Our fisherman had eaten, and had now turned in to sleep—he had been out since three in the morning, fishing around the reefs off Gabriola. A hard life—but now he slept, and his bells were quiet.
I landed the children and they ran over to the other side of the island to play where they wouldn’t disturb the fisherman. They were back in about an hour’s time, all grinning and beckoning me to come ashore and see something. I sculled in. They had caught quite a big plaice or flounder, over a foot long. It had been cut off by the tide in a sandy pool, and my Red Indians had closed in for the kill.
“I saw its eyes peeking out of the sand,” said John.
“It almost dumped me, when I stepped on it,” said Peter.
“We took a long board,” Jan said, “and crowded it into the edge.”
Now they wanted to make a fire over on the beach and broil it. I gave them some matches, and they bounded off; then paused for a second to say that, if I came back in half an hour, I could have some too.
I can remember catching flounders on the wide tidal sand flats of the lower St. Lawrence when I was a child. We used to go out on the flats at low water, armed with sticks with needles embedded in the end—to spear the flounders as they came in with the tide. They were only about three inches long and the exact colour of the sand. Unless you saw the little muddy cloud they sent up when they moved, you could never spot them. “There she spouts!” we would yell, and stab at them, only to miss. Someone must once have stabbed one or we would never have been so persistent.
The best way to catch them was to trap them under your bare feet. The white feet must have attracted them. You would feel a mysterious little tickle under the arch. If you stooped quickly and put a hand on each side of your arch—then you would pull out a little browny-grey flounder. The harpoon men would call out, “Not fair,” but one by one they would all change to “feet.”
I don’t know whether fish of the kind my youngsters caught grow up into halibut, or are young plaice. I believe that all these flat fish start out as ordinary, upright minnows. But suddenly the little halibut minnow starts to sag and twist. Everything in his body sags and twists, and he begins to lie more and more flat on the sand. I am glad that fish-mothers are completely lacking in the maternal instincts; for now, one of the baby’s eyes—the right one—leaves it proper place and gradually climbs up on top and stays beside the other eye—giving it a slightly cross-eyed appearance. And worst of all, his mouth twists and draws up at one corner into a lopsided, sardonic smile. Of course there is no accounting for mothers—his might have preferred him that way.
I carried a billy of tea ashore, and bread, and we ate the flounder for lunch. Afterwards we wandered over the islands, picking different specimens of wild flowers to press in magazines. We found a row of little driftwood huts just above high-water mark, probably built by the hand trailers. When the fish are running in July and August, the hand trailers go off in rowboats and camp on the shore. They fish with two or three lines. Like the big trailers, they use their own pet lures—brass or nickel spinners or wobblers; sometimes wooden “plugs” that resemble some unknown shrimp-like monster, draped all over with hooks. We wondered what they did for fresh water on these little islands. Our fisherman told us later that when the fish are running, the fish-packer from the cannery comes every evening to collect the fish; and always carries water and provisions. Hand trailers of course had no ice, so their fish had to be collected sometimes twice a day.
Our fisherman woke up—but he didn’t go out. It was too rough to troll. He sat with us, by our fire on the beach, for a while. He expected it to blow all night and drop in the morning.
“But it will still be rolling too high for you to get across tomorrow. It will probably slam around hard from the west when this stops, and that will kick up a filthy sea. Just be patient.”
He had gone when we woke up in the morning. I had heard his engine start up in the very early hours; and then the jingle of the little bells....Then the waves of his going had rocked me back to sleep.
The south-east wind had dropped, as he had predicted, and high clouds were moving from the west. Perhaps, by the afternoon, it would have made up its mind what it was going to do. In the meantime, I decided to run up to North-West Bay, roughly ten miles farther north. It is a peculiar coast just there: a deep channel right along the rocky shore; then, out beyond that, a foul stretch full of islets and reefs and rocks. Not shallow water—it is deep, but filled with these sharp steep points, rising out of perhaps forty fathoms. At the end of this foul stretch, where it runs out in a triangle across Ballenas Channel, lies Ballenas Islands where the lighthouse is. The tide runs through this channel at three or four knots—and both inside and outside the island there are horrible tide rips.
I kept in the deep channel next to the shore. There was no perceptible tide—it didn’t matter anyway; we were not going very far. But I should have known that it was going to blow from the west, for the clouds overhead were still coming fast from that direction. We were over half-way there when the whole gulf came down on top of us in one vast squall; with two hundred miles of push behind it....
We rounded the point of the bay, just this side of North-West Bay, thinking that we might find shelter in there—but the whole bay was foaming white, and spray was being sent dashing up the cliffs. Then the realization suddenly hit me—why the next bay was called North-West—the wind would be piling in there just as it was in the bay beside us....We had to decide, and decide quickly, what we were going to do. About in line with the point of North-West Bay, and about a mile from where we were, I could see a small, unknown, wooded island. And there was a patch of calm water off its southern end. It was too rough even to think of looking at a chart, but that patch might just enable us to ride out the storm.
We headed towards it. There was a crazy black spar-buoy, seventy yards to seawards of us. I knew that I shouldn’t be on the inside of it, but I could not possibly go out into that tide rip. The wind would swoop down on top of the buoy and press it flat on the water and the white spray would foam over it. I had to go fairly close to it, for there were unmarked dangers off the point inside us.
The glass in front of me was completely obscured with the spray that struck the bow and dashed over us. On the shore side of the black buoy the waves were not so very high—they hadn’t had time yet. It was the force of the wind that made a fine spray, three or four feet high, all over the face of the water. I had to put my head out through the canvas curtain to see anything—and my hair and face streamed water.
“We are almost there, Mummy,” Jan called. She kept a small patch of glass clear on her side, with a rag. There was a sheltering wing of heavy kelp shielding the windward side of the little cove we were heading for. I could see a bit of beach up at the end, so I should be able to anchor. Every other place was just a rocky shore of cliffs.
Then the sudden calm—almost breath-taking—and we were in shelter. I edged in. Jan and Peter went on deck, and between the two of them managed to slide the anchor rope through the chock and ease the anchor down.
“Pheeew!” echoed John, as I sank down on one of the bunks and tried to towel some of the wet off me.
“That was pretty rough, wasn’t it?” said Peter, jumping in off the deck.
I pulled the chart out from behind the steering wheel. We had been too busy trying to see where we were going to bother with a chart that tried to tell us where we should go.
“Jan, just look at all the dangers inside that black buoy that we practically shook hands with!” They all had to see the dangers. Just what was the name of this little island we had found—a little island I had not known was there. Heavens! there it was, marked quite plainly—“Mistaken Island.”
“Why ‘Mistaken’?” asked Jan, looking over my shoulder.
“Perhaps it’s going to disappear at high tide,” I suggested.
“I’m going to watch that tide like anything!” said John.
“Sillies!” said Pete
r. “Look at the trees.”
I looked around the little cove we were in, and asked Jan what depth she got when she anchored.
“Only about six feet.”
I stared at her...there was going to be a zero tide in the night. We weren’t more than two boat-lengths now from the edge of the kelp, past which the wind and the waves roared....The cove was so small that it didn’t even show on the chart. The wind might go down, and again it mightn’t. Well, probably someone knew why they had called it “Mistaken”—and probably we would know why, before we left.
While I got ready some very late lunch the children ran across to the north-east end of the island to look at the waves. They came back, blown to bits, and said the waves were terrific. After lunch I left them to tidy up, and I went across to have a look myself. They were terrific...and the outlook for the night was dim.
It was when I was on my way back that I discovered we were not alone on the island. I had climbed up on top of a rocky rib that flanked the east side of the cove. Some movement in among the trees caught my eye: I thought it might be a deer. There again...and I saw them. Standing waist-deep in the salal, surrounded by half a dozen goats and young kids, stood Robinson Crusoe. They were all standing up on their tiptoes—peering through the trees at our boat....
“Hello, there!” I called.
The man immediately ducked down in the salal, and they all snaked hurriedly off.
“Come back and see us after supper,” I shouted.
No answer. He had to cross an open space there. I don’t think he realized that I could still see him—Robinson Crusoe had not yet learned to make his clothes out of goat skins—he just didn’t wear any. He looked awfully dark, creeping through the jungle. What were we marooned with? And what had I asked to come and see us after supper?
I told the children about Robinson Crusoe and the goats. They were intrigued, and kept sweeping the woods with the binoculars, but they refused to go ashore again unless I went with them.
I took the pike pole off the cabin top, and with Peter and John rowing, I began to sound the cove and plan for the night which was beginning to look inevitable. The dinghy was tied up astern at the end of the long rope—I don’t think anyone could have rowed against that wind; at times it swept in withering squalls across the end of the kelp bed.
I had hoped that the bed of the cove might slope steeply. It didn’t—it hardly dropped at all for the first ten yards. There were only ten feet under the stem of the boat now. The water might rise another two or three feet on the end of this tide—but it was going to drop fourteen feet in the night....I decided on a plan, hauled in the dinghy, carried a stern anchor out as far as I dared, and let it down. There were roughly about fifteen feet of water there—that left three feet during the night, if the anchor didn’t drag when I pulled the boat out to it.
Then I lifted the bow anchor into the dinghy, rowed farther into the cove, and firmly wedged the anchor behind a big rock. If I pulled the boat between the two anchors during the night, I should be able to keep her off the bottom—always supposing I could keep her out of the wind.
After supper I ran the engine for a while. If my plan for the night didn’t work, I could slip both anchors and work along the rocky shore to our left, as far as the calm area extended, which wasn’t very far. However, with the engine idling out of gear most of the time, I should be able to linger there for a couple of hours at low water. The chart showed quite a big cove just beyond that—but it was evidently dry at low tide, and some way beyond as well. There was certainly no better hole.
We made up the bunks, then went on shore and lighted a fire.
“Mummy,” whispered Peter, “he’s there.” Crusoe was standing at the edge of the trees, looking at us.
“Come on down,” I said, still not quite sure what was coming. Very slowly he approached and sat on a rock near us; but he didn’t say anything until I asked a direct question.
“What about this cove for the night?” I said.
“Not very good.”
“What about the cove farther round?” I pointed.
“My cove. No good.”
“Why?” I asked.
“All mud.” He shook his head sadly.
“You mean the whole island has no shelter?”
He nodded...very, very sadly.
“Is there any fresh water?”
Evidently not. I finally extracted from him that he had to row over to North-West Bay for water and provisions once a week. He was looking after a mink ranch on the north-west end of the island. He caught fish to feed the mink with. And if he didn’t get any fish, he killed a kid for them.
I offered him a cigarette, and he took it so eagerly that I gave him the rest of the package and suggested that he go home now before it got dark. He said “Yes,” and got to his feet. When he reached the top of the cove he gave a strange little chirruping call, and in seconds the goats and kids appeared and grouped around him. Then they all drifted off into the trees.
“Mummy!” said Jan, “how could you go on talking to him? What is the matter with him?”
“I’m not sure, perhaps just bushed—too much alone. Let’s get to bed.”
The youngsters were soon quietly asleep. I had been off-hand about the night, and they seemed assured that there would be no trouble. I didn’t undress, and sat there wearing my sleeping bag to keep warm. A westerly, in summer time, either goes down with the sun—or else pauses and then blows with renewed vigour. This one hadn’t even bothered with the pause.
The sky was clear, the stars were out, and later there should be a moon to light things up. At the moment I couldn’t see anything except the night life in the water that stirred up the multitudinous phosphorescent specks of plankton that filled the sea.
I settled down to a routine—up on the deck forward, sound with the pike pole...let out rope if necessary. Back to the after-deck, sound...pull in slack. My hands dripped luminous jewels from their finger-tips—jewels that exploded in soft flashes as they hit the sea. The whole disturbed anchor rope looked like a shining serpent, writhing off into the twinkling void. Down below there, bigger flashes darted after smaller flashes; and smaller flashes darted after still smaller ones. Then the moon came up—and the night life of the fishes and plankton became obscured.
More line out—more line in. We were getting closer and closer to the outer edge of the calm area; and the wind, but not the waves, was beginning to push us around a little. Just how long can one night be?
We have a book by Dunsany on board—a collection of stories. In the first one, “Idling down the River Yan,” when the hour of prayer sounds, and all the men on deck fall on their knees to pray to their various gods, he doesn’t quite like to pray to his jealous God, in the midst of all these strange gods. So he prays to a very old God—one who hasn’t been prayed to for a long time.
I think this ancient idea of having special gods for special things was very sound. Some religions have special saints who, I expect, look after the practical end of things. Tonight, for instance, I feel the need of a specialized deity—one experienced in nautical matters. The west coast Indians had various gods they prayed to for certain things. Ha-we-im, for good hunting; Kwayetsim, to cure the sick—much used by the medicine men. And in bad or dangerous weather at sea they prayed to a Queen Hakoom, who lived above or beyond the seas. They would shout to her, asking her to cause the waves to calm down. They probably still shout to her in times of stress...like tonight. I don’t think I would care to intrude—much less shout, if that is necessary. But a small prayer to that very old God—the one that hasn’t been prayed to for a long time—no one could object to that. This old God must miss the prayers he no longer gets—and might be glad to lend a hand. I feel a gentle but definite jar through the boat. I do not need to be told what it is—“Old God, get busy!”
I scrambled out on deck and grabbed the pike pole—my extra weight up in the bow didn’t help. I loosened the line, then leant on the pole and pushed...an
d fortunately oozed her off.
At least the bottom was either mud or sand. And we were undoubtedly getting some back swell. I sounded at the stern—there were only three feet there now, and we drew two and a half. I had left it too late to think of backing out—one rock, and we would be finished. I couldn’t take up any more slack in the stem line—I would have to let her bump a bit on the mud, up in the bow....
I wiped my cold wet hands and bundled the sleeping bag closer round me. It was one-thirty—the tide must be low at two or thereabouts. The moon was behind clouds, and it was dark. Once more the crests of the waves were throwing the luminous glow on ahead of them.
That old god must have been out of practice—or perhaps, very wise. For dawn was all about me when I woke at four o’clock—the eastern sky lighting up in long streaks of gold. There had been no need for me to keep awake; everything was quiet, and the wind had blown itself out, or else gone to other seas. I hastily slackened the stern line, and burrowed back into my bag.
TROUBLE
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE SUDDEN UNPLANNED THINGS. I had called in to see some friends of mine on my way up from Vancouver, late in September. The weather had been perfect and I was reluctant to cross the gulf for home and settle down for the winter. Settling down meant school every day from nine to one around the dining room table; sawing wood and doing various other outside jobs in the afternoon. And although it had nothing whatever to do with settling down, and couldn’t possibly be connected with, nor blamed on it—it meant the beginning of the rainy weather. British Columbia winters, although mild, are definitely rainy. Most of the year’s rain falls in the four winter months. So if September was fine, we deliberately stayed on the other side of the gulf. We knew from past experience that once on our own side the pull of Little House would be too strong for us—we would just rush to the settling down.
The Curve of Time Page 16