“Look Woody. Anyone who would want to go fishing in January in the middle of a blizzard in an open boat has to be nuts. Besides I planned to work in the basement this afternoon , not exciting but warm and dry.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see the heavy black cloud out my kitchen window in the Vancouver suburb of Kerrisdale and a few snow flakes whipped around the eves.It was nearly noon but dark enough to be dusk. My mind raced ahead of our conservation , thinking of alternative arguments to present to my fishing partner and medical classmate John Woodward . His infectious chuckle came back over the phone. I realized that any more objections were hopeless. When Woody felt the urge to fish, nothing but a tidal wave would discourage him. With a sigh I hung up the phone and glanced at the clock.The allotted fifteen minutes to be ready just allowed time to find my long underwear and the thermos for hot coffee. My tackle box showed neglect. Tucked in the bottom there were two hand tied mooching leaders left over from Pender Harbour coho fishing in September, nestled in their foil wrappers. Only ten pound test with two tandem number eight triple hooks . No problem. Enough for this exercise in mid river diversion. Oh yes mustn’t forget me heavy gloves and boots.Too bad I didn’t have a tackle box size psychiatrist to come along.
Horseshoe Bay outside Vancouver across the Lions Gate bridge is narrow and a depot for the car ferries serving Vancouver Island. The view from the crest of the entry hill looked like an add for an Iceland airline. A line up of cars loaded the ferry under a cloud of steam and exhaust. Short puffs of cold wind ruffled the trees next to the boat rental. One one thing that could be said about the scene was that parking was not a problem. Feeling a bit self conscious we packed our gear down the long float to the boat rental office. “Sign the book, Woody and I will will rig up.Better get a rental boat with a canopy on it. It could be a long afternoon.” . The rental engine started sluggishly after the fifth pull. Disturbing, but as the man said, it’s cold and damp today. “Oh yes, we need some bait. Strip or whole herring will do. I suppose that you don’t have any live ones do you ?” We were going to motor mooch for winter springs and the live ones were like candy for them. The young attendant looked glum with his hands buried deeply in his pockets. Low and behold there was a live herring pond which looked empty. Vigorous stirring produced seven or eight cheerful live herring who slowly became sleepy in the smallish bucket that we stored then in and if they died fresh strip could be cut from them which could be effective. Our boat quickly demonstrated its own perverse personality. Boarding over the stern, under the low slung canopy, in bulky clothing together with eleven foot mooching rod, thermos and herring bucket was reminiscent of an old Laurel and Harvey movie. More problems arose as I lowered my bulk on to the fibreglass seat only to have it slither around loosely on its attachments. It had at sometime come loose and was only connected to the floor by one corner. It was only with some gymnastic skills that I was able to keep my balance. To compound the problem, the worn soles of my rubber soles refused to grip the slippery deck. The net result was a posture like a Japanese Sumo wrestler only with a blue cold nose since the canopy prevented us from standing upright. Woody finally fared a little better sitting with his back to the engine and his backside wedged in the corner of the stern. The trip across the bay out past the mouth to the popular “ hole in the wall” fishing spot was memorable mainly by the number of times that a live herring sloshed out of the bucket. This resulted in a hilarious scramble to retrieve the flipping slippery little monsters . Added to this was evading a large ferry coming into its berth and increasing amounts of snow to illustrate the scenario and our mood when we were ready to fish. The memory of the next several hours comes back to me mercifully as a blur. The other three of four boats seemed intent in fishing with us in the same square feet of water requiring deft maneuvering. A big cruiser came and anchored right in the middle of the fleet so we all had a stretched out anchor line to avoid. No one caught a fish. The gloom descended. The engine gradually attracted our attention. It had been beautifully matched to the boat and the weather. It kept on stalling. The hold down mechanism gave up so pulling the starter rope was a two man job- one to hold the engine down and the other to provide the muscle for multiple yanks on the rope. Otherwise with each pull the engine would flip up with the propellor out of the water. It was exhausting. The occupants of the cruiser had their side flaps down and with hot toddies in hand watched us with what seemed to be a mixture of amusement and pity. Two solemn Asian men in an open boat concentrated on fishing and keeping the snow out of their eyes. The coupe de grace was finally delivered. The seat on which I was balanced came loose from its remaining tether with a crack and to Woodys amusement the seat with me firmly aboard slowly departed toward the bow and then turned sideways and returned to the stern with me clutching for something to grip to stop me. The herring bucket levitated and did a half summersault in the air and deposited it’s flipping contents on to the snowy slippery floor. At this point with the wind freshening noticeably we decided to retire from the field of battle, at least that was the consensus. The one dissenter was the engine which had quietly expired without a whimper. It could not be resuscitated in spite of the wonders of modern medicine. The east shore of Horseshoe Bay has a magnificent display of cliffs and rocks, especially when viewed from thirty feet in a blizzard. Only one other boat remained which gave me some comfort as they could relate where to find the bodies. Intermittent engine rope pulling and choke twiddling gave way to frantic paddling to keep us off the rocks. My reel whirred as the weight snagged on the bottom so I managed to release it and put it in the boat. Woody retrieved his almost up to the boat. On to the paddling. We could see the rental dock in the distance so we were hoping that they would notice us waving. So the chilly minutes ticked by as we inched our way along the rocks hoping for rescue.There were no passing boats and mercifully no arriving ferry. “Hells bells” said Woody.” I came to fish and all I am doing is nursing a boat. My herring is still flipping “ He let out about twenty feet of line and put the rod in a rod holder.and paddled. I tried to sneer but my face was freezing and the boat required paddling. Any closer and we would need wheels or get out and walk.As to a fish, I had noticed a half hitch in his light leader which meant that it was likely to break with much stress. But what would it matter. Nothing was going to happen.
It was now 3 pm and getting noticeably darker. Our one fishing rod languished in the rod holder and conversation lagged as we moved slowly along the shore toward the cribbing of the ferry dock. We suddenly noticed that the rod had developed a slow bend and then as the drag released the reel began to tick over, slowly at first. That’s my fish thatI told you about he grinned . The bottom, I sneered. From a slow start the reel clicked faster and faster until it was shrieking. The line melted off the reel at an incredible rate and the line in the water pulled sideways in the direction of the light house across the bay. Still no ferry in sight.
“Well if that’s a spring you can kiss it goodbye” I commented. “ We can’t follow it and besides the line has gone slack already “. So he began the long retrieval of his spool full of line. He wound away glumly and I paddled along. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and exclaimed “ he’s still on”. Sure enough the line had tightened up and the fight was on.
The fish had made a U turn away out in the bay and swam all the way back to within a hundred feet of the boat. There he lay and we saw a large salmon tale emerge several times. Panic stations.
“Here, take the rod “he said urgently. Why sez I ? “ My hands are frozen, I need a cigarette and I need to pee”. He managed to handle ( so to speak) all of these challenges and even managed to light his soggy cigarette. He was a chain smoker and needed his fix.
Our first glimpse of our adversary after twenty minutes of give and take was the sight and sound of a large tail slapping the water like the blade of an oar. We were both astonished at the power of the fish through the stout fibreglass rod. He did as he pleased, even after his initial run that almost emptied the large reel.The knotted leader, the wind and snow,, the tiny hooks, the powerless boat were all hazards that made the odds very long in his favour. So we sort of relaxed, and in the long run this worked in our favour. Woody smoked, I kept tension on him, and we waited him out.
The next fifteen minutes were rather interesting. The next hurdle in this comic opera was a butterfly sized net and it was obvious that there was no way this was going to do the job. Hand gilling was out of the question . A frantic search of the boat miraculously turned up a battered rusty but usable gaff.
I was used to gaffing fish on my brothers commercial troller so I had no qualms about how to use it. It was lashed in a stout handle which, obviously home made. You had to have the fish on its side, belly toward the boat. Then with the gaff pointing down drive the heavy head that the gaff point was lashed in and haul back in one motion stunning the fish and sinking the point deeply at the nape of the neck. I would have one chance.
The big moment arrived. Ten feet out. Tired ( both of us) with him flopping weakly on its side. Rod to Woody. He handed me the gaff with the comment that he had never gaffed a fish and he didn’t plan to start with this one.
In preparation we folded the snow laden canopy back and I stood up. The deck was like a skating rink.I skated over to the railing, gaff in hand,. The next ten minutes seemed endless. Several times the fish approached but repeatedly sounded just out of reach.I needed him on his side with his back on the outside so I could reach his head. I needed a clear swing at the hard tissues at the nape of the neck.
Finally he turned toward the boat. Just as it came within gaff reach He rolled on its side and started to sound. The footing was impossible, the visibility poor. I swung the gaff down as hard as I could and felt it hit home like an axe in a stump. The fishes big kick almost tore the slippery gaff out of my hand. My legs began to slip apart and I slowly did the splits still holding on to the thrashing salmon. The seam of me pants parted with a disconcerting sensation.A second frantic yank brought it up on the railing. The gaff had only gone through about an inch and one half of tissue and was pulling through. A final tug and the fish and I landed on the deck in a shower of snow, blood and slime. We were within a couple of paddle lengths from the rocks.
We both stared at the huge silver winter spring salmon. It was well hooked with the rear hook in the tongue. We both were panting and speechless. The lights from the rental float glimmered through the gloom. Our sister boat putted into the dock, the occupants disinterested in our tribulations I presumed.
We contemplated this wonderful fish and were both talking at once. Finally I looked at the closeness of the rocks and we grabbed the paddles.To our vast relief the whine of an outboard announced the arrival of a rescue boat and the young friend from the herring pond arrived with a tow rope to rescue the pair of dingalings out of the blizzard. Our laughing and cheerful banter undoubtedly made him think that it wasn’t coffee in the thermos.
Another moment of truth arrived when I slipped my fingers under the gill cover of our trophy and attempted to dead lift it onto the float over the stern. For an instant it appeared that it would go overboard and return to the deep. An ironic twist of fate looming. Several vigorous heaves were required before it was safely on the float. Mr herring guy took off to the office and the boss and a couple of other guys rushed down the dock. Balance scales were produced and with new muscle the fish was hoisted up for weighing. The sliding weight came to rest at exactly fifty pounds- not an ounce more or less, confirmed by onlookers. There was no “ rounding off”. A true weight.
Neither of us felt the cold any more but we must have been hypothermic. I did t even notice the breeze blowing through my crotch less pants. What a crazy day. The boat was a shambles and we were cold and exhausted. As we were leaving I said told the boat boss about the inadequate net for salmon but said it was great that there was a gaff. He looked surprised and said these boats were not equipped with gaffs and someone must have forgotten it !! Woody and I looked at each other then turned and wheeled the fish up to his new Lincoln Continental and put it in the trunk. It was time to go home.
Epilogue
The fish hit the front page of the Vancouver Province the next morning with a picture taken by Vic Faulkes, a friend who took a series in his back yard later that evening in the snow. In the paper one they cut me off the other end of the pole on which we suspended the fish. Such is fame. He was a friend of Mike Crammond who was outdoor editor for the Province and called him about the fish. Hence the story. Lee Straight and a photographer from the other paper the Sun appeared later the next day at Woodys house to get a picture but Woody wasn’t there . He and the fish were away some where n the Continental. The Sun never did get their picture.
Crammond in his article claimed that it could be a “world record” midwinter feeder spring especially one caught on light mooching gear. He and Lee Straight never saw eye to eye on anything and so he set out to prove him wrong and did a lot of research.Also Lee questioned the accuracy of the scales until it was pointed out that they were the same ones used in the Sun salmon derby. I don’t know if it was ever resolved. I really couldn’t relate to all of the controversy as there were numerous bigger spring salmon caught up and down the Coast every year. I suppose the mid winter bit was the unusual aspect.
After the weekend Woody took his fish to Gander taxidermy in Surrey where a lovely mount resulted. It was a white male fish and we actually ate some of it. Delicious. He wanted it over his fire place but his wife made him put it in the basement. A few years later he left to a practice in California and claimed that he bought it a seat on the plane. He and his wife had split up so he hung the fish over his new fireplace. He put that house on the market and the real estate lady thought it would be nice to show it with a roaring fire. He wasn’t there. The heat melted all the fins etc off of it so he threw it in the garbage. Finis Charlie Brumwell. April 2020 Originally written. January 1970
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