The Fisher Queen (11 page)

“We're almost at Nahwitti, so what the hell, we might as well keep trolling with the one side until we get there. Can't afford the fuel to run and who knows? We may even catch a fish,” Paul sniped, and kicked the wash-down bucket on his way to the cockpit. “I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going to check to see if we have enough line left on the gurdies to limp along with the two spare cannonballs I've got in the hold. Won't make much difference using only five lines; there's no goddamn fish anyway.”

“Okay, I'll make lunch. How about that little coho that came in dead? I've already got it baking in the oven and I can make up sandwiches.”

“I don't care,” he barked, and started to yank on the loose ends of the wire on the deck.

My concession to bad temper was a hard pull on the cabin door and the satisfying slam behind me that punctuated my return to the cabin. I stood in the wheelhouse and slowly scanned the misty shore and long swells that rolled toward it. I breathed and breathed until my heart slowed and my hunched shoulders sank. I went to reach for a cigarette but remembered we'd smoked our last yesterday. Well, that certainly didn't help our twangy nerves.

After my requisite self-pep talk, I gave myself up to the comforting and primitive simplicity of making food and tending to the cave, which included the critically important House Rule Number One: No Rain Gear or Boots In the House. I cringed every time I saw fishermen schlep in and out of their cabin in full regalia. Those were the true salty dogs. The inside of their cabins was barely distinguishable from the deck or the engine room, or in extreme cases, the fish hold. Sometimes it looked like all three. I had been politely invited by these kind-hearted fellas to sit where slime-covered gear was just pushed aside; graciously offered coffee from cups plucked from piles of engine parts on galley counters black with grease and engine oil. And I would just as graciously refuse, even if psychotic from caffeine withdrawal. Fortunately, these were the exceptions, not the rule, and one of the reasons female deckhands were so highly prized. Only the most feral of women would tolerate living in a bacterial science experiment.

But even with the House Rule and a natural inclination to the clean and tidy, I had never been so dirty . . . and wet. I'd almost forgotten what dry and clean felt like. In my damp shelf of a bunk I was acutely aware from the wave sounds that the only thing separating me from total submersion was the wooden plank wall. Once that very wood was damp and breathing and permeable itself, so why would it be dry now? Even on those rare sunny days, I was either wet with sweat from physical labour on a fishing day, or I baked in the sheltered ovens of tiny bays and inlets, where the frigid northwest wind that brought the sun couldn't find you.

Life on a boat in the water means you are always wet. It ranges from moist to sodden. Even when you're in bed, you're not dry. And why should you be? In this climate, the elements of air and water are more related than usual. Even when it's numbingly cold, you sweat under your layers and rubber. And if you aren't wearing cotton or wool and you haven't bathed for a week or two, the aroma that wafts from some of those salty dogs is deadlier than mustard gas.

Here was the irony: while we wallowed in more water than we ever wanted to see and were damper than anyone was meant to be, there was no water to wash in. Every drop of fresh water was precious. We had one water tank in the hold that was filled at the fish camp and that had to last us for days . . . and days. As we grew mouldy with wet, we lived in drought conditions.
Water water everywhere but ne're a drop to drink.
We were soaked to the skin and dehydrated at the same time.

Being female presented an even greater challenge, feminine hygiene not to be confused with salty dog hygiene. A bath became a quart of water. A tub or shower became a metal hand basin the size of a salad bowl, set aside carefully so it wouldn't be used for anything else, like a salad bowl. If I could have reached, I swear I would have licked myself clean like a cat. But since I couldn't, I took a birdbath every night by the measly heat of the miserly oil stove and slipped into my comforting flannelette nightie and woolly socks. Paul said it made me look like a granny. I said I didn't care, but it hurt me, just a little.

Hair was a particular challenge. Not only was my hair oily, but crusty too. Salt water became my gel and hairspray and highlighter kit. Either you have little-boy hair that becomes a Mohawk in three days or you bind and gag longer hair in braids welded to your head. Don't even think about the windblown sex-kitten look. At the very least you will look like Popeye's Sea Hag, and at the worst, airborne hooks and gear will catch in it, or it will tangle in whirring machinery and rip your damned scalp off.

When it came to personal hygiene at sea, torrential rain was my best friend. As it poured off the roof I collected it in every cook pot and basin we had (buckets were reserved for guts and sea water). The trick was to keep the water in them until the sun came out—nature's blow-dryer. Timing was everything. Housekeeping tip: shampooing your hair on deck also helps wash the slime away! Take note, Martha Stewart. Unfortunately, this method required a second set of hands to slowly pour the rainwater over my head. If the sun was coming out any time soon and extra hands weren't available, I knelt just inside the cabin and draped myself over the raised doorway—waist height was just right for balancing. Then I poured cups of water over my dangling head with one hand as I worked the suds out with the other. Since there was mostly no sun, I had to remember to crank up the heater before the procedure (if we weren't low on fuel) so I could thaw my frozen scalp and not die of pneumonia. Things dried very slowly, if at all, especially hair. Some people opted out of all this and just put up with crusty, smelly hair 'til they got to a fish camp and a hot shower.

The fish camp shower was one of God's tender mercies. There seemed no end to this bounty of fresh water. Scalding and powerful, the torrent kneaded my knots and soothed my twangy nerves 'til I was stuporous. If there was only one stall at whatever camp we were in and I had to follow after one of the salty dogs, I just bleached and scrubbed my way in. Centuries later, after losing five pounds of skin and grime, I'd stagger out limp and blessedly dry, pink and rubbery as a kewpie doll, except for my fisherman's tan, my hair dancing about my head and shoulders, a shade lighter than the last time.

While I was being laundered, so (usually) were our clothes in the camp coin machines, normally beside the shower. And when I and the laundry were done, I'd scrub and clean the cabin while Paul scrubbed and cleaned the hold.

On this day, I dragged the carpets off the linoleum, slung them over the boom and beat them to within an inch of their lives with a gaffing club, not only in my relentless efforts to remain hygienically civilized, but to blow off some steam. When I glanced over at Paul hunched over the gurdies and wire, I saw his wry half-smile.

“Something funny?” I flung over my shoulder, swinging for all I was worth.

“I'm just glad that's not me on the receiving end of that gaff.”

“Humph.”

“Hey look, I'm sorry.” He clambered over the wire he was attaching to the cannonballs. “I was being a real asshole taking my frustrations out on you. It wasn't your fault and God knows you're hard enough on yourself trying to get everything right. Jesus, it'll probably be me that drives you nuts, not the fishing.”

Tears welled up. I couldn't trust myself to speak, and let the gaff drop to my side. The last thing I'd expected was this much conflict between us. I could stand anything but that, after the end of my marriage less than two years ago and the pitiless divorce and husband I was still not free of.

“Look, if I ever yell at you like that again, you can kick me in the ass. Okay?”

“What?” I burst out laughing through the lump in my throat. “Are you crazy? I can't do that.”

“I'm serious. I deserve it for being such a jerk. Okay, how about this. We'll be in Bull Harbour soon and I'll buy some more flashers and Perlon on credit. It's going to be a sunny afternoon, so how about we take your salmon sandwiches and go around the corner from the camp to an old Indian village site I heard of and look around for a while? Then I can just finish up this stuff tonight. Just put down that gaff, okay? I don't want to end up in Davy Jones's locker.” He chuckled and flashed his gigolo smile.

Just before the Nahwitti Bar, we noticed a distinctive orange hull anchored by itself in a small bay. Paul radioed on the short-range Mickey Mouse, hoping it was our friend Gerry from False Creek. He was just about to give up when Gerry's unmistakable Kris Kringle voice broke in. He and his six-year-old son, Peter, and his deckhand, Mike, had just arrived at the top end and were anchored up getting ready to start fishing the next day. When he heard of our gear disaster, he graciously offered to lend us one of his spare cannonballs so we could fish with all six lines. He'd heard the fishing was slow everywhere and likely knew we were broke from scratching around for the last five weeks and couldn't afford the cannonball, the most expensive part of trolling gear. We decided that after our little exploration trip and buying more regular gear (on account) in Bull Harbour, we would run back out to tie up with Gerry in the bay that night.

“Hey. How would you like to go straight to the old village site now and have lunch? Looks like it's clearing up a bit and it'll be nice there.” Paul glanced over at me refolding and stowing charts in the wheelhouse and pushed the throttle forward to pick up speed after the choppy bar.

“That would be great. I'd love that,” I said, stepping over to smile up at him. “What about the gear?”

“We can pick it up on our way back out to tie up with Gerry in the bay. We have to get it on credit, so I'd rather be there around dinnertime when there won't be so many people in the store. Jesus, it's embarrassing.” His face darkened. “What the hell. Let's go explore. I've heard you can still find some beads. Pack up our lunch and get ready. It's just a few minutes away around the bottom end of Hope Island here.”

We anchored in the idyllic little bay and rowed to a perfect white crescent beach rising to a grassy knoll bordered by salmonberry bushes, trembling aspens and towering pines. Remnants of a wooden two-storey house set back in the trees and stunted corner posts on the knoll were all that was left of the Native people's village. But the graffiti of carved names and painted We been here and carpet of smashed booze bottles revealed later visitors.

We stood in front of the tumbledown front door. “Imagine seeing this out your front door,” I said, looking out over the glittering bay and islands dotting the channel. “It's paradise. Everything you could want is here. Look at the next little cove. I can see the gorgeous colours in the tide pools from here. And look at the size of the mussel shells. I've never seen them so huge. Let's go down there.”

“And all some people want to do is come here and wreck it. Look at all this garbage. What a bloody shame. Maybe we can find some beads for you. I know you love that kind of stuff.” Paul scuffed at the mossy soil and glass shards.

“No, it's okay. I don't feel right about it. Let's just leave things alone.” I felt a heaviness in my chest and took a deep breath to lift the sudden pall. The rising tide had already covered much of the beach, so we clambered along the rocky shoreline, carefully avoiding the brilliant kaleidoscope of sea life.

“Paul, look at those anemones. They look like emerald-green broccoli standing up in a grocery bin and as soon as they sense us coming they pop into themselves. Now they look like St. Patrick's Day doughnuts with chocolate centres.”

“Wow, they do. They're making me hungry. How about one of those sandwiches out of your kangaroo pouch?” He gave the bulging front of my yellow anorak a playful poke.

“Once we eat our sandwiches, let's gather some of those giant mussels on the rocks for dinner tonight with the boys. They've got to be six inches long. I'll use this aluminum foil and sandwich bags to put them in, and carry them in my front pocket back to the boat.”

“Okay, pioneer girl, let's go hunt down dinner.” Paul smiled and brushed the mop of sun-streaked hair from my eyes.

After we filled my pocket with mussels, I allowed myself one treasure to mark this astounding day—an exquisite abalone shell with vivid pearlescence that I'd found near the knoll. I whispered my gratitude as I held it to my chest.

When we returned to Bull Harbour camp, I asked Anne, the first aider/accountant, if she knew anything about the old village site. Her grey eyes went stormy.

“That site has been horribly ravaged by non-Natives doing so-called digs, including using bulldozers,” she said, her mouth going hard as she turned my shell over and over in her hands. “They sell everything they can find, including little beads—disgusting. They're no better than the European traders that came here 200 years ago. They're still ripping off the Natives and can't even leave that old site in peace.”

As I turned to join Paul hurrying to the boat, I suddenly mentioned we had gathered mussels from the rocks for our dinner.

“Honey, I wouldn't eat those if I were you. Dump them overboard.” Anne pointed to a bulletin tacked to the corkboard in the office. “There is a possible red tide and they might be contaminated. Fisheries was here taking samples two days ago and gave us this notice to post. Didn't you hear it on the Coast Guard radio? They will issue a report in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, don't eat any shellfish from the north end. It could be deadly. The red tide is like clouds of toxic bacteria that just comes out of nowhere and contaminates shellfish. It's deadly to humans and takes weeks for the shellfish to flush out in the sea water. Promise me you'll throw that stuff overboard.”