Stalking Salmon & Wrestling Drunks: Confessions of a Charter Boat Skipper

Confessions of a Charter Boat Skipper

Copyright © 2016 Peter L. Gordon

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Harbour Publishing Co. Ltd.

P.O. Box 219, Madeira Park, BC, V0N 2H0

www.harbourpublishing.com

Maps by Roger Handling

Edited by Arlene Prunkl

Copyedited by Brianna Cerkiewicz

Cover design by Diane Robertson

Text design and diagrams by Shed Simas

Printed in Canada on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council

Harbour Publishing acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. We also gratefully acknowledge financial support from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and from the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada

ISBN 978-1-55017-743-5 (paper)  ISBN 978-1-55017-744-2 (ebook)

With a twinkle in my eye, this book is dedicated to the important people in my life: to my dad and mum, and to Christine, Alan, Ian, Anna, Debbie, Martin and Laurie Gorilla.

An extra note of thanks to Christine for all her encouragement and help.

It is in truth not for glory, nor riches, nor honours that we are fighting, but for freedom alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself.

—Declaration of Arbroath, Scotland, April 6, 1320

Introduction

For a twelve-year period from 1978 to 1990, I ran a charter fishing boat on the West Coast of Canada, off the shores of Vancouver Island. It is a time in my life that instills delight whenever I flick through the ship’s log and photo album. The stories and anecdotes in this book are all taken from that log and from my personal memories and those of my children, who have vivid recollections of their time aboard my charter boat, a fifty-foot Monk cruiser named MV Kalua. Revisiting these experiences has been incredibly gratifying and entertaining as we laughed together at the memories.

This is not a manual on how to fish, although fishing is the thread that binds the stories together. This book is not so much about fishing as it is about human nature and people’s quirks and eccentricities and, in some cases, their enormous generosity of spirit. Some of my charters were marvellous, almost magical. Mixed in with those joyful charters were some that still move me to great sadness, while others were peopled with arrogant fools who could spoil a quiet sunrise with their presence. The biggest pleasures of my charter fishing business happened when my trinity came together—great weather, great people and great fishing.

I formed Magna Charters Ltd. in Victoria, BC, Canada, both to give me a means of financial support during the summer months and to allow me the freedom to teach drama for the Bastion Theatre during the off-season. In Victoria the charter boat season runs from late May to a few weeks after Labour Day. There is some trickle business beyond that date, but it is referred to as shoulder business and consists of only enough activity to cover a little more than operating expenses.

I chose salmon fishing as a means of financial support over numerous other possibilities because the sea, rivers and lakes have always been my safe place. It is difficult to explain the peace in my heart as I drifted slowly past Race Rocks with a crew of like-minded people, observing the plunging birds and the wondrous orcas and the majestic Olympic Mountains and . . . smelling the sea lions. The scent of the sea lions is a bonus and not appreciated by all comers. More observations on this unique smell can be found in the second chapter of this book.

When I folded Magna Charters in 1990, I felt it had run its course and served its purpose. The decline in the salmon stock in my areas was one of the reasons. It was still possible to go out and catch some salmon but it was more difficult. It was time for a change, so I purchased a fifty-acre equestrian centre near Duncan on Vancouver Island and used it to raise ostriches . . . but that is another story.

For privacy, I have taken the precaution of changing the names of everyone mentioned in this book except those of my family.

chapter 1

Visitors from Texas

Well, we have a tall Texan.

A hundred yards from our slip, by the marina office, I could see our party making its way down the rattling metal ramp to the floating dock. Between them they were carrying enough bags and baskets for a ten-day fishing trip.

So what’s your guess? I asked Sten.

This was a game Sten and I played before each charter. Simply by the appearance of our guests, we would guess at how the charter was going to turn out. I counted the number in the party—I knew there were supposed to be five.

They’re all there, I said. So what do you think?

We knew from the booking that a local resident was hosting visitors from Texas whom he wanted to take salmon fishing. We also knew they wanted to troll as opposed to drift fish. In those days, trolling—fishing with the vessel in motion—entailed the use of large flashers, hand-cranked downriggers,heavy rods with heavy line. By far my favourite choice was drift fishing—allowing the vessel to gently drift with the current with the engine off.

Sten was peering at the advancing group through my Zeiss binoculars. They’re going to be a pain, he predicted. I’ll take the helm the whole trip. You handle them. Usually the man at the helm had little to do with the guests. His job was to find the fish, keep us clear of kelp and keep us off the rocks.

I don’t think so, I said. I’m not hearing that little alarm bell in my head that I sometimes get with certain idiots. So go ahead—take the helm. I think this is going to be a blast.

I said this partly to tease him but also to initiate the bet. We invariably had a bet on what the people were going to be like. This time I was certain I was right, but the bet was on as usual.

It was a lovely, clear day with no wind. We would reach the high slack tide—slack tides are prime fishing periods—in about an hour and a half. If the people were pleasant and the fishing was good, except for the fact that I’d rather be drift fishing, the trip would be perfect.

Sten, my assistant deckhand, was a retired commercial fisherman in his mid-thirties when he applied for a job to work on my boat. From the age of fourteen he had worked as a deckhand on commercial fishing boats during his summer vacations. He had fished the waters all the way to the northern tip of Vancouver Island and beyond. He knew more about fishing than almost anyone in my circle of friends. Like me, he preferred to fish for salmon with light tackle. Trolling using forty-pound test line and rods that resembled broom handles gave us much less joy, but sometimes we had to pull out the trolling gear and put it to use because the customers requested it.

Sten had retired from commercial fishing after being caught once too often by a fierce storm off the northwest coast of Vancouver Island. It was a killer storm lasting five days; much of that time Sten was lashed into his bunk, severely seasick. After the storm subsided, half the deck gear was torn away and every pane of glass in the wheelhouse was shattered. The skipper, who was also Sten’s uncle, refitted his boat then put it up for sale along with its licence. That was when Sten applied for work with me.

In addition to his quiet good nature and enthusiasm, Sten was a magical fisherman who never lost his joy of fishing and loved to see other people catch fish. Big fish—he loved it when they caught big fish. A fish, to Sten, was always a salmon. Even a 150-pound halibut was simply a slab, not a fish. Moreover, he didn’t drink or use drugs, his language was sanitized and he was always on time—and he could cook. His reaction to our advancing party from Texas was out of character for him, so much so that I briefly doubted my intuition. I took the binoculars from Sten’s hands and watched the group as they made the long trek down the dock to our slip at the farthest point from the marina office.

No, I thought as I watched them approach, they seem all right to me. But I would let Sten have his way. He could handle the helm for the entire trip while I dealt with the guests and the gear.

This was my ninth year operating the company. Several things had changed over the years, including the introduction of a saltwater fishing licence along with serious catch quotas. In my first year of running the operation, saltwater licences did not exist and almost any size of salmon could be kept. The old-timers use to fill their freezers with coho grilse, immature salmon that had to measure only six inches to be allowed to be kept. Those they did not cook during the year would be ploughed into their compost heaps before the cycle would start all over again. Nearly a decade later, that practice had largely come to an end. There was also a move away from the food-catching mentality to a sport-fishing mentality. This new approach had become so well entrenched by my ninth year that many of the sport fishermen were releasing their undamaged catch for the purpose of conservation. We applauded these changes.

By my third year of operation, I had shifted our charters from a strict focus on catching salmon to a salmon-fishing trip with overtones of a nature tour. During the off-season I encouraged Sten to read and study various nature books so he could identify and learn about the birds in our region, their habitats and their life cycles. Other books taught him about the wildlife below our keel and the struggle for life that played out with each changing tide. He was clever and a fast learner, so it wasn’t long before he was giving lectures at the stern of the boat on the life cycle of Steller sea lions or some other form of wildlife visible from our deck. Occasionally—not often—he would mix up his facts. He once described the life cycle of a puffin when instead he meant a cormorant—two very different birds. However, none of our guests appeared to notice these mistakes, and I was never sure whether Sten was doing it on purpose. To be on the safe side, I would make a point of correcting him after the charter, but only when we were alone, sitting in the galley having a cup of coffee and discussing the events of the day.

In this relaxed atmosphere, I would also make notes in the ship’s log concerning the fishing conditions, the type and number of salmon we caught, the lures we used and the depth at which we caught our fish. Memorable charters when the people, the weather and the fishing were perfect required additional space in the log. It is these recorded memories that have served as the basis for this narrative.

Sten turned on the blower to remove potentially explosive gases from the bilge and then he fired up the engine. The VHF radio clicked on, followed by the CB, which immediately began to chatter like a parrot on an illegal stimulant. Sten turned it down and adjusted the revs on the engine. This was all done just as our party arrived alongside and prepared to board.

Permission to come aboard, Skipper? the local fellow asked. I liked this little ceremony.

"Please make yourselves at home. The Kalua welcomes you," I said. Good start, I thought as I glanced at Sten at the helm.

My vessel was called MV Kalua, a name and spelling I inherited and at first wanted to change. But the very idea was considered such bad luck that when I tried to change it, no one would answer my calls on the CB. So that plan quickly sunk like a stone in Victoria Harbour.

The first person to come aboard was the local man, who introduced himself as Jake. This was perplexing, since during the entire trip no one else called him Jake except me, and it remains a mystery to this day. He clamped me by the shoulders and whispered in my ear that his guests were special friends from Texas and he really wanted them to catch a salmon. I told him we would do our best.

Next the tall Texan, Chuck, came on board. Reaching over the railing, he helped a diminutive blond woman onto the deck, who turned out to be his wife. Scarcely more than five feet tall, she was wearing skin-tight, neon blue designer jeans with red embroidery on the back pockets, matching deck shoes and a light blue blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves. A light scent hung about her that reminded me of lavender.

Are you wearing hand cream? I asked. Most fishermen agree that a lure should not carry human or chemical smells. Women often came on our charters wearing hand cream, which tainted the lures with the odour of the cream. The hands of smokers had the same effect, so we would try to convince them to wash their hands as well.

Yes, she said. Do you like it?

I looked at her closely for the first time and realized she was a stunningly beautiful woman. Remember to wash your hands before you handle the gear.

She looked up at her husband with slight embarrassment as though expecting a reprimand. Don’t say it!

Honey, it ain’t nothing. He flashed her a generous smile. They had obviously discussed the use of hand cream before leaving home.

The rest of the party clambered on board, struggling with hampers, bags and baskets. I helped them down the companionway and into the forward cabin, where they could stow their gear and make themselves at home while we cast off.

With Sten at the helm, I did the honours. I unfastened the spring lines, which prevent fore and aft surging, then the bowline. There was no wind so I gave the bow a push away from the dock while Sten slipped the engine into reverse and spun the helm a half turn. The Kalua slowly moved in reverse and strained against the stern line I had wrapped around a bollard on the dock. As the bow swung around, I fed out the line until the vessel had spun a full 180 degrees and was facing the channel that would take us into the bay. With Sten’s eyes on me, I nodded at him when the boat was in position, unwrapped the rest of the stern line from the bollard and stepped onto the stern deck with the line in my hand. We smiled at each other. The slack wind had helped us to execute a flawless cast-off, but no one would notice except us.

During the next half hour I made sure everyone had their licences and that they were properly completed. I also went through the routine of demonstrating how to flush the toilet in the head—the W.C. Although I’d made many upgrades to the boat, the toilet was still operated manually with instructions attached to the back of the head door. At least twice a week one of our guests would emerge from the head with a bewildered look and ask for help with flushing. It was simple: use the toilet, lower the lid, put your right foot on the only pedal available and work the lever back and forth to pump the bowl clean. Easy, but more complicated than pushing a handle, and baffling to many members of the general public.

While I checked fishing licences, poured cups of coffee and pulled hot Danishes from the oven, Sten took us at planing speed to our first fishing spot. As we approached, he throttled the engine back slowly, and the boat settled from its plane into the water. Sten turned on the paper sounder—also known as a depth sounder or echo sounder—and I heard the click, click, click of the stylus scoring the thermal paper. In five minutes Sten would call out that we were ready to begin fishing. Before going to the stern deck to set up the fishing gear, I’d have a quick look at the paper sounder, which would show us the baitfish; this in turn would give me an idea of the depth at which to start fishing. Sounders were originally developed to show depth; revealing the presence of fish turned out to be a bonus. The downriggers were already in place and the lead weights ready to be mounted onto their stainless steel cables.

The routine of setting out the fishing gear always attracted a crowd on our spacious stern deck. First I set up the downriggers, then the rods with the lures at the end of their lines. On this day I wanted a slow roll to our bait, meaning the lure imitates a wounded spiralling herring. Sten throttled back as I lowered the gear to fishing depth. And just like that, we were in business.

With everything set and in place, I turned back to the group of fishermen and explained that when a salmon took the bait, the bell on the arm of the downrigger would ring and the fish’s strike would release the line from the downrigger. I would pick up the rod and crank in the slack line until I felt contact with the salmon on the end, then hand the rod to the first designated fisherman.

Have you decided who’s going to take the first strike? The group of eyes was staring at me intently, but I directed my question to Jake.

I think that should be Chuck, he said tapping the tall Texan on the arm. Not a surprising choice, I thought.

Aw, come on, Al, you take the first strike. You’re local—show us how to lose a fish.

Al? Jake? Okay, whatever. I laughed along with everyone else. Show them how it’s done, Jake, I said. You’re not going to let some Texas greenhorn jerk your chain, are you?

As I spoke Sten’s hand shot up; simultaneously the portside downrigger bell gave a single ring. Out of habit I snatched the rod out of its holder, cranking furiously on the handle until I felt the heavy weight of the fish at the other end. Sten had put the engine into neutral and come down to help me. I held the rod tip up and tightened the drag slightly. I could feel the fish thrashing at the end of the line but not running.

Sten raised both downriggers and unclipped the weights. Any size? he asked.

Under twenty pounds, over fifteen.

You going to hand it off?

Uh-huh. I knew what he meant with his question. We would have a better chance of landing the fish if I played it. Returning to port with a fish on ice is important for the overall experience. Still, I knew Jake and Chuck would be eager. I called over my shoulder, So who’s it going to be?

Jake was standing beside me, trying to say something. I grabbed his right arm and placed the rod firmly into his grip. You play it, I said. It’s a good fish.

As I handed him the rod, the fish took its first run. When a fish sounds, it is heading for the bottom of the ocean. This salmon didn’t sound—it didn’t head for deep water—but screamed to the surface in a headlong rush for the horizon, trailing line behind it.

How much line do you have on this thing? Jake asked under his breath. I could tell his adrenalin was pumping by the quiver in his voice and his jerky movements.

Enough. Keep your rod tip up and keep pressure on the fish.

His rod tip came up twenty degrees and he stopped reeling as the fish peeled out line, pulling against the drag on the reel.

Watch out, I said. It’s going to stop and thrash, so keep pressure on it. Before Jake could follow my instructions, the salmon sounded then came streaming back at the boat.

Reel! I shouted. "Come on, reel faster or it’ll throw the hook.