Killers
I was young, 14, but I didn’t think I was that young at the time. I mean, I look at a 14 year old now and I think, “Damn, that’s young.” But at the time I was oblivious about what should be expected for a kid at a that what age. If you could do it, you just did it. Everything else was more or less external to my world. Well, except when I had to lie about my age on the Washington State Commercial Fishing License. You had to be 16. Get the cuffs.
So, it was the summer of my 14the year and I had been drafted by my brother Ron to be the skiff man on the good ship Verlaine II. I could be had cheap, a half share. Truthfully, I was happy to get that.
The Verlaine II was, to be charitable, a modest seiner. She had a power block which was a step up from the turntable and power roller on the old Popeye. The wheel house was basically a box that had miraculously fitted in a stove, sink, table, two benches and helm. A salesman would say cozy.
The summer started out in sort of a lazy routine where we’d run out into Boundary Bay early in the morning. It was always chilly on the run out with all the surfaces still wet with dew. Before long you’d start to see the other seiners silhouetted against the purple light of the sunrise. The air was cool and crisp with only occasionally unbreathable with diesel fumes.
The local seiners, the Myrtle, Rio Rita, Caroline and others would emerge from the darkness, recognizable by their silhouette long before their color or name on the bow.
Before long Ron’d say “Warm ‘er up.”
I’d tumble down off the rigging and drop on the deck, scramble over the seine and drop into the skiff. Pull out the choke, spin ‘er over, cough, sputter, bang…rumble rumble. From then on my world was looking up waiting for someone on deck pulling the pelican hook and starting a set.
Brother Ron would scan the horizon, judge the tide, calculate the wind, read the omens, and then an increase in the speed of the engine and hi ho silver, we’re off to the races, seeking to encircle the wily salmon. Someone on deck would pull the pelican release and the net would stream off the back of the boat, brass rings bouncing.
Knowing I was 14 and nearly clueless, Ron would use full arm gestures to direct how he wanted me to pull the end of the seine. The finger gestures were saved for closer range.
I loved seining, truly. I loved the rings coming up on deck and the net streaming up out of the water. I’d look to see if there were bubbles along the cork line. I’d pray for jumpers. I longed to use the brailler. To scoop a hundred sockeye at a time. Alas, normally we’d strap ‘em or roll them on deck. But we made lots of sets and the thirty or forty fish a set would add up by the end of the day.
Now this day was different. We were going to be leaving the friendly confines of Bounding Bay as we referred to it and head to the outside of Point Roberts. I think it was the Adam’s River run of sockeye. Anyway, all the usual suspects were there plus a few boats from down south. There were a lot of fish. People wanted them and da people weren’t the only ones who wanted those fat, juicy reds. The Orca were in town and this was the first time I’d ever encountered them.
We were on the west side of the Point with the tide setting south, safe from being carried across the line into Canada and nabbed by the Canadian fisheries patrol. If they caught you, you’d be taken up the Fraser to Steveston where there was all sorts of legal fun awaiting you.
We waited our turn and then Ron took ‘er in close to the beach and “let her go.” I turned the skiff toward the beach and we swept south hoping to scoop up a good jag of fish. We swept along the shore with Ronny urging me closer to the beach with the skiff.
So, there I was, Little Dicky Walsh out on the end of the seine in the skiff as the Cascades turned from purple to blue in the morning light. I was pleased that I’d started to close up before we got to the sharp turn separated the west side of the point from South Beach because there were some fair sized rocks there that ate purse lines. It seems like its always when I’ve finally got something figured out is when it happens. I saw God.
God was in the form of an orca, orca my ass, it was a KILLER WHALE. It rose straight from the depths about fifty feet off to port to slam down on the water. I could feel its spray hitting my face. It is hard to convey the terror I felt. I didn’t scream. I didn’t shout. I gripped the the former De Soto steering wheel and waited. I waited some more. Nothing happened. I was still alive.
A short blast on Verlaine II’s horn brought me around and I saw Ron was signaling to close up faster. I pushed the throttle more and put the nose of the skiff toward the boat. I got along side and threw up the tow line, waited for them to take a turn around the winch and then pulled the quick release. They raised the Verlaine’s seine line and I ran the skiff under it to pick up the tow off line.
My next job was to pull the Verlaine to keep her out of the middle of the corks. So, there I was, sitting on the engine cover, looking back at the guys on deck while I eased out to the end of the tow line. No one had looked upset. Didn’t they know how close I’d come to instant death? I’m sure it was close I could even smell its breath. Yeah, THAT close. They didn’t even act like it was no big thing. They acted like it was no thing.
I warmed my butt by sitting on the engine cover while I drank from my thermos of cocoa. The engine kept a low but steady pull on the larger boat as they brought the seine aboard, pausing now and then to pull out a gilled salmon or mend a hole in the net. As I watched, still amazed that I was above the water and not under it.
Then came my second encounter with the wolves of the sea. Two large dorsal fins rolled between me and the boat. My god! They were coming back to finish what the first one had started! Could they get to me in time to save my scrawny ass?
I looked back toward the guys and deck and one waved, pointing to the triangle as it surfaced again in case I’d missed it the first time. Oddly, I hadn’t missed it the first time. From their obvious nonchalance even someone like me can figure out there probably isn’t much immediate danger.
Finally, the bunt started coming aboard and I got the signal to come around. That meant we had to braille. I ran the skiff around and strapped the corks to the gunwale. We used the braille a few time. You figured about a hundred fish a scoop, so if you’re talking sockeye, thats a lot of money.
I unhooked and ran the skiff back around. I tossed up the painter and they attached it to the pelican hook.
The cook came out of the cracker box wheel house with my plate of eggs, bacon, sausage, chopped up spuds. They all sort of slid around on the heavy porcelain plate as I sat on the cold former tractor seat waiting for the next set. I looked at them complete another greasy circuit on my plate and wondered to myself if I’d survived the perils of the deep only to perish at the hands of the deep fried food on my plate.