The River Killers (10 page)

I was sipping my coffee and almost choked when he said that. Abalone were, sort of, mobile. They could cover up to ten or eleven inches a day. It would take weeks for more than one to find its way into a trap. It was just ridiculous enough to appeal to the policy gurus.

The other guys were jumping in now. “But we must have strict trap regulations—minimum mesh size and four-inch escape holes. No more than thirty traps per boat. And traps must be constructed of North American bamboo.” Six adult males were sitting around in a very no-nonsense seine boat, giggling like children. “And the traps have to have legs so they don't sit on the bottom and squash things.” We dressed it up in linguistic clothes of appropriate bureaucratic hue, making references to peer-reviewed monitoring methodologies and adjusted catch-per-unit effort, and presto: we had A Policy.

This may seem ridiculous to anyone who lives in the real world, but in
DFO
land, truth is much, much stranger than fiction. I couldn't help but remember the great Sointula abalone experiment.
DFO
had just finished one of their occasional pogroms directed against fishermen and were as usual surprised at the public outcry. Collapsing coastal communities, unemployed fishermen, bankrupt businesses, and broken families are difficult to justify as “good results.” So
DFO
consulted their flaks and came up with a “transition policy.” This, of course, involved throwing large lumps of money at the problem. Sointula was awarded a modest pile of money and decided to invest it in
BC
's first abalone farm.
DFO
approved the plan but, apparently not realizing that abalone are incapable of spontaneous generation, refused to grant a license to collect some brood stock.

Finally, the co-op armed themselves in common sense, collected twelve adult abalone, and dared
DFO
to charge them. Refusing to surrender to this attack of rationality,
DFO
did so. Charges were later dropped at trial but the co-op had to pay the legal fees. And
DFO
extracted a further pound of flesh by demanding that up to fifty percent of the total production be returned to the ocean to build up wild stocks.

Abalone are slow growing and it would be at least four years before the animals were of marketable size. After two years of operational costs, the abalone co-op was broke. Volunteers kept it going for two more years. In year four,
DFO
approached the co-op and asked for five thousand animals to return to the wild. In return, the co-op asked for permission to sell some abalone to raise money to cover expenses. Unfortunately, by this time
DFO
had listed abalone as a species at risk and therefore they couldn't be sold. Never mind that these abalone weren't at risk because they had been raised in tanks, and never mind that if the co-op couldn't raise money, it would fold and the primary source of abalone for transplant to the wild would be lost.

By the time
DFO
sorted out its internal inconsistencies, and allowed farmed abalone to be sold, the co-op was broke. Defeat had been snatched from the jaws of victory.

Fishermen were used to this level of thinking, if that is the right word, from
DFO
. That is why we were totally convinced that the nonsense that we had concocted would be accepted as rational. Mark went to the wheelhouse and typed our gibberish into his computer, signed it as Fleming Griffith, and posted it. He came back to the galley grinning. “I wonder how long before Griffith sees that and deletes it.”

“It might be awhile,” I said. “I believe he's in Brussels telling the Europeans not to worry about the east coast cod because they can fish our west coast cod. We'll log on tomorrow and check the response.”

The crew began to bicker about their own policy issue, whether or not rain gear was allowed in the galley, so Mark and I grabbed a coffee and retired to the wheelhouse. Mark settled into the swivel chair by the wheel and I lounged on the padded bench by the chart table. We stared out the window at the wind-driven rain.

“Hey,” I nudged Mark's chair with my foot, “how's the vow of celibacy holding up?”

“Nothing to it, as long as there's no actual female within visual range. It gets a little tough if I have to tell them about it, because then they're all over me, like it's a challenge or something. Actually, it's the ultimate pickup line. I wish I'd thought of it in junior high.”

I laughed. “As I remember it, there wasn't an overwhelming need for a vow of celibacy because you were already under a sentence of celibacy.”

“Well, you were in the same jail I was.”

“Yeah, but I was pardoned sooner. Good behavior and all.”

He snorted. “Good behavior? You used to leave trails of drool up and down the halls. My mongrel dog showed more dignity than you did.” We lapsed into silence as we remembered the “difficult years”; sexual arousal as a state of being.

The voices from the galley were getting louder. “Fifteen two, fifteen four, a pair is six, and a run is nine.”

“Stinkhole!”

“We're not playing stinkhole!”

“We always play stinkhole north of Cape Caution.”

“You lie like a hairy egg. Shut up and deal.”

The rain was easing. Mark stood up. “Let's go for a ride. There's a couple of herring punts in Bella Bella I want to look at.”

We grabbed our rain gear and went out on deck.

The Zodiac was a lot faster than Mark's power skiff so we used it. Mark wanted to go to the fishermen's wharf where most of the boats were tied up, rather than the government dock downtown. As we got close to the dock, we could see Native guys in rain gear hanging herring gill nets. “Native guys” was my internal terminology. Publicly, I attempted to use the terminology of the day: Aboriginals or First Nations or whatever. Normal Native guy terminology for Native guys was “Indian.”

Bella Bella, a village of about fourteen hundred people, was home to the mighty Heiltsuk Nation. At one time, they had a pretty fair-sized fleet. That was before Fleming Griffith conned the Fisheries Minister of the hour, an ego in a suit named Fred Mifflin, into decimating the salmon fleet. Actually, decimate isn't a strong enough word. How about “triagimate,” since a third rather than a tenth of the fleet was killed off.

As we tied up, we could see close to a hundred boats of all shapes and sizes. Mark wanted to look at herring skiffs, which were used for gillnetting herring rather than seining them. You couldn't catch as many gillnetting as seining, but the fish were of better quality, there were a higher percentage of females, and therefore more roe, so you got a better price.

As we wandered down the dock, we ran into an old buddy. Cecil Brown was a Native guy from Metlakatla, up north. We knew him because he used to run a packer for JS MacMillan Fisheries and we would offload our salmon onto his boat.

He smiled under his Sou'wester. “Mark, Danny, good to see you. Hey Danny, if Mark sets early, are you going to bust him?” He laughed and wiped rain from his face.

“Actually, I'm here to bust you because you're way out of your territory.”

He winked. “It's okay. I've got cousins here so I'm legit. And you know what? I've got cousins everywhere so you can't give me a hard time. C'mon, I'll buy you a coffee.” He led the way to his boat, a fifty-two-foot packer that at one time had been the largest fiberglass boat built in
BC
. The
Waterfowl
was well maintained and gave no hint of its long and arduous history. The boat had probably transported more fish over the years than any other packer still working. And because Cecil considered any wind under forty knots a summer breeze, the boat had probably had as much green water over the bow as under it.

We doffed our rain gear and entered the cozy galley. The oil stove radiated a pleasant warmth. The coffeepot was full and there were bannock and smoked salmon set on the table. “Make yourself at home, guys.” He placed three mugs on the table, poured extremely black coffee into each of them, and pointed at the sugar and can of condensed milk.

We settled around the table and customized our coffees. “So Danny, how's Ottawa? You look like you're still halfway sane anyway.”

“Ottawa is Ottawa, unfortunately. It sure feels good to be back out here.”

“Yeah, well you sure earn your money. I wouldn't work back there for anything. So how come you guys got brave enough to leave Shearwater and sneak into Heiltsuk territory?”

Mark answered, “I heard there were a couple of herring skiffs for sale.”

“Yeah, the Glenning boys are selling two ten-ton skiffs. They're three fingers over, right behind the
Cape Morrisey
. So you want to quit the big boat stuff? Become a stiff in a skiff?”

“Jimmy only lets us have the one seine license. I like to fish it here, but gillnetting is good up north. If I can get a good deal on some gear, I might give it a try.”

“Finish your coffee and we'll wander over and have a look. The sun's almost out.”

The sun might have been out in Tahiti but it sure as hell wasn't out here. However, the rain was now merely a drizzle and the sky was light enough that you could almost read a newspaper. We walked down the float to the header float and then along it to the third finger. Just as we turned to walk down the outside float, something caught my eye, and I stopped in amazement. A battered aluminum crew boat, maybe twenty-four feet with a forward cabin, and the name in just slightly faded red letters.
Kelp
.

Mark and Cecil turned to look at me. “What's up?”

I pointed at the
Kelp
. “Mark, did you read to the end of Alistair's journals?”

He shook his head. “I didn't get a chance to finish them.”

“I'll explain later, but we need to find out who owns that boat.”

“Okay, let's take a quick look at the skiffs, and then we'll find the wharfmaster. He'll have a record of the owner.”

As we walked farther down the float, Cecil looked at me questioningly. I shrugged. “It's a long, strange story, Cecil. I'll tell you about it some time.” By this time, we were passing the high bow of the
Cape Morrisey
and could see two flat-bottomed herring skiffs tied side by side. The inside skiff had a
FOR SALE
sign on it with a phone number. Mark made a note and then began to clamber over the skiffs, inspecting hull condition and welds, as well as the gear. Finally he finished and climbed back onto the float.

“Let's find the wharfmaster.” We walked toward the wharf head and up the gangway to the parking area. Cecil stopped by a phone booth and began fumbling for change.

“No lineup. Better phone the wife. See you guys later.” We waved and walked toward a vinyl-sided shack displaying a sign.
WHARFMASTER
. When we entered, I could see that the sign should have read
WHARFMISTRESS
. She was Heiltsuk, maybe some white blood, and extremely attractive. As she rose from her desk and approached the counter, I noted, hopefully without staring, her burnished brown skin, high cheekbones, and long glossy black hair.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was as attractive as the rest of her.

I leaned on the counter and gave her the full benefit of my coolly intelligent but warmly open and honest gaze.

“I wonder if you could tell us who owns that aluminum crew boat, the
Kelp
.”

“Mac McPherson used to have it. Used it to run back and forth to his A-frame show. He sold it about a year ago, but I've never seen the guy that bought it.”

“Do you have a name and address?”

“Hang on.” As she walked away toward a bank of filing cabinets I prayed my gratitude to the inventor of blue jeans. I glanced at Mark. He must have been struggling with his vow but he was concealing it well. When she reached the filing cabinets, she bent over to pull open the second from the bottom drawer, and I had to avert my eyes. She extracted a file and walked back toward us.

She smiled and I felt all warm inside. “Trevor Holbrooke. Apartment 237, 892 West 41st Street, Vancouver,
BC
. He mails us a money order for the moorage fees every month.”

“Thanks for the info. My name's Danny, by the way.”

“Melissa. Melissa O'Rourke. Pleased to meet you.”

“Well, thanks. You've been really helpful.” Out of habit, I tried the standard line. “Maybe I could buy you a drink, just to say thank you?” Without looking, I knew that Mark was gazing heavenward.

“That's not necessary. I'm always happy to assist
DFO
in the ongoing performance of their duties.”

I looked at her for a hint of a smirk, but she had an absolutely straight face. “Well, see ya.”

She nodded and went back to her desk. When we were outside, I said to Mark, “Pretty cute, eh?”

“Yeah, I know her boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, he's this big Native guy. Used to play lacrosse for the Victoria Shamrocks. Killed a guy in a fight during the '97 play-offs. No charges, but he's still got a really bad temper.”

I bit. “I don't remember anyone getting killed . . .” I broke off when Mark burst out laughing. “Bastard.”

“Gullible twit.”

We ambled back toward the wharf. “Let's take the boat downtown. Maybe you can arrange to meet the Glennings and talk prices. I've got a couple of errands to run.”

Five minutes later, we were tied up at the downtown dock. We walked up the floats, past kids fishing, using more sophisticated gear than I'd ever had, but with the same expressions of unquenchable optimism. The odd one even had a fish lying on the wooden planks, vivid colors fading to dull lifelessness. I waited while Mark used the pay phone, and when he hung up, he said he'd meet me back here in an hour. When he was around the corner and out of sight, I headed for the
RCMP
building. I pondered briefly why I was being so damn surreptitious, but I arrived at the door before I arrived at an answer.