by David Giblin
It was a quiet ride back to the yacht and we decided drinks all round were in order. Lenny returned soon after and we all gathered in the ship’s lounge. Lenny had crossed the inlet and found a bay sheltered from the wind. Doug’s daughter had caught a nice twelve-pound spring, and the mood of the group was elevated as a result.
After some discussion about the fish and fishing, conversation settled into a debate between Doug and his children. Doug had come out in favour of nuclear energy earlier in the day, and they wanted to argue its merits. I always try to stay out of such family discussions. I’ve seen them become more about the family than the topic being discussed. Old animosities surface, and as a guide I’m much better off being neutral. I sat quietly and nursed my drink. But Doug wasn’t about to let me get away that easily. He turned to me.
“You’re awfully quiet over there, Dave. What do you think about all this? You’re a guide. You’re probably sympathetic to these environmentalists.”
During the course of fishing together I had learned Doug was on the boards of some major Canadian corporations. Far from providing an idle way to pass the time, the conversation might sway his opinion on any subject, which could in turn affect thousands of people. I thought about our little cod fishing adventure. Doug was sporting a bandaged finger, and only he and I knew exactly what had happened.
“I guess I have somewhat more fundamental concerns,” I said, trying to be noncommittal.
“What do you mean by fundamental, Dave? This is a pretty complex issue.”
There was a faintly patronizing tone in his voice. It was just enough to rub me the wrong way.
“Well, for example, I had some guy out fishing—an influential man in charge of major corporations. When a guy like that can’t even operate a simple fishing reel without getting his finger smashed in the works, well, you’ve got to wonder what he could do if you handed him something more complicated like, say, a nuclear reactor.”
Doug was quiet for a moment. I had obviously hit a sore point. He looked at me accusingly, as though I wasn’t playing fair. He cleared his throat.
“Well, of course, you have to have experts to run the things.”
twenty-eight CAROL
CAROL HAD THE job of housekeeper at the Carringtons’ resort, taking care of the cabins that the fly-in guests used during their stay. Before Carol came to the resort, the housekeeping had taken two people all day; she was able to do it by herself and finish by lunchtime. She quickly found she could more than double her income if she offered her services to the owners of the yachts at the marina, so after she’d finished the cabins each day she spent the afternoons cleaning boats. Carol was making more money in a day than most of the guides were.
Behind the resort was a trail that led all over the island. On afternoons when she had no boats to clean she could walk the trail to the lake, or, in the opposite direction, be at our house in a matter of minutes. If we were out fishing, which was often the case, she was welcome to make herself at home. Our house became a haven for her.
The indifference people showed to her comings and goings as she cleaned up after them completely amazed her. She was ready to accept most of the men as incredibly untidy. She was even willing to deal with their thoughtless demands as part of the job. She was not ready for the way people totally ignored her presence. Growing up in a small town she was always treated as an individual. No matter what you did, people recognized the person behind the job. This was definitely not true at the resort, especially on the yachts. Carol felt like a charwoman in a nineteenth-century Gothic novel. If people were on board while she cleaned, they went about their business as though she didn’t exist. They would talk among themselves about the most personal matters, have arguments, even make passes at other people’s wives in her presence. They would leave confidential documents lying around, open and in full view: investment plans, ad campaigns, information that would be of enormous interest to the right people.
Carol wasn’t the kind of person to take advantage of the situation. Yet the way the people involved seemed to take this for granted began to disturb her. Especially when she realized their assumptions weren’t based on her highly developed moral code but on the fact that she was a housekeeper. She sensed a strong condescension, even suspected they might think she was too stupid to know what she was looking at. The longer it went on the more she wanted to do something about it.
If they had taken the time to find out something about her, they would have quickly revised their opinion. As well as speaking English and French, Carol was fluent in Ukrainian and German. The Ukrainian she had learned from her grandparents and the neighbours she had grown up with in the Kootenays. This talent with language meant that her winters on the ski hills had also given her a smattering of Swedish, Italian, and even Japanese. She was also a speed-reader and her grades at college were good enough for her to win a full scholarship for the next year.
Back home Carol might have shrugged off her feelings and gone about her business. Perhaps it was hanging around with Vop and the other guides. She was becoming friends with the Brelands, so it might equally have come from hanging around with such a highly charged person as Doug. It might have been the ozone-thick air generated by the rapids. (If the rapids energize the fish that swim there, it follows that they could energize the people that live beside them.) Whatever the influence, something got inside her and she started doing things she wouldn’t have done in the past. She began taking little revenges on people.
One obnoxious boat owner left her alone with a manuscript for a TV series pilot, lying open on a desk. She read through it, leaving notes and criticisms in the margins. She wrote in German using a red pen and signed her work Fassbinder.
She wrote out a love letter in French using scented paper and left it where a cheating husband’s wife was sure to find it.
Her favourite was the letter she put in the briefcase of a man she’d heard venting the most violent kind of fascist sentiments. He showed little regard for anyone the least bit different and was willing to conversationally obliterate anyone who might disagree with him. His opinions were primarily directed at anyone even vaguely descended from a Russian background. So she wrote another of her letters. This one was in Ukrainian, using the Cyrillic alphabet. It thanked the man for the useful industrial information he had passed along to the Russian consulate during his stopover in Vancouver. She left it where a secretary would be sure to find it on his return to the office.
Carol met with many quirks of human nature while she went about her job. She came to take it all in stride. One morning she found something that took her by surprise. Two guys were sharing one of the cabins. That was nothing so unusual in that the cabins were organized with that in mind. They had flown in together and appeared to be old friends, good buddies getting away for a few days of salmon fishing. They were always up first thing in the morning and off fishing before daylight. (Quite often this is a significant mark of manhood. People who sleep in past 6:30 in the morning are seen as weak and degenerate, perhaps even effeminate.) They made sure everyone knew how early they were out there.
Night found them in the lounge drinking whiskey and bragging loudly about the fish they had caught that day. They got drunk and made passes at the waitresses. Everything they did confirmed their image. They were the essence of the American outdoorsman. In check shirts and jeans, they slapped all the men on the back and called them “partner” and “ole buddy.”
They were out fishing when Carol cleaned their cabin. She tidied the living area and made the beds, and then moved into the bathroom. She washed down the sink and the toilet then pulled back the shower curtain.
Carol jumped back, startled. At first she thought she was looking at a nest of long thin snakes hanging from the showerhead. Then she realized she was looking at a collection of whips, leather harnesses, bondage gear, and sexual devices. The image of the two tying each other up in mink-lined black leather made her burst out laughing. She had to sit down on the toilet
seat to catch her breath. She knew if she saw them again she wouldn’t be able keep a straight face, and then they would know that she knew and she didn’t want to have to deal with that. Luckily they were leaving that afternoon, so she decided to have lunch over at our place and avoid the situation entirely.
The windstorm of the last couple of days had left branches strewn about the trail, and even blown down one or two trees. She picked her way along carefully, keeping an eye out for hanging branches posing a hazard above her. In a short time she stepped off the trail onto the path that led to our cottage. She found both of us home. The Brelands had flown by helicopter to see the glaciers. Vop was so exhausted from working the long hours that he had booked some time off.
“So what did you do when you found all the stuff? Did you leave another one of your famous letters?” asked Vop.
“When I finished laughing I just closed the curtains and left. These guys are regulars and I don’t want them to know I found them out. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care one way or the other. It’s just that they’re working so hard to convince everybody they’re straight. I think it’s dishonest. You know, I always thought the more macho a guy tried to be, the more insecure he was about his sexuality.”
“I guess that means Dave and I are pretty studly guys then, eh?” said Vop sleepily.
“Tell me,” I asked, “did either of them wear a little leather case on their belts, about so big?”
“I think they both did. That have something to do with it?”
“I’m not sure. It’s just something I’ve been noticing about these macho fishermen. I haven’t come to any conclusion about it yet.”
twenty-nine THE BLUE HERON
VOP HAD BEEN working long hours. His big plan for the day was an afternoon nap on the couch. I had some errands to run, a visit to the post office to make, some guiding hours to see about, and a herring bill to pay. Carol decided a boat ride and a chance to do some sightseeing sounded like a great idea. She had been out fishing with Vop a few times and was getting more comfortable with the water. She had even run the boat for him on occasion. She had both used the small motor and driven with the big one at full speed, but only in calm water. She was still in awe of the tide. The boils and the whirlpools weren’t easy to master. As yet she hadn’t brought herself to run the rapids at the controls of a boat.
Once we were in the quiet water on the other side of the mid-channel islands, I let Carol take over and run the boat. We visited with Nelson and checked the mail. Nelson was in good spirits, though he was developing some kind of vision problem in his left eye. He had been to the doctor about it and done some tests, but so far they hadn’t found anything obviously wrong. Maybe it had something to do with the time he spent on the water. Nelson was trying not to let it get to him, but a loss of sight was a serious thing.
We took our leave and headed back to Stuart Island, to the small bay where I occasionally bought my herring. It was just to the north of Big Bay, a few hundred yards above the Arran Rapids. During a peak tide you could hear them thunder and almost feel the pull as you stood on the herring dock.
We arrived to find Burt Asman taking care of the bait sales by himself. Burt was in his early fifties and, as his aunt and uncle would say, “a bit simple.” He lived with them, and in return for his care he helped them where he could.
Burt’s uncle was one of the local characters. He had been one of the first guides in the area and had hand-logged on this part of the coast for years, using the sort of equipment you can find in logging museums. He claimed the distinction of inventing the cut-plugged herring. Any fish less than thirty-five pounds he dismissed as “another one of them goddamn little feeder springs.” He was retired now; he guided just occasionally and netted herring to sell to the fishermen.
Burt pointed to the shoreline on the other side of the small bay as we pulled into the dock. He had noticed a blue heron on the ground underneath the trees.
“There’s a heron over on the other side there. I think it’s got a broken wing. It must have happened in that windstorm we just had.” Burt’s simplicity didn’t prevent him from showing kindness to the animals that surrounded him. “I can’t leave here or I’d try to help it myself, at least put it out of its misery or something. My uncle would get mad if I weren’t here and someone came to get bait. It’s gonna die if it doesn’t get help.”
The heron has always been my favourite bird. The eagles get most of the attention, especially from the Americans, but eagles aren’t much at fishing. They’re really just scavengers, swooping down on dead fish floating in the water. Herons, on the other hand, truly go fishing. I would often see one standing perfectly still in the shallows along shore. It would stalk along for hours, still as the rocks around it, and then its head would dart forward into the water. More often than not, it would straighten up with a shining fish wriggling in its beak.
The eagles, meanwhile, hung out in the trees like feathered beggars.
I have observed herons through powerful telescopes and marvelled at the subtlety of their colours. Their feathers have infinite shades of grey. The ones on the wings and across their breast shine with a blue iridescence that gives them their name.
I knew there was an animal shelter in Campbell River that treated wild animals and birds. They had an arrangement with the float plane company I flew with. The scheduled mail flight would stop and pick up the bird. It could be flown back to the depot and the shelter would send someone to meet the plane. Carol and I decided to try to rescue the bird. We took my boat to the opposite shore.
While Carol held the boat off the rocks I walked up into the trees. After struggling through a fringe of thick brush, I stepped into a park-like opening under big firs. I found the bird in the clearing. One of its huge wings was obviously broken.
It eyed me warily as I approached. As I got close to it I realized exactly how big these birds really are. I stand six feet tall and the heron was looking me straight in the eye.
It thought I was getting too close and ran off up a slight rise. I followed it. Though its wing was broken its feet were working just fine, and I had to run as fast as I could to keep up with it. It dodged around trees and under fallen logs. It could hop over brush that I had to crawl through. I was soon scratched and out of breath.
I finally cornered it between a cliff face and a sharp drop-off. With nowhere to go, it turned to face its pursuer. The heron coiled its neck and prepared to defend itself with its beak. As I stood there, off-balance on the uneven ground and out of breath, I had to admit to myself that chasing the bird down was one thing—trying to capture it was an entirely different problem. The animal’s beak was like a six-inch dagger that it wielded with absolute precision. With its feathered costume and en garde posture it reminded me of a Renaissance-era fencing master in a duel for his life: wounded but still deadly.
I walked toward it slowly, making soft calling sounds. I tried not to think about the beak or make threatening eye contact. The bird stabbed at me, recoiled, and stabbed again, but the injury and the run through the woods had weakened it. The thrusts had no snap to them. I was able to sidestep them each time. I moved closer still. The bird stabbed at me again, but again I stepped aside and then toward it. As its beak flashed past again I caught it with my left hand and hung on. The bird let out a startled squawk and struggled backwards, flapping its wings. The broken one twisted sickeningly and I was afraid it would hurt itself even further in trying to get away. Still holding the beak with my left hand, I put my right arm around its body and, cradling its wings against my chest, I lifted it up off the ground.
Now that I had the struggling bird I still had to get back to the boat. I crashed through the bushes. Without my hands to fend them off, the branches and thick underbrush slapped against my face and legs. I was covered in scratches and cuts. I managed to make it to where Carol was waiting without losing my grip on the bird. She helped me climb aboard and we sat looking at each other. The bird struggled and squawked pitifully
between us. It was making strange gurgling sounds through its beak. We had to move, soon, but there was no way I could let go of the bird to drive the boat. Between home and us were the rapids, running at the peak of a sizable flood.
Carol would have to run the boat. I didn’t mention how bad the rapids were at that moment; it would only make her more apprehensive. Just running the boat made her nervous enough. Running it through raging, boiling whitewater might be too much for her skill level.
We would be in the fast water almost as soon as we left the shelter of the small bay. There was a point of land between Big Bay and us. A strong riptide swirled around it, and a line of whirlpools formed downstream. Another rip formed on the opposite shore, off the mid-channel islands, and the two met in the middle of the channel in a deadly confluence. We had to pick a spot to cut through the rip into Big Bay before we were caught there and the boat flipped over.
I tried to explain this to Carol as calmly as possible, as though I was giving her directions for a drive to the corner store, but I could tell she wasn’t buying it. We could hear the thunder of the water and taste the salt spray in the air. As if it could tell what we were planning, the bird began a fresh round of terrified squalling.
Carol looked pale and grim as we left the bay.
“You can do this, Carol. Watch for an opening between the whirlpools and drive the boat right through it. When you decide to make your cut, don’t hesitate. It’ll all be over before you know what’s happened.”
Maybe that was a poor choice of words.
Carol glared at me. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
She settled into her seat and concentrated on the water ahead.
Rounding the point was like cresting the top of a hill. The water flowed downhill into the channel that opened in front of us. Carol could see the white turbulence waiting in the middle of the channel. The spray hung in the air like steam over a boiling cauldron, while the current that swept us downstream flowed slick and smooth and travelled as fast as our boat. It gave you the illusion of slowing down even though the shore continued to rush past. In the strong current Carol lost some control over the boat. Once you were in its grip it was difficult to turn around safely, or even to steer properly. It was like entering a chute.