back.”
I put the boat in neutral and pressed the kill button on the engine. In the silence all I could hear was Cliff mumbling under his breath as he reeled in the slack line. We were in deep water at the mouth of the bay with a light breeze pushing us toward Victoria. This was a fabulous spot to play the salmon.
“It’s a heavy fish, bigger than the others.” Cliff was short of breath as he spoke.
“How much bigger?”
“Much bigger.” He was puffing hard and his legs looked like vibrating cello strings.
I unfolded the director’s chair and eased Cliff backward into its seat.
“Thanks. That feels better,” he said, but he was still puffing.
The boat drifted in the slack current and the sounds of the barking sea lions could be heard in the distance.
“It’s so nice out here. Even better with a fish on.”
“Listen, Cliff, if you want me to give you a break, let me know. This might be a long haul.”
“Now, don’t you start with that. It’s not often everything is perfect.” There was a silence before he said, “Listen to those damn seals—you’d think they could learn something new to say. It always sounds as though they’re repeating the same thing.”
We played the fish for over forty minutes. At one stage I held my index finger under the rod tip to take the strain off Cliff’s arms and shoulders. He didn’t object so I knew it was giving him a break. For the last few minutes of the battle, Cliff stood up to direct the salmon into the net. He was clearly relieved the struggle was over.
Together we weighed the fish. When I told him it was a fraction over thirty pounds, he said, “I must be getting old. I could have sworn it would go forty.”
With the boat drifting gently, Cliff watched me as I cleaned his salmon and slid it into the fresh ice left over from the morning’s charter. He knew about the group we had taken out in the morning.
“How would you like me to take this fish around to those arseholes and stick it up their noses?”
I pitched over, laughing. It was the right thing to say at just the right time. Somehow it lightened my life. I shook his hand and thanked him. He didn’t release my hand but held it until I looked back into his eyes. “Thank you, my friend,” I said, “for an unforgettable day.”
“No. Thank you, Peter.”
We stood there, looking deep into each other. I realized he was saying goodbye. I let go of his hand and put an arm around him and gave him a squeeze.
When I told him to sit down while I took us back to RON he suggested we call it a day. “Let’s end it on a perfect note.”
So I packed up the tackle, cranked up the engine and headed for the dock. I called ahead on the VHF so Alison would be ready to collect Cliff and drive him home.
Fortunately there was no wind when we came in to moor, so it was an easy job to bring the Kalua alongside and tie it down with only me working the lines. Alison was waiting for us at our slip and made a huge fuss of the salmon. She insisted on taking pictures of Cliff and me holding it up. She even asked me to snap a few frames of her and Cliff standing by the boat. I could see she was worried about him as she bundled him off to her car. As they crossed the rattling ramp to the shore, they both turned around and waved.
That was the last time I saw Cliff. Alison called me several months later to say the cancer, which had been diagnosed before our last trip, had taken his life. I knew Cliff would say it had been a good life.
chapter 3
Jane’s Fish
A charter can bring together the most unlikely people, people who would otherwise never choose to spend four or five hours together. During these charters I try to find what I call “the locking pin”—some common element in their lives. The simplest subjects are children and jobs, but I like to find more obscure experiences. I once put together two men who had been in the same Japanese concentration camp during World War II; they had not seen each other since their convalescence and did not recognize each other when they first met on the charter. It was only after I had drawn a great deal of information out of each of them that the parallel in their lives became clear. Even when I pointed out the connection, they spent a subsequent half hour verifying each other’s identities by recalling events that occurred in the horror of the Japanese camp. In the end, they wept uncontrollably on each other’s shoulders without saying a word. While they wept, we, the onlookers, wept with them. The charter ended in a group hug with everyone thanking the two old warriors for their courage.
The first people to come aboard Jane’s charter were Jane and her husband, Jeff, a couple in their early forties from Southern California. This was the second fishing charter they had booked while on Vancouver Island. Their first trip was in Tofino, where they spent an exciting morning catching and releasing some magnificent salmon. It was so much fun they decided to splurge on a second charter. I said a quiet thank you to the skipper of the Tofino charter and reminded this couple that unlike the weather in Tofino, here it was clear and hot. Jane produced a jumbo tube of sunblock and assured me that as Southern Californians they knew what the sun could do.
“Good,” I said. “Be sure to wash your hands with soap and water after applying the cream and keep your hats on.” They were wearing identical khaki slacks with identical white shirts, and to the amusement of the other guests, they wore identical floppy hats with their names on them. Jane was tall, around five foot eleven, while Jeff was slightly over six feet. Probably in their early forties, they looked athletic and made a handsome couple who gave the impression of being content with each other by the way they held hands and whispered together. During the course of the charter, I learned they were both competitive riders and owned training stables outside of Los Angeles.
The next guests to come aboard were brothers. The first was slightly built, under average height, with a varnished, bald head, wild, bushy eyebrows and ears set too low in his head, which gave him the appearance of a melting Popsicle. He was wearing a blue and grey rugby jersey and a pair of blue jeans held up by an oversized belt that nearly wrapped twice around his waist. He introduced himself as Matt. His brother was short and stocky with a protruding stomach that did not seem to be part of his body. He wore brown polyester pants and a plaid cotton shirt so well washed the colours had faded to grey. He looked as though he had dressed in a hurry and might have forgotten to slip on his undergarments. Shaking my hand with a crushing grip, he introduced himself as Vic. Both men had well-serviced hands. No fear of losing a rod overboard. Perched on the back of their heads were soiled baseball caps that were obviously part of their daily wear.
During the course of the charter, I learned they were dairy farmers who had family in Alberta tending the farm while they gave themselves a brief vacation from the routine of work. This was to be the highlight of their vacation. No pressure here, I thought wryly.
Arriving last was a young couple in their late twenties. They looked scrubbed and starched. They both wore short-sleeved shirts with button-down collars, new white deck shoes and stylish shorts with so many pockets you could lose your hands in them. Their flashing smiles showed white teeth and good humour. They eagerly introduced themselves as Alice and Ethan. Ah, computer nerds.
I looked up at Sten, who was already at the helm monitoring the engine and adjusting the squelch on the CB. When he looked back at me I threw him a questioning look.
“I’ll stay at the helm,” he said.
“You’re on,” I replied in response to our usual unspoken bet.
While Sten cruised us to the ten-fathom mark in the bay, I gave the guests a class in Drift Fishing 101. I taught them how to strip out the line, how to work the reels and how to react when they had a strike. Once they seemed confident about how to use the gear, I checked them for sunblock and reminded them to wash their hands before I dispersed them around the boat with their rods. For about an hour and