Quatsino Sound Fishing: Day 2

The labor seemed lighter to him during the heat of the day. The sweat in which he was bathed refreshed him; and the sun, burning his back, his head, and his arms bared to the elbow, gave him force and tenacity for his work. More and more frequently the moments of oblivion, of unconsciousness of what he was doing, came back to him; the scythe went of itself. Those were happy moments.
Darkness greets the start of the second day. Some rise with fervour, others, reluctance, though most manage to make it to the boat. The true fishermen ignore the coffee brewing in the kitchen; their caffeine, excitement. Today marks our first (and, ultimately, last) day of bottom fishing. Short, stiff rods and heavy weights take centre stage, and our coolers, typically stoic, are aching to be filled with halibut fillets. They watch, hungrily, as our boat leaves the dock, a remnant of a fish farm.

The bottom fishing ends as quickly as it begins: turbulence wreaks its peculiar havoc. Still, Lorraine, a fellow writer, catches a dogfish in that short window of time. Her good fortune and show of skill continue when we revert to trolling for salmon. For the first time on the trip, the drag screams: the sound of a fish showcasing its strength and determination; our ears, intoxicated. Lorraine brings a good-sized king into the boat. This is what we're after.

As the day goes on, my challenges continue. On the one hand, I'm well aware that I need to refine my technique, particularly when it comes to holding my rod at a 45 degree angle. On the other hand, it's possible that, by trying to follow everyone's advice, I'm over-thinking and not relying on feel and instinct, especially when I'm working fish near the boat. And so I'm losing some I might otherwise land. Strangely enough, I rarely have any problems getting fish into my net when I'm on the water alone. But, I suppose, fishing for salmon is a different kind of beast.

On the way to the gas dock in Coal Harbour, I'm still trying to figure out how I can improve. Don't lower the rod after getting the line off the clip. Don't stop reeling when there's slack. Don't do this; don't do that. Meanwhile, the boat slows, a signal that I need to start focussing on snagging the line of the crab trap. I pull the buoy into the boat, and start lifting, my muscles surprised at the relative ease of the task. But soon after, my consciousness focusses only on the strain I'm feeling, and the heat of the sun on my back; this is the first of four traps.

The day's bounty of dungeness crabs is fantastic: 12 good-sized males. Alex teaches me how to clean them, and, before long, I relish cutting these awkward creatures in two, pulling them apart, taking out their gills, and spraying out the rest of the inedible parts with a hose. In Comox, they sell for $10.98/pound, and I quickly discover they're worth every penny. On the second day, as darkness reintroduces itself and coolers sit disappointed, stomachs delight, particularly satiated.

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