Stalking Salmon & Wrestling Drunks. Peter L. Gordon

      He kept the lines at the same depth. Within ten minutes we had another fish on. Cliff was supposed to take the second strike, but he insisted Jensen take it. It turned out to be another splendid coho about the same weight as the first. In the fish trough they looked like twins; they were obviously from the same run. While Sten dressed the fish and stowed them in the ice chest, I cruised back to Church Rock and turned us back into the ebbing tide. The paper sounder showed vast layers of baitfish going down ten fathoms.

      The squawking of seagulls, diving on the surface into shoals of baitfish, obscured all other sounds. At the helm I could barely hear the click, click, click of the paper sounder. I moved us farther out so we could fish the edges of the bait and avoid some of the messy debris the feeding gulls were dropping.

      Before Sten lowered the lines of the downriggers, I had him change the heavy trolling rods for spinning gear with single-action reels holding fifteen-pound test line. The mood on the boat was lighthearted; it was a joy to be in a group of men who loved the scenery, the camaraderie and the fishing. Cliff and the officers were exchanging life stories and showing pictures of their wives and children. They found common ground in places they had lived and even thought they might have friends in common. Cliff kept refusing to take a strike, insisting the young naval officers have the fun. There was so much laughter at the stern of the boat that Rae joined them for a while and took pictures of the fishing activity. He didn’t say much, just kept repeating, “This is great, this is just great,” as he took a series of pictures with the sophisticated collection of cameras hanging from his neck.

      Almost on schedule, the ebbing tide went slack. I made a long, slow loop and headed straight toward Church Rock. Twenty feet before we would have run aground, I spun the wheel hard to starboard. The effect was to drop the trolling gear into a hot spot right in front of Church Rock. Sometimes this manoeuvre produces a twenty pounder. But not on this occasion, so while we kept trolling toward Race Passage, Sten and I changed places. Between the two naval officers we had five fish on ice. I thought it was time we brought in a slug, something Cliff could show off to his sister.

      I brought up the portside rod and attached a five-inch silver and bronze spoon to the line before lowering it to forty-five feet. This particular spoon revolved and jerked from side to side, imitating a wounded herring in escape mode. Sten, watching me intently, knew exactly what I was doing. Slowly he altered our course so we would pass directly over a sweet spot just before we entered Race Passage. As we approached the spot, I watched Sten and he watched the paper sounder. Still watching the sounder, he raised his right arm. I lowered the downrigger, with the spoon attached to it, down to sixty-four feet.

      Given our speed, the tide conditions and the drag on the downrigger cable, I hoped I had placed the spoon directly into a deep channel. When Sten’s arm came down I raised the downrigger, which brought up the spoon. Before I could look away from the gauge on the downrigger, the bell rang. I jerked the rod out of its holder and reeled furiously to catch up to the fish. At the same time, Sten threw the boat into neutral and was at my side cranking in the second downrigger.

      “Any size?”

      I didn’t answer—I was concentrating on reeling as quickly as I could. The fish had taken the spoon and was racing for the surface. Before I could make contact it breached cleanly out of the ocean, snapping its head back and forth, trying to throw the lure. Then it sounded, and that was when I caught up to it. The speed with which the line was running out let us know it was a fish with authority.

      I turned to find Cliff standing beside me. “You ready?” I asked.

      He held out his right hand and I placed the rod into his grip. The line was peeling out, throwing a light spray.

      “You’ve got fresh fifteen-pound test,” I said. “The drag control is in the middle of the spool.”

      “I’ve got a reel just like it, only for fresh water.”

      “Great. Just keep your rod tip up and keep pressure on the fish.”

      While the fish continued to run, Sten unclipped the weights from the downriggers and put them in their box, then removed the downriggers and the rod holders from their brackets. The deck was clear. Cliff had lots of elbow room. This, we knew, was what we had come for.

      Each time I stuck into a nice fish and handed off the rod, I had mixed feelings. While I knew I was running a business and customers were paying for the fishing experience, it was hard to hand off a rod with a strong salmon at the other end when the person taking the rod clearly had no clue about how to play it. Watching Cliff was different. I could see he was experienced and skilled simply by the way he anticipated the fish and held the rod.

      I looked up at Sten, who nodded at me.

      I nodded back. “What do you figure?”

      “Thirty.”

      “That’s my guess.”

      Cliff played the salmon with a lighter drag than I would have suggested. Two or three times the fish sounded before spinning around and shooting to the surface. Gripping his rod as the line whirled out of the reel, Cliff cranked maniacally on the handle to bring in the slack line as the fish charged back to the surface. It was an uneven battle. The gear we were using and the skill of the fisherman was overwhelming the heavy salmon. Its only hope was to throw the hook, but Cliff stayed in firm contact with it and let his rod wear it out. After he’d played the fish for twenty minutes, I brought out a director’s chair and walked Cliff backward into its seat. He was a cool customer, but I could see his knees rattling together. Of course, while he played the fish the two high-spirited officers and Sten kept volunteering to take the rod. They told him they didn’t want him to tire and were only thinking of his well-being. They even promised to hand the rod back to him when he asked for it. He was having none of their hijinks; instead he just smiled and told them in terse, naval language to catch their own fish.

      During our charters, we used a rough estimate to gauge the length of time it would take to net a salmon. When using spinning gear the estimate is a minute per pound, although I once netted a twenty-seven pounder after only two minutes. But that is another story.

      After sounding half a dozen times, the fish was about twenty feet directly below our stern, thrashing frantically. Without prompting, Cliff began pumping the fish to the surface, alternately reeling then dropping the rod tip so it touched the water before pulling it up to raise the salmon. When it saw our propeller it took a short run, but the steam was out of it. Without any further struggle, Cliff was able to reel in the last ten feet of line and steer the fish into the landing net.

      Sten took over. Snapping the handle up and effectively locking the fish into the basket of the net, he swung the fish onto the deck. He looked at his watch. “Thirty-two minutes,” he said aloud.

      During these activities, Rae had migrated from the bow to the stern where he recorded the event with his cameras. The two officers clapped wildly and slapped Cliff on the back. I shook his hand and gave him a hug and joined in the shouting and hooting. We all couldn’t have been more pleased that he had landed his fish. He couldn’t keep a smile off his face. In a flash, I saw the ghost of a twenty-five-year-old Cliff standing on the deck, balanced on the balls of his feet and exuding the confidence of youth. The white hair was gone, as were the white moustache and prescription sunglasses. They were replaced with a sleek pair of Polaroid glasses, and his hair was a rich brown and his skin uncreased.

      In the next instant, the vision was gone and the old Cliff was again before me. He stared as if entranced at the glistening chinook that was still in the folds of the net. “Damn, that’s a pretty fish. It’s almost a shame. Do you think it will go over twenty-five?”

      After the Priest had done its job, I handed my trusted scales to Sten. “Better weigh it before it starts to put on weight.”

      With the hook of the scales under the salmon’s chin, Sten lifted it off the deck. “Thirty-one on the nose.” There was another round of applause while Sten put the fish in the tray.

      “Cliff, do you have a camera?” Rae asked.

      “In my bag—it’s