped back and forth. He went over and squatted by the pool to rinse his wounds, wincing from the pain or the cold, or both. It was starting to rain again. I tilted my face up into the hot drizzle. Overhead, pine trees leaned at strange angles against the sky. My skull ached. When I closed my eyes, white spots floated like cottonwood seeds across my vision. I was getting some feeling back, now, and I couldn’t stop shivering.

  I heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel, and looked up. Jake was standing over me. He had our camera in his hand. It was covered in mud and dripping water. A jagged crack zigzagged like a lightning bolt across the lens.

  ‘Well, this is fucked,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Maybe we can salvage the footage.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He shrugged and dropped it at my feet. ‘Either way it was worth it.’

  ‘Otis would never believe this.’

  ‘I don’t even believe it.’

  He crouched down, placing one hand across the salmon’s belly, as if checking to make sure it was solid, and real. Then he seemed to notice something. He scooped it up in both hands and studied the pale underbelly. The flesh was torn and bloody where my spear had come out. He poked a finger in there, pulling back a flap of skin.

  ‘Check this out,’ he said.

  He brought the fish over and held it before me, upside down, like an offering. By bending the back, he exposed the wound and innards. Among the guts I could see all these tiny orange globs, hundreds of them, shining like miniature baubles. Each one had a black dot in the centre, barely the size of a pin-prick.

  ‘Harsh, eh?’ Jake said.

  ‘Must have ruptured the egg sac.’

  My teeth chattered as I said it. The trembling had shifted into shudders that coursed through my whole body. I couldn’t stop them. They shook me in violent waves, as if I was having seizures.

  Jake noticed. ‘You okay, bro?’

  ‘So cold, still.’

  ‘Just sit tight and finish that brew and I’ll pack up our junk.’

  He traded me his jacket for my wet towel, and put the can of Old Stock in my hand. I could barely hold it – my fist felt stiff as stone – but I sat and sipped stupidly while Jake moved around me. The beer tasted warm and good, and I liked the fizzing sensation of the bubbles in my brain. A few minutes later he had everything ready and helped me to my feet.

  On the hike back, Jake carried more of the load. I felt better once we were moving. It warmed me up a bit. I still couldn’t feel my fingers or toes – not until we got back to the van. By then we were both soaked again from the rain, and once we climbed inside, the windows steamed up immediately from all that moisture. We cranked the heat, waiting for the defrost to kick in. Jake dropped the salmon on the floor between us; it was wrapped up in that same plastic bag we’d been given for the trout.

  ‘What are we gonna do with it?’ Jake asked.

  We looked at it. Neither of us said anything. Not then.

  I wasn’t ready to drive so Jake did. I sat with my palms cupped in front of the vent, warming them as if before a fire. The rain was really coming down now, sloshing over the windshield and windows like water in a carwash. The sound of it drumming the roof and the pendulum movement of the wipers was calming, hypnotic.

  When we came to the bend where it had happened, I asked Jake to pull over. I thought he might argue, but he didn’t. There was space to park at the side of the road. He tugged on the brake and we both hopped out and walked back to the shrine. The branches of the tree created a natural canopy, and the ground was dry in a ten-foot radius around the trunk. It was a big Douglas fir, with a trunk maybe six feet across. The bark was all gouged up from where the car had slammed into it, and underneath the inner wood showed white as bone. It looked like an animal had been chewing at it. Other than that, though, the tree was fine.

  The tree hadn’t given an inch.

  Then there was the cross, and the cards, and the flowers, and the gifts. They were all clustered and arranged around the base like presents under a Christmas tree. A few of them were even wrapped in cellophane, with bows, to protect them from the weather. Hanging from the branches were those little ornaments: angels and dream catchers and ribbons and prayer flags – exactly the kind of junk I’d imagined. We stood side by side and stared at all that for awhile. Then, without really thinking too hard about it, I kicked over the cross. The base cracked and splintered and it went down easily. Jake looked at me. He was surprised, but he was game. Jake always is. He laughed and tore down one of the dreamcatchers and said, ‘Happy Easter, motherfuckers.’ We trashed a bunch of the other stuff, too, stomping and kicking together, quite casually, like two kids wrecking a flower garden.

  Before we left, I went back to the car to get our salmon. Using a little line from the fishing reel, and a hook, we strung the fish up from the tree, so it was just hanging there at about chest height. Anybody driving by would see it. The wound was still ripe, leaking blood and eggs. Some of that dripped onto the soil. It occurred to me that Otis’s blood was probably in the soil, too. It had to be. And maybe also in the tree, taken up by the roots. I mentioned that to Jake and he said that it was true. We cracked open our last two brews and splashed a little beer around. Libations, Jake called it. Then we drained the rest, spiked the cans, and trotted back to the van. The keys were still in the ignition. I climbed into the driver’s seat. As soon as Jake had settled in beside me, I released the brake, popped the clutch, and really opened her up. We both rolled down our windows, so the rain splashed in against our faces. Jake whooped and howled like a wolf. Neither of us was strapped in, and I was going too fast for that road, considering everything that had happened. But by that point I have to admit I didn’t really care.

  Sealskin

  At the foot of Gore Avenue, Liam pulled up in the parking lot that overlooked the Western Fishing Company Plant. He turned off his car but did not get out and instead sat listening to the engine, which tinked intermittently like slow-cracking glass. The plant was a barn-like structure, at least a hundred yards long, with a peaked, shingled roof and red siding; it sat on a concrete wharf jutting out from shore. Above it a column of seagulls turned around and around in a sluggish tornado. They were attracted by the fetid reek of herring roe, which permeated the air all along the waterfront. It was a terrible smell and if there was such a thing as hell Liam thought it probably smelled a little like that. He waited and watched the clock on his dash: it was quarter to seven and their shift didn’t start until seven. The other guys would already be inside having coffee, but Liam had stopped partaking in that ritual.

  As he sat there a black Ford truck turned into the lot. It was Bill, their boss. He parked a few spots over and climbed out, dressed in the blue, one-piece coveralls that all the union guys wore. Some of them came and left like that and skipped the change room, as if they lived in their coveralls even when not at work. Bill noticed Liam and waved at him and asked him if he was coming in for coffee.

  ‘Nah. I’m good.’

  ‘You avoiding Rick?’

  Liam shrugged. He still had both hands on the steering wheel, as if ready to drive away.

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to that asshole.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a bit.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Bill locked his truck and headed off towards the plant.

  Liam waited until six fifty-
five before he got out and from the backseat took his own coveralls and workboots, which he carried with him across the lot. That morning the tide was low and around the perimeter of the harbour you could see the high water mark: the rocks above it were sun-bleached white, the ones below were sleek with seaweed. At this end of the plant was the gear locker and shipwrights’ warehouse, which could be seen through a garage door. Next to it was a regular doorway that led to the lunchroom and office. Liam could hear the others in there and avoided them by going through the warehouse to get to the change room. All the lockers had names and union numbers on them except one, which was his. He kicked off his shoes and took off his clothes and stuffed these articles into the locker.

  He’d left his coveralls sprawled on the floor like a deflated person. He had an old set that Bill had dug out of the gear locker for him; they were thin and threadbare and dull grey instead of blue. Liam picked them up and stepped into the legs one foot at a time and slipped into the sleeves one arm at a time and then zipped the front up from his crotch to his chin. Doing this always made him think of those sea creatures that could change from people to seals and back again; each morning he put on this grey skin and became somebody else, somebody owned, and after work he peeled it off and became himself again, or at least somebody closer to himself. Next he tied up his boots, which he’d found in the dumpster behind the plant, and which were a size too large for him. After that he checked his watch, waited another minute or so, and went to face the men in the lunchroom.

  He had timed it right and the guys were all standing around the table, having just finished their morning coffees. Aside from Bill there were five others: Diego, Steve, Jimmy, Elmore, and Rick. Rick was big and pushing fifty, with a shaved head and saggy skin and the hefty, muscular build of an old bull walrus. As soon as he saw Liam he started in on him, calling him a scab and a lazy Newfie in a way that sounded like a joke but wasn’t and they all knew it.

  ‘Must be nice not punching the union clock,’ Rick said. He was gnawing on a chunk of chew, his mouth full of black juices. ‘Being able to wander in whenever you please.’

  ‘It’s seven by my watch,’ Liam said.

  ‘Seven my ass. What happened? Your mom forget to wake you?’

  The only one who laughed was Elmore; he always laughed at Rick’s jokes.

  ‘Nah,’ Liam said. ‘But your mom did. I stayed over at her place last night.’

  That got a laugh and Rick spat into his empty coffee cup, using it as a spittoon.

  ‘You lippy little shit.’

  Bill chuckled. ‘Admit it, Rick. He got you good.’

  ‘Like hell he got me. He couldn’t get his own cock out to piss.’

  There was some more snickering and Bill waited for it to settle down before handing out the worksheets for the day. The other guys accepted the sheets without looking at them and shuffled out, stretching and yawning. They all knew what jobs they were doing but Liam didn’t. Bill used him as a utility man and his duties changed from day to day. He was given his sheet last. Bill passed it over with a small smile of apology and when Liam saw the task at the top of his list he knew why: it said he would be working on the Western Kraken today.

  ‘Rick needs some help,’ Bill explained.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘His precious decking.’

  Rick had stayed behind the others; when Liam looked at him, the seam of his mouth split open – the lips peeling back to reveal teeth stained brown like rotten kernels of corn.

  ‘Hear that, scab?’ he said. ‘You’re mine today.’

  They walked down the wharf together, with Rick a few steps ahead and Liam trudging behind like the prisoner of a one-man chain gang. The walkway was as wide as a road and ran the full length of the wharf, with a long drop to the water on the left, and the packing plant and cannery on the right. When they passed the open doors of the processing area Liam glanced inside at the rows of workers; they all wore lab coats and rubber gloves and face masks, and they were already at work sorting the slabs of yellow roe that looked like elongated banana slugs, rushing past on the conveyor belts. Even outside the stench was sweet and rancid, nearly overwhelming. Most of the workers were immigrants, from China or Korea.

  ‘Know why them chinks wear those masks?’ Rick asked.

  ‘So they don’t have to smell the roe.’

  ‘No – so they don’t have to smell each other.’

  From the wharf they descended a gangplank that led to the docks and marina where the fishing boats were moored. Beneath the gangplank, near the crane, was the spot that his seal usually appeared. Liam checked but couldn’t see it in the water at the base of the wharf.

  Rick caught him looking and asked, ‘You still feeding that fucking thing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Better not be.’

  Near the northwest corner of the marina they came to the Kraken, a seventy-five-foot seiner. Like all the vessels in the Westco fleet the hull was painted black and the bridge was painted red and white. It was Rick’s boat. He wasn’t the skipper, but when the Kraken was in dock he worked on it, and when it went out during the salmon and herring seasons he was its engineer. Rick hopped onto a bollard, using it as a stepladder from which he could haul himself over the gunnel, and after him Liam did the same. Rick was waiting for him amidships; he had his can of chewing tobacco resting open in his palm.

  ‘Finally finished the forward deck,’ he said.

  Liam came to stand beside him, being careful not to step on the deck, and studied it in the way Rick wanted him to: with appreciation. About half the planks had been replaced and the new ones looked odd and incongruous set amid the older Iroko wood that was more worn. The seams between the planking had been caulked and paid with tar.

  ‘Took me damn near a month to get it done.’

  Liam nodded. ‘Looks good.’

  ‘Course it looks good.’

  He pinched a fingerful of chew; the clump of tobacco looked like a large hairy spider, which he stuffed in his mouth and chewed on lustily, an errant strand dangling from his lips. Rick motioned towards the bow, where he had piled all the excess scrap from his repair job: torn-up planking and rusty nails and carriage bolts and sawdust and woodchips and dried bits of tar that resembled deer turds.

  ‘First job is to get all that off of here. Then we’re gonna sand down this decking and oil it.’

  ‘I’ll go get my tug.’

  ‘It ain’t your tug.’

  ‘I’ll go get the tug, then.’

  ‘Be quick about it.’

  The tug was not a real tug but a ten foot aluminum skiff with a deep hull and a powerful engine and rubber fenders, made out of old tires. It was tied up in the same place that the seal usually appeared: near the gangplank that led from the wharf to the docks. The docks rose and fell with the water level; since it was low tide, the wharf stood twenty feet overhead on wooden pilings, many of them leaning at angles, all of them pockmarked with barnacles and draped in seaweed. In the shadows of the wharf the tug rocked idly in its berth.

  Two tie lines held the tug in place, and Liam undid these before hopping aboard. The tug had a wheelhouse, with room to accommodate the wheel, the dashboard, and the driver. He turned the key in the ignition and pressed the starter button, and the engine fired up with a low, hoarse rumble, coughing several times in the process; the tug began to shake and diesel smoke belched out of the exhaust pipe above the wheelhouse. Liam let the engine idle for a minute before easing forward the lever that controlled the throttle. To steer he stood behind the large wheel and held it with both hands, feeling through them the rumble of the motor.

  The marina was separated from Burrard Inlet by a jumble of rock and concrete that acted as a breakwater, and it was between the breakwater and docks that Liam piloted the tug towards the Kraken. The larger boat was moored with its bow towards shore and the starboard side fac
ing the water. Liam could see Rick standing on deck, waiting for him and watching him, and so he made his approach carefully: he dropped the throttle into reverse, countering his momentum, and turned hard to port so that the tug drifted in at an angle. As the two vessels came together he stepped out of the wheelhouse to brace against the Kraken’s hull with his palms, softening the impact to a kiss. Rick didn’t offer to take his tie lines so Liam went to the bow to gather the first one himself. Coiling it in three slack loops, he draped it over his shoulder and clambered aboard the Kraken.

  Before he was able to tie off, a series of waves entered the marina from the inlet and rolled beneath the docks; since the tug was still drifting free it pivoted to port and ground its prow into the side of the Kraken. Liam yanked on the rope and held it taut, trying to steady the tug as it bucked up and down like a startled horse on the swells.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Rick shouted. ‘Watch what the fuck you’re doing!’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘You scraped the shit out of my hull.’

  The waves had settled. Liam tied the rope off as fast as he could, looping it in quick figure eights around the nearest cleat and then finishing with a half-hitch.

  ‘It was those waves,’ he said. ‘You could have helped me tie her up.’

  ‘I could help you wipe your ass, too. But I figured even a Newfie scab like you would be capable of doing something that simple.’

  Liam leapt down onto the tug, picked up the aft tie line, and threw it on deck. Then he climbed back up and tied it off, too. Rick was leaning over the side with both hands on the gunnel, peering down to inspect the damage; there was a clear scrape in the paint of the hull where the orange primer now showed through.

  ‘You better touch that up.’

  ‘You want me to do that now?’

  ‘Don’t be an ass. Get rid of that goddamn scrap first.’

  Rick continued to swear and curse about the damage as Liam pulled on his work gloves. Trudging to the bow, he seized one of the splintered planks with both hands and carried it to starboard. On the forward deck of his tug was a steel container they used as a garbage skip, and into it he tossed the plank before heading back for another. He had to step around Rick who was kneeling on the deck, using a rag dipped in turpentine to wipe away excess tar, which in places had bled from the seams into the edges of the planks. For a time they worked like this with neither of them talking to the other and the only sound that of waves slapping against the metal hull of the tug and the wooden hull of the seiner.