'Drawn To Sea; From Paintbrush to Chainsaw, Carving out a life in BC's Rugged Raincoast'
Fishing Again
They that sail on the sea tell of the danger thereof,
and we hear it with our ears, we marvel thereat.
Ecclesiastes XLK111 26
Yes, indeed, I am going out fishing again in spite of my last dreadful experience. I’m already gone. I’m lucky, because competition for this job as Billy’s deckhand is fierce. One disappointed young man grumbled in disgust that “old lady Maximchuk” got the job again. I’m forty-three.
Fishing begins with the usual mad day in Port Hardy taking care of business. I ship some paintings to my gallery in White Rock, and Billy finds a fellow to install the recently repaired autopilot. At the Seafoods dock, we idle the boat up beside the narrow walkway below the ice machine, waiting our turn. Hurry up and wait: the mantra of the coast. When the boat ahead of us pulls away, Billy powers Ocean Dawn in close under the chute. I leap over the side to secure the tie-up lines. We scramble to lift the heavy blue hatch cover and tilt it on its side on the deck. Then Billy climbs down into the belly of the boat and the fellows on the dock above maneuver the long white chute so it hangs over the opening. Billy grabs it just before they yell, “Let ‘er go.” An avalanche of small ice chunks roars down the chute as Billy directs the flow of ice into the side chambers. We’ll use this ice to bury the salmon in as soon as they are dressed and washed. In the best of all possible worlds the hold will be filled with neatly arrayed ranks of almost frozen salmon in the next ten days.
Our first evening’s anchorage is Hope Island. Immediately I’m caught in the spell of this mysterious and magic island. We go for a leisurely row around a narrow gut and beach the dinghy at the old village site. I wander alone with my sketchbook at twilight. The beach is composed of one-to-two inch dark, smooth, oval stones that slide against each other, making walking difficult. The stones are an enlarged version of the shape of clay platelets in suspension in water, the structure that makes clay plastic. Another pattern to ponder in the larger scheme of universal design. I collect a bag of stones to take home to arrange somewhere in my garden. A few years back I took home a wonderful brick red rock from Lauder Island in the Charlottes, about two inches deep, ten by twelve with perpendicular squared sides. If Billy had let me, I would have brought home enough of them to pave a patio. Now that one piece serves as the doorstep to my fenced garden. I have some small shells, too, so I’m thinking I‘ll make a small “fairy” town with the Hope Island rocks under the billowing Rose des Peintres.
Hope Island’s original name is Xumdaspe. It’s the site of another deserted First Nations village. The anchorage is protected from weather, and yet the view from the headland by the curving beach is expansive. Crumbling away to salal and moss in an overgrown thicket are the skeletons of a couple of old houses, and on the grassy expanse by the beach fragrant narcissus bloom. Hope Island has a melancholy, evocative air; if I listen hard enough I catch traces of a melody just beyond my range of hearing. I long to stay for a while and paint however we’re on a fishing trip so on we must go. Someday I’ll reconnect with this haunting place.
Our first day of serious traveling we run in fog all the way past Cape Caution, Calvert Island to anchor in Swanson Bay, the site of the first pulp mill in British Columbia. A giant brick chimney rears up, and great tall posts rammed into the sea bottom are all that is left of what once was a mammoth dock. Hard to visualize this thickly forested bay as a townsite for five hundred people, a Fisheries station and a regular steamer stop. It’s so still and gloomy. Next day we’re on to Graham Reach, Fraser Reach…these long channels with steep sides make for a safe passage but they’re monotonous. After a long droning run we arrive in Prince Rupert and once again my brother Frank joins me for a good dinner and visit.
A change of pace as we make our way from Rupert the next morning, to the top end of Graham Island. The weather switches up from gloomy fog to pelagic nightmare. I stow the kettle and teapot in the sink, clear the countertop and the table of dishes and salt and pepper shakers. Crib board and cards are stashed in the drawers. An enraged sea god sends a screaming wind through the rigging and hurls it in all directions. It scoops up prodigious hunks of seawater and shatters them over Ocean Dawn. Colossal foaming waves rupture into smoking froth as the tempest rips their tops off. The drawer under the table flies open and slams shut as we roll hard from one side to the other. Finally it bursts open so forcefully the contents explode onto the floor.
“Leave it,” says Billy. “No point in trying to pick it up now.” The music tapes dive off their shelf on the back wall and join the pile on the floor.
Braced in the wheelhouse door I take pictures when the starboard gunwale disappears under green water boiling over the side. I’m fully appreciating scuppers at this moment. A small photograph won’t effectively portray the unleashed elemental energies, but I can’t resist trying to get a good shot. It’s better than flopping about the wheelhouse. The mountainous sea surpasses itself at Rose Spit, and I shoot two photos of a boat we pass: one of the boat on the crest of the swell, almost bounding off the water and a second with just the tip of the mast showing.
Mid-afternoon, we drop the anchor behind Striae Island and fall into the bunks. Billy gets his happy “I’m in my little bunk,” smile on his face and begins to snore within ten seconds. I am rattled in my bones and lie awake waiting for the pumping adrenaline to recede. Soon the cradle-like rocking of the boat performs its soothing magic, and I too fall into sleep. Later we spend a long time tidying things up in the wheelhouse, then take a look at the fishing gear. What a mess. It takes hours to untangle all the leader lines, flashers, hooks and to make neat coils of the fishing lines.
Opening day finally. July 1 brings perfect fishing conditions: a shell pink and yellow sunrise as we set the gear, followed by a cloudy grey sky, a spit of rain and a little chop on the sea surface. The sea is whipped cream on lime green jello, so green variations of hoochies work well in the morning. In the afternoon the silver spoons are more effective. Billy is particular about keeping the spoons shiny. I wipe them with the special bottle of Stay-Brite “hydrotone” which contains sodium chromate. We’re delighted with our day’s catch of forty-eight chinook and sixteen coho, though all day we battle slimy stinging jellyfish that get hung up on the gurdy wires. The red jelly sprays out in burning glops as we wind up the wire to bring in the fish. The constant cleaning of the gear and the irritation of jellyfish on skin doesn’t do much for the skipper’s temper. Early in the day I put on my rain gear and donned gloves and chrome-yellow wristers to protect my “lily-white hands” but the skipper is much tougher and can’t be bothered to cover up. Boy, is he sorry. The fisherman’s cure for jellyfish stings, a liberal application of canned milk, doesn’t help. Neither does baking soda or peeing on his hands.
The second day of fishing is awful, fewer salmon, more jellyfish, and the third day even worse. No fish, and a lot of complaining by the skippers to each other on their secret channel. Fish or run? By day four our daily catch has deteriorated to a grand total of six. Billy is so dispirited we pack it in early, anchor in our old spot by Cape Naden and watch a pretty sunset. We discuss the bad rumors abounding: the lack of salmon anywhere, the terrible price, our catch and the too-small allocation of the total amount of salmon the trollers, gillnetters and seine boats are allowed to catch. Plan A, to fish the top end of the Charlottes and make our fishing fortune, is a complete bust. Conclusion? We’ll head for the Oval Bank and try our luck there.
The scene at the Oval Bank is equally bleak. One large chinook salmon and nine coho are not enough to keep us here. Plan B, also a bust.
“So much for Plan A and Plan B,” says Billy. “I’ll have to work on Plan C”.
We anchor for the night in a mosquito-ridden bay near McDonald Island, and get the hell out of there as early as possible in the dawn light. The place names here are ominous, enough to strike fear into the heart of any able yet superstitious mariner: Terror Point, Devastation Channel, Anger Island. Even the usually thrilling sound of wolves howling strikes a mournful note. What trials and tribulations afflicted Captain Vancouver and his crew here? For us, poor fishing keeps us moving. Billy catches a couple of reports of good fishing at Topknot on the west coast of Vancouver Island. He contemplates setting a heading directly for Cape Scott instead of swinging close by Cape Sutil; the weather looks good for it.
Departing McDonald Island we set our course. Plan C: head for Cape Scott, destination Topknot. On this wonderful run, I truly have the sense of being a sailor surging “over the bounding main”, gliding smoothly over long, sapphire swells, into the western sea. I wash out my nightie and some t-shirts and hang the laundry on the lines under the boom. The clothes snap and dance in the sunny breeze. A quick sketch in my book: what a terrific painting this’ll make. I love the look of laundry for a painting anyway. It’s one of my favorite subjects and something that attracts my eye whether it’s hanging here or hanging off the balconies of southern France.
The setting sun burns into our eyes as we run towards it. Finally the swollen orange ball slips behind the long arc of the horizon, and dusky amethyst twilight envelops us. The splendour of the sunset is encored when the aurora borealis lights up the sky and is reflected on the smooth sea we traverse.
Endless hours of running bring us by midnight to Hansen Lagoon, around the corner from Cape Scott. We set the hook, collapse into the bunks and are up again at 3:30 a.m. Three hours sleep is not enough to energize a body for a long fishing day. However, we are buoyed by our catch of nineteen springs off Topknot, a tremendous improvement over zero, zero, one, six and ten in the previous five days. Hours in the cockpit trying different lures and hoochies keeps us awake as the boat rises and falls in a somnolent swell. Finally I can’t take it anymore and lie down on the deck for a snooze. Every couple of hours the gear jerks and there’s a fish on.
A couple of days go by like this, it’s peaceful. We don’t talk much, just work the gear.
One morning Billy is all squirmy in the cockpit, hitching up his rain gear, adjusting it repeatedly.
“What’s your problem, got ants in your pants?” I inquire as I bring in the mainline. He doesn’t reply, just reaches inside his rain pants and tugs.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask again. Abruptly he leaps out of the cockpit, scurries into the wheelhouse, reappears seconds later wielding a big knife.
Holy shit! I think, he’s lost it completely. Back to the cockpit, Billy sticks the knife in his pants, sawing it up and down under the rubber rain gear. He withdraws the knife, lays it on the deck and reaches in again. A couple of tugs and out comes his boxer shorts, cut completely down the side seams. He flings them into the air, and they sail away behind us.
“Goddam shorts got no elastic, and they keep falling down,” he mutters. I laugh all afternoon. Days later I’m still laughing.
Another day of fishing the big springs, still sunny with a long slow swell. We haul in 11. The next day the sky has a brassy yellow-grey lustre, and the sea is flat calm. A ring circles the sun as we head out to the fishing grounds. Off to starboard I spot a large round object.
“Pass me the binoculars, would you?” I ask, peering out the window.
“What do you see?” he asks.
“A big glass Japanese fishing float. Billy, it’s really big. Let’s go get it.”
“It’s probably just a plastic one,” he says. “You don’t get big glass ones like that anymore.”
“No, I’m sure it’s glass. At least let’s go take a look,” I plead.
Billy huffs his breath out but turns the wheel. I’m jubilant as we pull alongside the turquoise beauty. How to get it into the boat is the problem. Our first idea is to stick the pike pole through a plastic garbage bag and scoop it up. No joy. The pretty treasure bobs gently by the boat while we discuss its capture. Finally Billy says to me, “You hold my legs and I’ll lean over the side and grab it, okay?”
“I guess,” I say dubiously. Visions of how I’ll get him back if I drop him into the chuck flash through my mind. What’ll I tell Coast Guard when I call in a “man overboard” Mayday? What’ll I tell Yvonne P. if I drop him and can’t get him back? What’ll I tell anyone if I drop him and can’t get him back?
“You’re not gonna drop me,” says Billy, impatiently, reading my mind. “Let’s do it so we can get fishing.” I hold onto his knees as he hangs over the side and grabs the big glass ball. He heaves himself up again as I anchor his feet. We argue about who should get the prize and I win, because a) I spotted it, b) he already has forty glass balls, and c) I didn’t drop him.
Again we bring in eleven big springs. The calm air feels like it’s holding its breath. It reminds of when my children were babies and were about to scream: the long indrawn breath and the pause before the explosive wail. The sea lies like yellowed parchment etched with the calligraphic marks of small zephyrs and bird trackways.
“Kind of strange light, isn’t it?” I comment as we put the gear in the bucket.
“Yup. Time to pack it in,” says Billy. “The weather’s turning bad. We’d better go deliver.”
Although we didn’t make buckets of money this trip, fishing with Billy is always an amazing adventure. I’ve experienced more of our country’s epic scenery, broadened my horizons, acquired a big glass Japanese fishing float. I’ve got one new indelible memory as well; Billy’s boxer shorts flapping off the stern to join the gulls.
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