Quatsino Sound Fishing: Day 3
But each one must examine his own work, and then he will have reason for boasting in regard to himself alone, and not in regard to another.
The third day passes quickly. In its twilight, I cast a pink and purple jig on a spinning rod which Doug, the resident life of the party, graciously lets me borrow. I'm already thinking about tomorrow's schedule: first, breakfast; then we try to catch our limit of wild coho, hopefully catching some hatchery fish in the process; then we go closer to shore, where the regulations are less stringent, to put a few more in the boat; then we get the crab traps, eat dinner, and go to sleep. My drink sits on the fish cleaning table beside me. The same glass that holds bourbon tonight will hold bourbon tomorrow.
The ocean's been getting rougher, and the size of our crew is dwindling every day. Not that it really matters. We've generally only had two lines in the water at once, so fewer people in the boat means more opportunities to make mistakes. Still, despite my shortcomings, we've been averaging about 12-14 fish per day. I later learn that some people fishing near us did much worse, including a "humbling" single fish day for one boat. Without a doubt, our success is the product of Captain Alex's skill and knowledge which rivals, or perhaps even exceeds, that of professional guides in the area.
I take a sip from my now diluted drink and cast the jig out again, waiting until it hits bottom. A stern look's been on my face all day. The weather in Quatsino Sound has been excellent so far; shorts and a t-shirt suffice, even in the evenings, except maybe for those bothered by mosquitoes. Two eagles fight in the distance. I've been uncannily quiet during this trip in an attempt to soak up as much information as possible. I'm studying not only Alex's method, but also his demeanour; I want to figure out what makes him successful. I want to know how he consistently catches so many fish.
After hopping the lure a few times, I get a bite. The 20 lb. braid is not ideal for catching little guys, but at least it's sensitive. I set the hook - fish on! It's puny relative to the salmon we've been catching. Lifting the rod, I see a brill (or is it an arrowtooth flounder?) at the end of the line, its wide, flat body and tiny head spinning in an unfamiliar medium. I can't help but smile: this is the first fish I've caught all week. I throw it back in the water where it belongs. The brill, dumb and incapable of learning from its mistakes, swims away.
The third day passes quickly. In its twilight, I cast a pink and purple jig on a spinning rod which Doug, the resident life of the party, graciously lets me borrow. I'm already thinking about tomorrow's schedule: first, breakfast; then we try to catch our limit of wild coho, hopefully catching some hatchery fish in the process; then we go closer to shore, where the regulations are less stringent, to put a few more in the boat; then we get the crab traps, eat dinner, and go to sleep. My drink sits on the fish cleaning table beside me. The same glass that holds bourbon tonight will hold bourbon tomorrow.
The ocean's been getting rougher, and the size of our crew is dwindling every day. Not that it really matters. We've generally only had two lines in the water at once, so fewer people in the boat means more opportunities to make mistakes. Still, despite my shortcomings, we've been averaging about 12-14 fish per day. I later learn that some people fishing near us did much worse, including a "humbling" single fish day for one boat. Without a doubt, our success is the product of Captain Alex's skill and knowledge which rivals, or perhaps even exceeds, that of professional guides in the area.
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