Stalking Salmon & Wrestling Drunks. Peter L. Gordon

stance. With the tension of action captured almost in a freeze frame, it had Greek proportions.

      “Lines up,” I called.

      I heard the buzz of reels bringing in line, but I was focused on Jane. Her rod remained bowed; the reel was beginning to creak.

      “Perfect!” I called to her. “Keep the pressure on but let him run.” I moved as I talked. I checked the drag on her reel and lightened it slightly, which allowed the line to creak out faster. The fish was now directly at our stern and swimming away, about forty feet below the surface. Sten slipped the engine into reverse to move us away from the shoreline and the kelp. The fish was moving with authority, cruising away from the boat and pulling out line as it went.

      Sometimes it takes a minute or two for a large salmon to react to being hooked. You’d think that a sharp hook in its mouth would attract its attention immediately. I could almost hear the theme music from Jaws playing in the background. With or without musical accompaniment, this beauty was going to streak out line as soon as it realized it was threatened.

      I looked at Jane. She was composed but I could see the shivers going up and down her back and the slight trembling of her legs. She looked great. I knew that our chances of landing this fish were only fifty-fifty. The line was fifteen-pound test and the fish had to be forty pounds.

      I glanced up at Sten. He held up four fingers. I nodded.

      “This is going to take a while,” I said to Jane, “so pace yourself. If you get tired there’s no harm in asking for a break.” She gave me a withering look that made me smile. “Okay, I want you to relax your shoulders and arms but keep pressure on the fish. Rest the rod butt on your hip if you like.”

      “I’m fine, Peter. How big do you think it is?”

      “Forty.”

      This caused a collective gasp from everyone on deck.

      Until then, Jeff had given Jane lots of space, but now he moved beside her. “This is what we came for, honey. I’ve got my money on you.” He kissed her left temple. “I’ll let the skipper do the talking. I’ll be right behind you with the camera.”

      There was no time to answer. The fish had decided to shoot out of the bay; line was screaming out and spray was spinning into her face from the reel.

      “How much line do we have?” she shouted above the commotion.

      “Enough.” Should it become necessary, I told her, we could chase the fish with her at the bow, but that was highly unlikely. I was sure it would stop, turn tail and race back at us.

      A hundred feet from our stern it came straight out of the water, landing on its side. Briefly it thrashed on the surface. When Jane lost contact with it, a collective groan came from all aboard. I shouted at her to reel. She seemed to crank the handle forever before the rod tip dropped again and thumped up and down. She was back in contact with it. I tested the drag—it was fine.

      “Keep your rod up and keep pressure on it.”

      “What the hell do you think I’m doing?”

      “You’re doing just fine. Keep it up.”

      The fish gave line and took line, but gradually its runs became shorter and it spent time cruising around the boat ten feet below the surface. Everyone knows water magnifies. When the salmon came close to the surface it looked like a young orca, and questions arose about whether the landing net was big enough or whether it was a shark. Sten and I kept our peace and let the group speculate. Jane had been on her feet playing this fish for nearly forty minutes and her right arm was starting to shake. Each time the fish took another run, she exhaled in exasperation.

      When the salmon slipped past the stern of the boat, barely two feet under water, I saw that the lure was across its mouth and that the knot looked worn. I was sure the line would not take another run, so I signalled to Sten to wet the net and prepare to bring the fish on board.

      A good man on the net is as important as the fisherman. Sten was a master. In all the years we fished together, I never saw him knock a fish off a line. To be skilled with the net means anticipating the movement of the fish so that the net is placed in front of it at the right moment. If this is done properly, the fish will swim headfirst into the net and to the bottom of the basket.

      I explained to Jane how she should slowly lift the head of the fish so it was just under the surface, then steer it toward Sten. “He’ll do the rest.”

      The netting was anticlimactic. Jane steered the fish smoothly toward Sten, who dipped the net in front of it and allowed it to swim into the mesh. In a single motion he locked the salmon in and swung it on board. It looked huge and gave off the characteristic sharp smell of a chinook.

      While Sten tended to the fish, I took the rod from Jane’s hand and gave her a hug. The boat erupted in another roar of applause. Jeff grabbed Jane and gave her a serious kiss, which turned up the applause even more. We slapped each other on the back and shook hands. It was better than Hogmanay in Scotland. Jane was elated but clearly in serious need of a cool drink and a rest, so I told everyone to go below and have a drink while Sten and I cleared the deck and weighed the fish. Out came my trusty scales, and Sten weighed the fish. It was exactly forty-one and a quarter pounds. When I examined the knot attaching the lure to the line, I was able to break it with a slight tug. We had been lucky, and the salmon had been unlucky.

      Most fishing stories end with the netting of the fish. This story has an addendum. We continued fishing for another hour in the hopes that Alice or Ethan would boat a fish. As things turned out, they had a double header—they each caught a seven-pound coho. It was a perfect ending to the charter.

      Nice people, good weather and excellent fishing. You simply cannot improve on that combination. And Sten had once again lost his bet with me.

      After the fish were cleaned and on ice, we stowed the gear and made our way leisurely back to the marina. I took the helm while Sten pulled out plastic bags to store the fish—this was standard procedure. We were out of heavy-duty extra-large bags, so the forty pounder had to be slipped into a standard black plastic bag.

      At the dock everyone clambered off the boat in high spirits, swearing lifelong friendships had been forged. Sten lined up the plastic bags full of fish and handed them to each couple. Jane wanted to carry her fish but Jeff insisted on doing the honours. It was probably a wise decision, since Jane’s back was giving her some grief after the workout of catching the fish.

      With a wave of his hand and shouts of thanks to everyone, Jeff picked up Jane’s plastic bag and swung it over his shoulder like Father Christmas with his sack of gifts. Sten and I watched, incredulous, as the bag hit his back, split open at the seam and the prize fish slipped into the ocean between the dock and the boat. It was over in an instant.

      Have you ever seen shock and guilt written across someone’s face? Pride and jubilation were replaced with adolescent embarrassment. Jeff was so stunned he couldn’t utter a word. Desperately he looked into the water between the boat and the dock, pointing but still mute.

      Finally he found his voice. “Get it!” he exploded. “You’ve got to get it back!”

      In unusual circumstances people respond in unusual ways. To my surprise Jane doubled over with laughter. She laughed so hard I thought she was going to do herself some damage.

      Jeff was stupefied. Between them they looked like characters from a commedia dell’arte play. She laughed hysterically as he skipped around her, saying, “It’s all right, honey, I’ll get it. I’ll get it back!”

      I thought someone had rung a gong in my ears. I could not believe the circus on the dock. Jane was still laughing as Jeff, Matt and Vic peered into the water. The entire scene required only a fellow in a top hat cracking a whip to make it into a Dali canvas.

      Clearly something had to be done. I ruled out taking the plunge myself or asking Sten to shed his clothes to retrieve the fish. It crossed my mind that a scuba diver might be around, cleaning the hull of a boat. Scanning the marina with my binoculars,