Quatsino Sound Fishing: Prelude & Day 1
Hold him. Hold him. Hold him as softly as you can. He'll have to tire. Don't let him break. Soft with him. Softly. Softly.
I'm expecting something magical. Some kind of transcendental fishing experience. I look at the motorcycle hanging in the air to my left - an alleged piece of art off of Highway 19. My eyes close. We're in Coal Harbour shortly thereafter and we're loading the boat and I see a forklift taking a plane out of the water. What happens next is of little importance: we unpack; we prepare the boat and gear; I catch my first salmon - a small pink.
Alex is our captain and my dad's childhood friend. He tells me about the gear he uses: 80 lb. braid for the main line and 40 lb. monofilament for the 48" leaders. Attached to the downrigger is a 12 lb. weight. I've only used a downrigger once before and I always thought it was an intimidating piece of equipment and I never thought I'd use one myself. My concerns are alleviated after a brief explanation from Alex. The whole set-up isn't as complicated as I originally imagined.
On the first day the ocean is calm. I'm excited and I land several fish. But the ones I lose affect me more. I hold my head in my hands and I mutter profanities under my breath. Every time I grab my rod I'm pelted with advice: "45 degrees to the boat and 45 degrees up!" "Reel in the slack!" "Raise the tip!" "Stay by the edge so you can see the fish!" "Walk towards the door!" "Drop the tip!" I'm the only one on the trip who's never fished for salmon before. But I didn't think I'd be doing so many things incorrectly. Everyone seems to be better than me. I'm at the mercy of their knowledge.
My inadequacy rears its head again as we fillet the fish at the end of the day. I haven't cleaned one since March. I'm rusty and I know I'm not doing a good job and I know I need to practise. Apparently my method is just a crude attempt at "trial and error". I'm quickly relegated to a secondary role. My thoughts drift to Huntsville where I'll be able to fish and learn on my own. But here in Quatsino my mistakes won't be tolerated. I must be getting soft.
At dinnertime I sit quietly at the table. I'm driven to get better and I'm trying to remember all of the advice and I'm trying to figure out which information to digest and which to discard. A few glasses of bourbon calm my nerves. I leave the main cottage to go to bed and I realize that I'm surrounded by mountains and moonlight. I'm thoroughly unimpressed. If only I could see these things reflected in the eyes of a blonde with a southern drawl. But I shake off this pitiful thought. Beauty flows through my pen - not from nature. And certainly not from someone else.
I'm expecting something magical. Some kind of transcendental fishing experience. I look at the motorcycle hanging in the air to my left - an alleged piece of art off of Highway 19. My eyes close. We're in Coal Harbour shortly thereafter and we're loading the boat and I see a forklift taking a plane out of the water. What happens next is of little importance: we unpack; we prepare the boat and gear; I catch my first salmon - a small pink.
Alex is our captain and my dad's childhood friend. He tells me about the gear he uses: 80 lb. braid for the main line and 40 lb. monofilament for the 48" leaders. Attached to the downrigger is a 12 lb. weight. I've only used a downrigger once before and I always thought it was an intimidating piece of equipment and I never thought I'd use one myself. My concerns are alleviated after a brief explanation from Alex. The whole set-up isn't as complicated as I originally imagined.
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