Gone Fishin’

Chapter ten in the series Stories from Somewhere, by me, Ken Gray

“Mayday*Mayday*Mayday.”

My shouted distress call must have looked silly. There I was, standing in a wobbly west coast dory, shouting into a bank of dense fog that had quickly appeared out of nowhere, covering us in our little skiff. Close to the shore off the rocky spit in a boat powered by a small Evinrude outboard motor the danger was real.

What started out as a Saturday fishing trip over calm waters, a dusting of fluffy white clouds parading across a clear blue sky, suddenly became a “Sea of Galilee” tempest of biblical proportions. Uncomfortably shrouded, I could hear other boats near us, but could not see a thing beyond my outstretched hands. It was a most unsettling predicament to say the least; if we couldn’t see others, they likely couldn’t see us.

Adding to my anxiety was that we didn’t have a radio or any kind of emergency transmitter. While my distressed call reached no one, it just felt appropriate to yell at the grey haze. My experienced fishing buddy, Lon, assured me that all would be well. I remained nervous just the same.

“The fog will break as fast as it dropped. You watch.”

“Good to know. How do we let other boats know we are here?” I asked.

“Just listen carefully and keep your eyes open. They will be cautious, just like us. Keep yelling if you want to.”

“Does this happen a lot? — Now you see; now you don’t?”

“Especially this time of year, yes. Most importantly, we need to watch for the rocks at the end of the spit. As the barometer falls, the water will become choppy.”

An icon of our little town, the Spit is situated between the harbour and the open water. On a clear day it offers a scenic coastal walk along the shoreline. Wildlife such as shorebirds and sea lions find a home or resting place there most months of the year. The surrounding water is home to a variety of fish including Chinook and Coho Salmon, Halibut, Lingcod, and Dungeness Crab. Highly recommended by anglers, we wanted to try our luck.

“Is this your first time fishing from a boat?” enquired Lon.

“Yes. As a kid I tried my hand at casting from shore along riverbanks but with little success. I usually flipped my lure backwards where it would snag on a branch.”

“Ya, I never figured out casting myself. Never tried fly fishing either, though it’s impressive to watch. Much easier to troll slowly from a boat.”

“How long do you usually stay out?”

“Until I catch something.”

“Do you always catch something?”

“What do you think?”

The spit almost landlocks the harbour and the basin behind it, so much so that when nautical explorers first passed by centuries ago, they almost missed the entrance and the village. The harbour is home to a number of fishing vessels, docks, and families —  Indigenous and settler folks — all part of a proud marine tradition, a diminishing history for sure, but one still visible and present. It’s also a place of exploration and wonder for bird watchers, photographers, painters, rock hounds, metal detectors, dog walkers, and for those “young at heart” who love to build structures from driftwood strewn over the harbour beach area.

“I love coming down here, to this place — a place for lovers, laughers, and loafers” — I rhapsodize with a laugh. “Kinda poetic don’t you think? It looks so different from the water . . . I do hope, however, that the fog will disappear soon.”

“It will; you watch . . .”

And a few minutes later . . . it did! The grey blanket lifted as quickly as it came over us. All of a sudden, multiple vistas came into sharp focus; I wish I had my camera with me. To the east, the Sylvan Ranch — a hilly, forested, cliff-lined paradise with its herd of highland cattle grazing on lush grass — It shimmered in the morning light. Looking back towards the harbour, the village also glistened. At the end of the spit a famous boutique hotel — known for its award-winning restaurant, its luxury accommodation, and its famous visitors who sometimes arrive by helicopter — a luxury experience that beckons to the wise, the weird, and the wealthy.”

“Tada! What a beautiful day at last.”

“I Told you so” Lon reminded me.

Suddenly, the roar of a trawler engine broke through our conversation. A red and white commercial trawler was closing in on us, fast. It came abreast only fifty or so yards away.

Lon seemed alarmed: “Hello, what have we here?”

The boat left a strong wake behind as it sped towards the harbour. It should already have reduced speed, but it didn’t. Two people were on a flying bridge atop the wheelhouse. They seemed to be arguing — a tall man wearing a cap, and a shorter woman with long, black hair. The man was gesticulating wildly; the woman backed away from him, it seemed with difficulty.

“I wish they would slow down” Lon grumbled. “That’s reckless navigation. Hang on to the side; we’re going to bounce around a bit. Steady yourself,” he cautioned.

Still watching the bridge conflict I sucked in my breath: “I think the man just hit the woman.”

“I think you’re right” Lon said, raising his voice.

The woman ducked and turned towards us. Then I saw her; I recognized her.

“I know the woman. She attends my church; we sing in the choir together. Her name is Ronni.”

“Right; I know the family; the McKies, long time fishers and loggers. A stubborn bunch; tough crowd.”

“Yes, she told me about her family. This is concerning.”

As the waters calmed and the trawler turned the corner into the harbour and disappeared, we returned to our own adventure. The Spit looked lovely now. Sturdy sharp-edged rock on the ocean side protected the more delicate sandy shore on the harbour side. During rough weather, the rock was sometimes punctured requiring expensive and timely repair. A broken breakwater with a gaping hole was no good to anyone.

It felt like our community had its own gaping hole, and it was growing wider, worn away on all sides, person by person, event by event. And the worst of it all, for us, the fish were not biting. We headed back to the marina, empty handed, a bit puzzled at what we saw, and more than a little broken hearted.

For other chapters in the series: Stories from Somewhere go here.

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