Stalking Salmon & Wrestling Drunks. Peter L. Gordon

in the water around us, but all we caught were dogfish and a few shakers, very young salmon that you can shake off your line. Matt and Vic were thunderstruck by the dogfish, which resemble sharks. Sometimes they’re called cat sharks. They could not believe we shook them off the hook and sent them back into the ocean without ever touching them. I explained that a foot-and-a-half dogfish was more trouble than it was worth if you intended to prepare it for the table. The effort of skinning and filleting these small fellows produced very little edible flesh. In Britain dogfish are sold for fish and chips under the name of rock salmon, but they are the larger variety.

      It can be tedious fishing under a hot sun when there is little activity. Many city people go out fishing with highlights from a television fishing show running through their minds. They expect to cast out their line and hook a huge fish that they will play expertly and land without misadventure. Fishing is a process, and you have to love that process. You have to be enthralled by your surroundings; you have to enjoy the unexpected appearance of wildlife and be excited simply by being outdoors. Catching a fish is your intention but the day should not be ruined if you go home “bredouille” (empty-handed), “skunked” or “with an empty creel.”

      After an hour and a half, with only dogfish and shakers to show for their efforts, this group was becoming impatient. It takes more than an hour and a half to make me feel like Santiago on his eighty-four-day quest. I called out for everyone to pull in their lines and head below deck for a cold drink and a bite to eat while Sten moved us to another spot.

      Earlier, while they were fishing, I’d spent time talking to each couple, asking them about their lives. Most people like nothing more than to talk about themselves, and what I discovered was that everyone in the group shared an Irish ancestry. While sandwiches were being unpacked and cans of juice snapped open, I mentioned that everyone in the group had Irish ancestry. In no time they were comparing backgrounds.

      While this was going on, I went up to the helm to have a chat with Sten as we cruised to a fresh location.

      “I think you found the locking pin,” he said.

      “Sounds like it. It’ll be fun to see how it plays out.”

      We relocated to a place on the other side of William Head. It was not a spot we usually frequented, but sometimes it produced a gorgeous fish. Once there, it was hard to get everyone out of the shade of the cabin and back on deck. The chatter among them was high-spirited. The brothers and Ethan had discovered that their distant relatives had both come from a town in Ireland called Sligo. Using my VHF, the Californians were calling relatives in California and Ohio to find out where their family had lived in “the old country.”

      The tone of the language in the group started to take on mystical dimensions. I could hear the words weird, cosmic and strange uttered in excited tones. Before they resumed fishing, the Californians had heard back from their relatives that Jeff’s family originated in Sligo while Jane’s family came from a town in County Mayo now called Newport. There was a boisterous mock reunion as everyone hugged and broke into jigs and called each other “cousin.” At this point, Sten joined in with the rest, and loud cheers and a round of applause ensued after the group had clapped out the time to his dancing. I wagged my finger at him, threatening to incorporate his jig into all future charters.

      “Performances cost extra,” he said with a smile.

      By this point, any remaining barriers among the group had come down. Everyone congregated on the stern deck. From the chatter you would have thought they’d known each other for decades instead of hours. For a while I thought they were going to forget the purpose of the charter, but soon Jane, clearly the most competitive of the group, was stripping out line and counting the pulls aloud. The sight of Jane peeling out line acted as a catalyst, and the entire group was soon fishing but this time exchanging anecdotes. The charter had taken on a life of its own, driven by the energy of the guests.

      Within ten minutes we had our first fish on. Matt hollered, “I got one!” He struck so hard I was sure he had snapped the rod.

      “It’s not yours yet,” I said as I checked the tension on his drag.

      Out of courtesy everyone reeled in their lines to avoid tangles and formed a half circle around Matt. It was a stubborn fish, taking runs of ten or twenty feet before stopping and thrashing. Matt had his hands full allowing the fish its short burst before retrieving the line. Vic was standing next to me, shouting expletives at the fish every time it took a run. I had to ask him to keep the decibels down until the fish was in. Both brothers had told me they were experienced trout fishermen, which had led me to think they understood the principle of playing a fish. But Matt seemed so anxious to land it he had little interest in playing it. With a bit of coaching from me, Matt had the fish in the boat in twenty minutes. As soon as we dragged the net in, with the fish still wriggling in it, a round of applause broke out with shouts of “the luck of the Irish!” Matt and Vic could hardly contain themselves. They slapped each other on the back, twirled, slapped their own knees and shook everyone’s hand. They grinned so widely I thought it must have hurt. It was a beautiful fourteen pounder stuffed full of krill, a tiny crustacean that looks like a shrimp.

      “Goddamn, goddamn,” they kept saying. “This sure beats milking!”

      Having a fish in the boat allowed Sten and me to relax. In spite of the aesthetics of being out on the water, we could never allow ourselves to lose sight of the business aspect of charter fishing. A salmon in the boat takes the hex off the charter; everyone relaxes and fishes with more optimism. The most important thing is that the guests realize the ocean does indeed contain some fish and that they can be caught. Once a fish has been netted and landed, everyone’s mood is upbeat. It’s contagious. In this case everyone was shaking hands and congratulating one another as though they had each caught the fish themselves. It is a magical time of smiles and collaboration.

      Pictures were taken of Matt holding the fish, of Matt and Vic holding the fish, then of the entire group standing around Matt with the fish. They even squeezed me into one of their pictures, but they could not persuade Sten to pose. One of his idiosyncrasies was that he did not like to have his picture taken. I used to tease him that it was because his picture was in every post office across Canada and someone might recognize him.

      While Sten dressed the fish and put it on ice, I moved us back to our original spot and the whole crew stripped their lines down to thirteen fathoms. The chatter was intense. Alice and Ethan bet Jeff and Jane they would land the next salmon. The wager was for a dinner at a terrific restaurant in Sooke that I’d recommended. The two brothers chose not to join in the bet; they said they already had their fish and they did not like food in “fancy” restaurants.

      Over the next hour, we picked up a couple of seven to eight pounders. Both were caught by Matt and Vic, who used their good fortune to poke some fun at the other two couples. Matt even offered to give Alice and Ethan a lesson in fishing and to change rods with Alice. She turned down his kind offer with a good-natured shake of the head.

      Time to move, I thought.

      I looked over at Sten, who was talking to Jeff. As soon as he saw my look he nodded, called for all lines to be brought in and went up to the helm, where he fired up the engine. This time we motored to one of our quiet spots. We used this location only when we were looking for a slug. It’s a tricky place to fish and requires the engine to be left on to keep the boat in the right place and to prevent it from drifting onto the rocks. When you are properly positioned, you can reach out with your rod and touch the rocky shoreline. We used this difficult spot only when the tides collaborated.

      Jane was the first to strip out twenty-five pulls. I watched her count each pull and set the drag before I turned to assist Alice.

      “How many pulls did you say?” Jane asked again.

      “Twenty-five,” I said without looking back at her.

      “You sure?”

      I looked back at her. She was in a classic fisherman’s pose. Her right and left hand were holding the rod straight up at ninety degrees. The rod was bowed, the tip nearly bent double, and her right foot was flat on the deck and her