Sea Change (3 page)

I guess we're going fishing. I think maybe I should clean up the rods, but she's leaving so I scramble to my feet, grab a pair of size-ten boots and follow her.

The fishing boat we're going to use is moored about a hundred yards from shore. The dinghy Dad used is bobbing on a mooring buoy where he left it, which is absolutely no good to us. We have to carry down a fiberglass rowboat from the boat shed. Sumi takes one side, I take the other. It's not a big boat, but it weighs a ton and I'm starting to sweat. “This thing have a motor?”

Sumi tips her head at the oars in the bottom of the boat. “It's got you.”

This should be good—I've never rowed a boat.

We have to go back up to Sumi's cabin for our stuff, which doesn't seem like much, just some bottles of water, a few granola bars and a plastic box of fishing gear, which Sumi insists on carrying. The bread and peanut butter is starting to look good, but Sumi doesn't stop to eat, so neither do I. We load rods and gear into the rowboat. I take the middle bench, and Sumi pushes us off. She plunks down at the back of the boat and starts fiddling with the rods. I jam the oars into the locks and start rowing.

When I tell people what my old man does, that he's in charge of a fishing lodge, they figure I fish all the time. They ask me what the biggest fish I've caught is. They ask me what kind of rod I use, what kind of line, like I would know.

Sumi glances up from her work. “Where the hell are you going?”

I look over my shoulder and see that the fishing boat is way off to the left. I say, “What genius made it so you have to row backward?”

Sumi rolls her eyes.

I get the boat pointing where it needs to go, then pick a big rock on the shore and visually line it up. It should work. Keep the rock in line, keep the boat going where it's supposed to.

Sumi doesn't even look up. “You're pulling left.”

I concentrate on pulling evenly.

“Now right.”

“It's the waves. They're throwing me off.”

“These little things? These aren't waves.”

The wind is cold, but the waterproof floater coat feels too warm.

We arrive at the fishing boat with a clunk, which makes Sumi mutter. She steps into the fishing boat, takes the rope from the front of the dinghy and ties it to the mooring buoy. Meanwhile, I'm still in the dinghy. It takes me a while to get back alongside the fishing boat, and with absolutely no grace I tumble into the bottom of the boat. Sumi sighs but doesn't say anything. She starts the big outboard and hollers at me to untie us. Then, before I can sit down, she guns the engine so I fall again, this time cracking my knees against the side of the boat.

“Hey,” I shout. “I almost fell in!”

Sumi seems to smile. “One hand for the boat,” she shouts back.

We motor out of the bay at what feels like full speed. Sumi stands and steers the outboard. She has pulled her hood up against the spray. I turn on my seat so the spray hits me in the back of my hood.

She's right. These aren't waves. They are watery brick walls. The boat slams into them and makes my teeth clack. Then the boat thuds into the trough, and each section of my spine jams together.

“How far are we going? Alaska?”

She doesn't answer but careens around a point of rock jutting into the sea. The rock is covered with sea birds. Some take wing as we blast by. It looks like the rock is painted white with bird crap.

Sumi throttles back. “Low tide. It's shallow in here.” She picks her way through some invisible channel.

“How can you tell it's low tide?”

She gives me another you're-an-idiot look and points her thumb at the shore. A ragged row of logs and seaweed lines the beach far up from the water. “Twice a day up here we get high and low tides. And big enough that you know it—it's like the sea breathes in and out.” She tamps the engine way back so we're barely moving.

It's quiet now. I can hear sea birds. Along the shore, massive cedar trees lean out from stony outcrops. Going this slow, Sumi doesn't have to steer the outboard all the time. Occasionally she reaches over and makes a small steering correction but otherwise her hands are free.

She grabs a fishing rod and pulls a bucket of small dead fish from under the other seat. She cuts the head off a fish and hollows out the body cavity, then flicks the head and guts into the sea. She weaves the fish hook into the bait, then drops the lead into the water. The headless fish looks like it is swimming.

“Cool,” I say.

She shows me how to attach the line to a down rigger so that the bait stays at a certain depth. She rigs a second rod, plunks it into a rod holder and then settles back on her seat.

“Watch the tip of the rod. If it wiggles, you've got a bite.”

“Like, wiggles how?”

“Like, it wiggles.”

I stare at the end of the rod. Sumi sits with her hands in her pockets and her eyes half closed. I'm afraid to even blink in case I miss whatever it is I'm supposed to be watching for.

She says, “You've got one.”

She's so calm I sit there for a moment wondering what she's talking about. Then I notice the end of the rod bending toward the water. I jump to my feet and grab the rod.

“Other way.”

I glance down at the rod. The reel is on top. I feel my face flush, and I fumble the rod around so the reel is underneath.

“Set the hook.”

She's calm. I'm not. “What does that mean, set the hook?”

She makes an upward yanking motion.

I do that.

“You've lost the fish,” she says.

“No, I can feel something.”

She shrugs. I reel in the line, waiting for the fish. Finally the hook pops to the surface. The bait is gone.

“I lost him.”

She nods. “Didn't set the hook.”

She makes me bait the hook this time. My headless fish looks less real. It flops more than swims.

Sumi says, “It probably doesn't matter.”

“Like I won't be able to bring it in anyway? Oh, that's nice. It's not like I've been doing this all my life.”

“Neither have I.”

“You haven't always lived here?”

She shakes her head. “Lived in Vancouver with my mother. Moved up here three years ago.”

“Your mom is from Vancouver?”

“She was from here. Left when she got pregnant and never came back.”

“I guess she can fish.”

“I guess not. She's dead.”

“Oh.” What do you say to that? “Sorry.”

She doesn't seem to hear me. I don't even see the motion of her rod, but Sumi slips it from the holder. She holds it poised over the water.

“Do you have a bite?”

She ignores me. She lets out some line.

“Why aren't you setting the hook?”

She still doesn't answer. She rests her hand lightly on the line, as if she's listening with her fingers. After what seems a long moment, she snaps the rod upward and starts reeling. “Fish on!” she shouts. “Take the tiller!”

I grab the steering arm on the outboard. Good guess.

“Starboard!” she shouts as she reels.

Starboard?

“Right! Go right!”

I pull the tiller to the right. We go left. Sumi stumbles. “The other right!”

“Oh, like that makes sense.” I push the tiller left and, sure enough, the boat turns right.

She's alternately reeling like crazy or letting line scream off the reel. I ask her why she's letting the fish run, and she answers, “Only way to catch him.”

Like that makes sense either.

She says, “coho like to jump, and he'll fight right off the line. This tires him out, lets him get used to the idea of being caught.”

A short distance off the boat, something silver flashes on the surface of the water. “Is that your fish?” It jumps and twists, throwing its head back and forth, trying to shake the hook.

She's reeling fast now. “Keep us heading straight.”

I grip the tiller arm and the handle twists in my hand. The engine revs and we lurch forward. Oops. Sumi just about lands on her ass. She regains her footing and snarls, “Back off!” I twist the handle to throttle down on the engine and concentrate on steering.

She's got the fish close to the boat.

It's frantic, flopping so its white belly flashes. I reach for the net, but in the time it takes to grab it from the front of the boat, Sumi has unhooked the fish and let it go.

“What the…?”

She says, “I always let the first one go.”

“What if that's the only fish we catch?”

“Oh well.” She watches as the fish recovers and swims away. Then she baits another hook and sends it down.

Chapter Five

I manage to reel in a ten-pound coho. It won't break any records, but we take it because I'm not eating unknown deer parts for dinner and we're both so bloody cold we're just about ready to go in. At one point Sumi put on the wool socks she took from the tackle room. She was already wearing a pair of heavy socks. I've just got my regular socks and I can barely feel my feet in the rubber boots, they're so cold.

“Fish on,” she says, looking at my rod.

My hands fumble with the rod but I know what I'm doing now, more or less. I set the hook and start reeling. The rod end bends hard.

“It's big,” she says.

It feels big.

She says, “Steady. Don't rip the hook out of its mouth.”

I don't know where the fish is but it has a lot of my line. Despite the cold, I feel sweat prickle under my arms. I'm imagining this fish, a monster king, maybe forty pounds, bigger than anything my father has caught, maybe a record.

“Watch your line!”

The rod end tips down close to the boat. I pull it back up but it takes all my strength. Sumi gives the engine a shot of gas, and I'm able to reel in more line. It feels like I'm bringing up a refrigerator. Sumi's on her feet now, looking over the side of the boat.

“Holy crap.”

“What?”

“It's a hali. A big one.”

Still deep below the boat, I can see what looks like a massive green disc. “Halibut?”

“And on salmon tackle. She must not know she's hooked. Maybe you snagged her in the cheek.”

My arms are threatening to snap. “How big?”

“Very big. Over a hundred pounds, easy. Don't let her see the boat. If she figures out what's going on she'll take everything you've got.”

“She's got everything already. How do you know she's female?”

“A hali this size has to be female. Only the breeding females get this big.”

I look at the net. “Uh, how do we get her into the boat?”

Sumi rummages in her tackle box and brings out a length of rope. Then she grabs a wooden pole with a nasty hooked end. “We'll use the gaff like a harpoon. We'll tie her to the side of the boat and let her bleed out. She has to be good and dead before we bring her in with us. I've heard of boats busted up by a thrashing hali.” Sumi whistles and says, “She is one amazing fish.” She stands with the gaff poised like a spear and says, “Ready?”

The halibut is almost motionless on the end of the line. It's like she's sleeping.

“How can she not know that she's hooked?”

Sumi says, “Hook is so light she doesn't feel it.”

“So she's not going to fight?”

She laughs. “If she wanted off, you wouldn't be able to keep her on this light line. No one catches big fish like this, not without major halibut gear, and not without a hell of a lot of luck. Not many big halibut anymore, not here. My grandmother hasn't had a freezer full of halibut in years.”

“So you've never caught a big halibut?”

She doesn't answer for a minute, and then she says, “I've kept some small ones.”

My hands are starting to cramp. I say, “I've got a camera. Take a picture of it.”

“Now?”

“It's in my pack. Get it and take a picture.”

Sumi looks at me for a moment and then puts down the gaff. “You're letting her go.”

I nod.

She digs out the camera and takes the picture. She takes another of me with the rod bent almost in two. I try to grin but I'm sure it looks more like a grimace. The halibut is taking every bit of strength just to hold it. I can only imagine what would happen if she fought.

Sumi takes out her knife. “Reel her in as close as you can.”

It's stupid but I feel like crying. I'm exhausted and my feet are numb and I'm letting go the biggest fish ever.

Sumi leans down beside the boat and then looks up at me. “Are you sure?”

I'm not sure, not sure of anything. “Just do it.”

Sumi smiles and cuts the line.

Chapter Six

We've got enough wood in the stove that the metal sides glow red. I'm wrapped in my sleeping bag wearing everything I own, plus Sumi's jacket, and finally I've stopped shivering. Sumi hands me a mug of something hot, sweet and clearly alcoholic. I'm sure St. John's First Aid would be thrilled to know she's using alcohol to treat hypothermia. Still, the drink leaves vapor trails of heat all through my gut and I feel ridiculously happy. Sumi pours the booze from a silver flask, tipping it over my mug to get the last drops.

I say, “So, no sign of my old man.”

Sumi looks out the window at the sun, already low. “If he's not here by now, we won't see him today. He must be having a good time.”

That should piss me off but I really don't care. Sumi turns to the stove and starts a pan for the salmon. I say, “At school we do this thing with salmon. It's like a crust of herbs. We wrap it in parchment and bake it over a pan of water.”

Sumi digs out a blob of the ever-present Crisco. “Sounds like work.” She moves the pan to the back of the stove and lays in a fat fillet of coho, skin side down. Then she grabs a bottle of maple syrup and douses the fish. She throws a lid on the pan and sits down across the table. “If you want rice or something, go ahead and cook it.”