by David Giblin
Morris was growing impatient with me. I tried a different approach.
“Look, Morris, it’s about time we changed bait anyway. Just bring the line in for me.”
Morris sighed; he was a man beset by unreasonable people always making unreasonable demands on his time and patience.
“I really think it was only that piece of wood. The bait should still be okay, shouldn’t it? The wood couldn’t hit the bait, could it?”
We had been dragging the same herring around for at least an hour. It surprised me a fish would even bite it. Yet, from the way the line was acting, there was definitely something there. Probably just a rock cod, I thought.
Morris put down his papers on the empty seat next to him and started to reel the line in. He had turned the handle three or four times when the line suddenly started to peel off in the other direction. Morris clucked in exasperation.
“How the hell am I supposed to get the line in if the reel isn’t working properly?” He gave me a dark stare as if the problem were my faulty equipment. The line was leaving his reel by now at an alarming pace.
“It’s supposed to do that, Morris. You’ve got a fish on.”
He still regarded me with suspicion, but the line was now making the reel scream as it left. It was a salmon all right, and judging by the way the line was running, it was a big one. I gunned the engine to follow the fish as it left the top of the hole. I convinced Morris that we had a salmon, but he was growing alarmed at the speed with which the line was leaving the reel.
“It’s taking all my line, it’s taking all my line,” he wailed, and pawed at the reel.
“It’s all right, Morris, you’ve got to let the fish run and take the line. You don’t need to touch the reel.”
I was coming down on a pack of guide boats as I followed the line that was knifing through the water. These were the same boats I had tried so hard to stay away from earlier. Now playing a big fish gave me the right of way. The other boats were getting out of the way for me. One was already bringing his lines into his boat, and I saw Wet Lenny cut his off with his fish knife. The salmon torpedoed out of the back eddy and went into the main current. There at least I didn’t have the other boats to worry about, but the water was running at the peak of the tide. We were quickly in the middle of a vortex of swirling whitewater. Whirlpools were opening up all around us, and the fish was dragging us into the worst of them.
“It’s taking all my line! Is the drag too loose, is the drag too loose?”
Morris kept up a constant wail as I steered the boat around the boiling water in front of us. His hand went to the reel again, and he began fiddling with the star wheel that sets the tension on the line.
“Don’t touch that, Morris,” I yelled over the roar of the water. “You’ll break the damn fish off.”
“My drag is too loose, my drag is too loose! It’s taking all my line.”
A note of panic was creeping into his voice.
“The drag is just fine, Morris, you’ve got plenty of line, let the fish run. You can’t stop it.”
I couldn’t help myself. When my guests get themselves worked up into such a tizzy, I find I start adopting a tone of voice normally used on small children. I managed to get him to let go of the drag wheel, but I had given him something else to fret about.
“I touched the drag, I touched the drag. Did I tighten it? Is it too tight? Maybe I’ll break the fish off.”
I was too busy getting around a large whirlpool that had opened up in front of us. Morris was on his own until I could get the boat to calmer water. I steered us toward shore, away from the main current and into a quieter back eddy. I dragged the line behind me, hoping the fish would follow. When I was finally able to leave my seat Morris was carrying on a vicious argument with himself.
“Did I set the drag too tight, is it too tight? The line is still going out though, maybe it’s too loose, maybe it’s still too loose. I don’t want to lose all my line . . .”
He didn’t even notice me approach. I put my mouth right next to his ear and said very quietly, “Hey, Morris, shut the fuck up.”
Morris never heard people talk to him like that. I got his attention immediately. He looked at me as if he’d just noticed there was someone else in the boat with him.
“Now,” I said, looking him in the eye, “I want you to take a deep breath and count to ten.”
Morris took a deep breath and counted to ten.
“Okay, I want you to start reeling the line in.”
Without another word, Morris started to reel the line in. The salmon had stripped off more than half the line on the reel, so Morris had a job of cranking before him. I steered the boat to follow the line as it came out of the water; Morris only had to reel in the slack.
Quietly, in a robot-like fashion, Morris turned the handle of the reel. The salmon was coming to the surface and the line came in easily. A huge streamlined form began to take shape beneath my boat. It looked like a submarine coming to the surface.
The exhausted fish lay on its side and I was able to slip the net over its head. I needed to grab the hoop of the net with both hands to heave the fish into the boat. Seeing it laid out on the floor, I realized just how big it really was. The fish was a tyee and then some.
“Morris, this is a huge fish.”
He seemed completely unmoved. He peered down at the salmon, then looked around us. The tide had carried us more than a mile past the hole where we had hooked the fish.
“Are we going to fish here?” was all Morris said.
“We have to head back up there.” I pointed up the channel to a tiny cluster of boats in the distance.
“Why can’t we just fish here?” asked Morris.
We had drifted into a small shallow bay that produced flounder and the occasional rock cod.
“But, Morris”—I tried to keep the exasperation from my voice; I really didn’t want to be away from the action—“we know there’s fish up there.”
“Well, all right then, let’s not sit around here all day.”
Morris sounded impatient. He had just landed the biggest fish I had seen all summer, but apparently all he could think about was the time he had spent away from his speech.
I put the tyee into the fish box and cleaned the blood out of the boat, and we headed back to the Second Hole. A few people called out to Morris asking about his fish, but he just waved at them and went back to his papers.
The rest of our time in the back eddy was uneventful. Morris proceeded to mumble to himself as before, and I took up a position that would keep us out of the way of the rest of the guides. By the time we left to go to the lodge for dinner, I doubt Morris even remembered catching anything. He jumped out of the boat as soon as I had it tied to the dock. He walked off, clutching his speech. It was up to me to manhandle the salmon out of the fish box and haul it to the weigh scales.
There were a few people standing about the dock or sunning themselves on the yachts. As I staggered past them there was a collective gasp as they noticed what I was carrying.
“Oh my God,” someone called out.
“Morris, did you catch that fish?”
“Oh, Morris, it’s huge!”
Word of a fish this big spreads magically. People began appearing on the decks of the other yachts. They hurried down from the main lodge and the cabins. A crowd of admirers suddenly surrounded Morris. He stopped walking away and joined me at the scales. I dropped the slab of a fish on the hook and adjusted the balance beam. The fish weighed in at thirty-eight pounds: the biggest fish caught at the lodge so far that year. The excitement swelled; men were patting Morris on the back, offering him drinks, and someone handed him a cigar. A beautiful woman was stroking his arm affectionately. It began to sink in. Morris realized what he had accomplished. He began to answer the questions everybody had.
I took the fish off the scales and lugged it to the cleaning table. I hoisted the fish onto it, got out my cleaning knife, and then realized I hadn’t asked Morr
is what he wanted to do with it. A tyee is often trophy mounted: frozen whole and taken to the taxidermist without being cleaned. I made my way back through the crowd of people around Morris. He was too busy recounting his adventures to notice me.
I came up beside him in time to hear him say, “Well, you know, my guide thought it was just a stick.”
nine THE EXPERT
IT WASN’T FOR Morris but as a favour to Nelson that I was at the dock as the yacht pulled in the next day. I sat in the comfort of my boat and watched as the crew, dressed in crisp white uniforms, secured the mooring lines. I always enjoyed watching a practised and efficient crew going about their duties, but Morris spoiled the effect. He stood at the railing and fussed, yelling unnecessary and contradictory orders to a crew that obviously knew their business. They managed to get the mooring lines tied and the gangplank steps set out in spite of his help.
Morris and his guests were down the steps and onto the dock immediately, their faces filled with eagerness. They were ready to go fishing. This was not a good sign.
Serious fishermen, the kind I prefer to take fishing, are never in a rush. Fish have been in the water for thousands of years. They will always be hungry. There is always time for some calm reflection over a refreshment. A little planning time for what lies ahead. One shouldn’t hurry these things. It doesn’t do to charge off to the fishing holes and then discover you’ve overlooked something—not enough beer, perhaps, or too much gin and not enough vodka.
This much enthusiasm meant these people entertained some fantasy fishing adventure, no doubt thanks to Morris. They were completely divorced from the reality of the situation. The rest of the guides for the party hadn’t arrived yet. It was up to me to be the good host. I got out of my boat and joined the little knot of people on the dock.
Morris introduced me to two of them, a couple in their mid-fifties. He presented them to me as though they were exotic birds, their plumage delicate and easily damaged.
“So, you’re Dave,” the man said, giving my hand a shake that would have crushed a walnut. “Morris has told us all about you.”
I could only imagine. The man put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a conspiratorial wink, one fisherman to another.
“Now I want you to know that I’m a world-class fisherman. I’ve caught fish all over the world. Isn’t that right, Morris? Marlin in the Caribbean, tarpon off the Florida Keys, sailfish on the west coast of Mexico—more fish and places than I care to mention, more than my share of salmon, too. It doesn’t matter to me if I never catch another fish but,” and here he paused for effect, “the little woman here has never done this before. It would mean a lot to me if you make sure she catches a couple of nice ones.”
He paused again to give me a look that suggested great riches would be mine if I could make it happen.
“Do you think you could do that for me, Dave?” He gave me a little nudge with his fist.
I didn’t know how to reply. I was in awe. This guy was world-class all right, but it had nothing to do with catching fish. The thought of spending the next four hours in a small boat with him left me truly speechless. I checked out the “little woman.”
She stood to one side and slightly behind him. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky, and she was in the shadow of the man, both literally and figuratively. She stood there quietly and observed the scene. The events of the next few hours, however, would suggest she was just using him for shade.
“So, this is your boat,” he said. His voice carried a tone of disappointment. “You like these metal boats better than fibreglass?”
The tone seemed to suggest a moral failure on my part. Here was a world-class angler, and I expected him to use questionable equipment?
Long ago I stopped explaining to people why I chose to do things the way I did. I got tired of hearing myself explain how a metal boat could be beached on the rocks without having any harm come to it. People that wouldn’t dream of hovering over a plumber or a mechanic to offer advice can’t seem to stop themselves when it comes to fishing; for some reason, they have to prove themselves. Of course they will always be at a disadvantage. The conditions and style of fishing at Stuart Island are unique. No matter how much fishing this guy had done, he could never understand the way we did things until he kept quiet and paid attention. A true fisherman would have known this.
“I would have thought you’d have a centre console on a boat like this. Isn’t it awkward steering the boat from the stern like that?”
My boat is equipped with a large motor (Vop’s fingerprints embedded in the paint) for running out to the fishing holes and a smaller one to fish with when I get there. Both of the motors have a tiller arm for steering and throttle control. The tiller arm gives quicker responses in the rapids than a steering wheel. The response is not only quicker but subtler. It gives you more of a “feel” for what the water is doing. I didn’t bother to explain all this. I just redirected his attention, “Ummm . . . do you think you’ll be warm enough?”
He was wearing a light windbreaker, a polo shirt, and a pair of Fortrel slacks. He was warm enough to be on the dock in the sunshine, but the conditions on the water are very different. The wind and the extremely cold temperature of the water combine to make even the hottest summer days very cool in the rapids. I noticed his wife was bundled up in a sweater and a Floater coat.
“Maybe we should grab another Floater coat. It can get pretty cold out on the—”
“I’ll be fine.”
He cut me off abruptly. I also got a look flashed in my direction that closed any further discussion of the subject. I was coming dangerously close to questioning his manhood. I helped them into the boat, untied the ropes, and we set off.
The tide was just turning to ebb. We headed north along the mainland and followed the wide sweep of Vancouver Bay. At the north end of the bay the shoreline changes to rocky cliffs. It makes a sharp turn into a narrow passage between the mainland and Stuart Island. The passage continues to the north and eventually opens out into Bute Inlet. A huge volume of water must pass through it each day as the tides flow back and forth. This is the Arran Rapids. During a big tide the current runs at over fifteen knots. It has a reputation as one of the most dangerous stretches of water on the coast. On the ebb tide the water passes the cliffs on the way out of the inlet, forming a back eddy against them. You can tuck inside this shelter just a few feet away from the current raging past. This fishing hole is on the opposite shore from Stuart Island, so it’s known as the Far Side.
The Far Side is only a mile and a half from the resort, no more than ten minutes away in my boat, but, in an open boat doing thirty-five knots, my world-class fisherman was already feeling the cold. His lips were turning blue by the time we arrived at the hole.
“Mm-m-m-man, look at that eagle! Isn’t that a mm-m-m-magnificent bird.” He pointed a shaky finger in the direction of a twisted fir tree that clung precariously to the cliff. The combination of the cold and his admiration for the bird gave his face a slightly demented appearance.
“Look at him up there. Isn’t that wonderful. I can see why our forefathers chose them as our national symbol.”
He seemed to imply these were my forefathers as well. Guys like this tended to forget such small matters as international borders and national sovereignty. I swear I could almost hear the American anthem swelling in the background.
The cliffs at the Far Side continue deep into the water where the bottom drops off steeply—a few feet from shore the water is already 200 or 300 feet deep. I handed out the rods, baited the hooks with herring, and told them to go down to 140 feet.
The man looked at me suspiciously. With his rod sticking straight out from the side of the boat, his rod tip was no more than 30 feet from the rocks.
“Are you sure you want me to go down that far? That’s pretty deep, isn’t it?”
His wife was already letting her line down the way I had shown her.
“If you want to get down to where the fish a
re, then 140 feet is where you want to be.”
He gave me a sly smile, as though I might be setting him up for something. He cupped his hand over the reel to hide it from me as he let the line out. He stopped and clicked the brake on. I estimated he was down at the most 60 feet. His wife’s line, going down the full 140 feet, took much longer. She had barely reached that level and flicked her brake on when her rod tip began to twitch up and down.
“Quick, reel up, fast as you can!” I yelled at her excitedly.
The husband looked at me as if I’d gone nuts, but his wife did as she was told. She kept reeling as fast as she could. The fish headed straight up toward the boat with the herring in its mouth—she had to catch up to it and set the hook before the salmon could spit out the bait. Her rod bent over into the water, and I had her jerk the rod to set the hook. An eight- or nine-pound salmon jumped clear of the water and dashed furiously about the surface.
I asked the husband to reel his line in to get out of the way, but he was too slack-jawed in surprise to be of much use. I took his rod out of his hands and reeled the line in myself. He only had 50 feet of line out, so it didn’t take me too long.
The fish took a couple of short runs before allowing itself to be brought to the side of the boat where I could put it in the net. The wife jumped up and down with excitement; her husband was out of his seat, patting her on the back.
“Marvellous, marvellous, that’s wonderful, dear, just wonderful.”
I hit the fish on the head with a club to kill it and put it away in the fish box built into the stern of my boat, and we went back to fishing.
The tide was running a little stronger, small whirlpools forming at the edges of the eddy, and the main current running through the passage had an obvious flow to it. The current in the eddy pulled against the rods, bending them toward the water. I had to keep an eye on them to detect any movements that might tell of a salmon. The man was shivering so hard by now it was difficult to tell anything from the tip of his; the supple rod amplified the trembling in his hands.
