The Codfish Dream

by David Giblin

  “Well, that’s all very fascinating, I’m sure,” said the SEC man, “but what does it have to do with what we were discussing?”

  Lenny was off and running and didn’t even seem to hear the question.

  “I caught that one, if I remember correctly, trolling up by the waterfall under Mount Estero. I had about forty-seven and a half feet of line out with a four-ounce weight. Yeah, I’m pretty sure, I was just this side of where the fresh water comes down the inlet. I stayed in the salt water so my bait wouldn’t die, eh? I was trying a—”

  “Excuse me, but you can tell all this from just looking at a Polaroid of a fish?” The FBI man could already hear how this would sound back at the office, never mind in a court of law.

  “Oh sure,” said Lenny cheerfully, “I keep track of all the fish I catch and how I catch them. I’m trying to understand the overall principles that govern catching fish. I want to make it more of a science, do away with all the guesswork and superstition.”

  “That’s important work, I’m sure, but we’re interested in the time frame in which this fish was caught in order to place these men here at a particular time. I don’t suppose you could tell us when you caught that fish?”

  It was more than the FBI man dared to hope for. He had taken out a little black notebook and was making notes with a carefully sharpened pencil.

  “That was last summer, about July 26 or 27—but I may have to refer to my notes, if that’s all right?”

  “Notes?” said the FBI man.

  “You keep notes?” asked the guy from the SEC.

  “Would you mind if we had a look at those notes?”

  Lenny didn’t know what to say. In all the years he had been writing things down, no one had ever asked to read his notes.

  He went to his room in the guide shack and got out his briefcase. He spent the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening talking about the fish in the picture, the dates when he had caught them, where, and much more. He talked about the weather and the colour of the water, and even let the investigators know about the barometric pressure.

  The FBI agent filled up his first notebook and opened up another. Then he filled a third. They asked Wet Lenny everything they could think to ask and then listened to his theories on how to catch fish.

  Lenny was beside himself. Never before had two people been so interested in anything he had to say.

  forty-two THE RECORD

  MY SUCCESS WITH coho in the First Hole prompted Vop to take Carol fishing there the next time they had a day off together.

  There were only four boats in the back eddy when they pulled in. Vop took up his position and dropped Carol’s line. Vop didn’t fish. He was happy just to run the boat, holding it in one spot against the current.

  If you don’t have to struggle against too many boats, fishing the First Hole can be almost like meditating. Vop reacted to the water without thinking. His thoughts of where the boat should sit were translated into action by hands he was not conscious of controlling. With whirlpools forming and writhing behind him, and whitewater boiling past under the hull and reflecting in his sunglasses, Vop was as comfortable as a man in a hammock.

  Carol sat with her feet on the gunnel and lay back in her seat, enjoying the warm sunshine.

  A guest in one of the boats beside them caught a salmon and followed it down the tide. The boat threaded its way through the whirlpools, which opened up and flattened out below the fishing hole. The guest’s rod was bent double, almost touching the water, by the strength of the fish. The guide looked intense as he steered around obstacles that could engulf his boat. He yelled instructions to his guests that Vop and Carol could hear over the roar of the water. They watched the boat until it disappeared.

  “Looks like they got a good one,” Carol observed languidly.

  “Should be some big fish around still. It’s the right time of year for another monster like Herbert’s.”

  In a way Vop hoped they didn’t catch anything. He was enjoying the tranquility he felt as the water rushed past. He was happy watching Carol holding the rod, her feet up, with the incredibly turbulent water behind her. It was a suitable contrast.

  Vop was still a guide, however; he couldn’t sit and watch someone else catch a fish and not try improving his own luck. Vop had Carol bring her line in and change bait. He suggested she try a little deeper, so she let out an extra fifteen feet of line. Vop relaxed back into his seat and Carol put her feet back up on the gunnel.

  They had only a moment’s peace. The tip of Carol’s rod twitched and bent down into the water in a slow tug. When Vop first noticed it he thought the line was snagged on the bottom. He told Carol to reel her line in, as the snag would have spoiled the bait. She reeled in perhaps twenty feet of line when the rod jumped in her hand.

  The line started to scream out in the other direction, taking off into the rapids—into the most violent section of water. Vop got his big motor going and they followed along the inside of the riptide. Carol’s reel continued to peel line; it cut through the rip and out into the main channel. Carol stood up, careful to keep the rod at the proper angle to the pulling line. She kept two hands on the rod and just watched the level wind fly back and forth.

  Vop waited until there was an opening between two whirlpools and steered the boat through it. Then he gunned the engine and chased the line as Carol reeled in the slack furiously. They got close enough to catch a glimpse of the weight; then the line flew out again. But Carol was becoming an excellent angler, and Vop didn’t have to waste his concentration giving her instructions. Large amounts of driftwood and other junk floated down the channel with them. Vop and Carol were kept busy dodging and dipping the rod into the water to avoid being tangled in any of it. There was too much turbulence to try netting the fish, even if they could get it beside the boat. Vop was content to wait while he manoeuvred into calmer water. There was no need to rush, though Carol’s arms were getting tired from the exertion. She shook them in turn to relieve the cramping.

  Vop had avoided talking about what was on the other end of the line.

  Carol, knowing the universal horror the guides all shared, didn’t dare weigh the fish before it was in the boat.

  Vop finally spoke up. “We should be getting a look at whatever this is soon. It must be getting tired by now.”

  The First Hole had disappeared in the distance. They were very close to Kelsey Point. Another riptide formed there, and very often, when playing a big fish down the rapids, it gave the fish another burst of energy.

  Vop wanted to pull the fish into a calm back eddy above the point, but the fish had other ideas. The line disappeared off into the whirlpools and they had to chase it down once more.

  They’d worked the fish for almost an hour, reeling the line in and watching it peel out again. The hard work of trying to get the line in before they reached Kelsey Point was all for nothing. As the line ran out once more, they could only rest and watch it go.

  “My arms are really getting tired,” said Carol. She wasn’t complaining, merely stating a fact that affected how well she could play the fish. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  “It’s not running as hard as before. We’ll be seeing it soon, I promise,” Vop said, trying to reassure her.

  They crossed the Kelsey Point rip and were now in calmer water. The line angled into the whirlpools, but as Carol applied pressure it began to reel in easier and head toward the boat.

  “I think it’s coming up. It must want to have a look at us.” Vop sounded hopeful.

  Carol continued to work the rod, lifting it up and then dropping the tip as she reeled in the slack.

  “You’re doing great! All my guests should play a fish as well as this! The leader is quite long, so you may have to lift the rod over your head to bring the fish close enough to net.”

  “There’s the weight!”

  Carol was trying to remain calm, but her voice betrayed her excitement. She reeled in the line with extra car
e now the fish was so close. She backed away from the gunnel and lifted the rod. Vop got the net ready.

  The weight came clear of the water and touched the tip of the rod. Vop moved in front of Carol. She couldn’t see what was happening as he leaned out with the net.

  “Can you get it?” she asked. Her tired arms were barely able to hold the rod high enough. They shook as she raised the rod higher.

  Vop peered into the water. “It’s a record,” he said.

  “Don’t say that until the fish is in the boat! Get it in the net, quick! I can’t hold on much longer.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be needing the net.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, it really is a record.”

  Vop stood up holding the line in his hand. From the bottom hook of the leader dangled a 33⅓ long-playing vinyl record.

  Carol stared at it in disbelief.

  “What happened to the fish? What’s that doing there? Oh damn it, did I lose the fish?”

  Carol was suffering the acute disappointment of losing a big fish. Only someone who’s been there can truly understand her frustration. “I know I had a fish on. You did too.”

  Vop inspected the record. The hook was caught in the centre hole and stuck tightly. Vop dropped the record back in the water. He let it sink a few feet then pulled the line. The record pivoted face-on and he was pulling against the weight of the water. It was like trying to dredge up a bucket.

  “There’s your fish,” said Vop. “With the full force of the tide pulling on this it would act just like a fish taking line. In the calmer water it would flatten out and we could get some line back. As soon as we got into the fast water again, it took off.”

  “I don’t believe it. It felt just like a salmon. Look at the tiny hole the hook is in. That’s pretty strange, don’t you think?”

  Vop grinned, his eyes twinkling at her. “Stuff happens,” he said meaningfully.

  He lifted the record out of the water.

  “See, it’s even got barnacles growing on it. We must have gotten too close to the bottom and snagged it. With the tide running so hard, it’s no wonder we couldn’t get it up to the boat.”

  “We could have gotten killed chasing down a stupid record.”

  Carol still couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Vop was turning the record over in his hand. The side that had lain on the bottom had been protected from the sea growth; he could still read the label.

  “This isn’t just any record. If you think catching this was strange enough, take a look at the title of the album.”

  Carol’s mouth dropped.

  “Wow” was all she could manage to say.

  “Now it’s starting to happen to you. I think you’re becoming one of us.”

  “Vop, this is trying to tell us something.”

  “That depends on how much you want to read into it. I don’t like giving things like this too much power. If you want to take this as a sign, it might mean we’re doing the right thing by being together. If you’re into signs that is.”

  Carol leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Her eyes twinkled.

  “How about we give this back to the sea?” said Vop.

  She nodded.

  He unhooked the record and looked at it a moment. Then he spat on it and tossed it back into the water. The two of them watched as it fluttered out of sight.

  forty-three WHERE THERE’S SMOKE

  ON MY WAY to the Landing that afternoon I had noticed Vop and Carol out along the rip below Kelsey Point. I didn’t have time to stop and talk, and besides it looked like they were playing a big fish. I didn’t want to get in the way. I was guiding for the Landing the next day and needed to talk about arrangements and starting times. It would be one of my last parties of the season. I was looking forward to winding things down and maybe having the time to visit some of the neighbouring islands.

  When I arrived the RCMP’s new vessel was tied to the dock and a brand new helicopter, painted white and blue with the RCMP crest on its side, was sitting on the loading dock above. The crew of the boat was well known to all the guides, and I called out to see if anyone was on board. The skipper stuck his head out a side window.

  “Hey, Dave, haven’t seen you in a while. You ever get any running lights on that boat of yours?”

  “Of course,” I said, feigning indignation, “I’m so legal it’s painful. You want to hear my sound-signalling device?”

  “No, thanks. The last time I asked one of you guides to demonstrate he’d rigged up an air horn from an old salvage tug. I couldn’t hear anything for the rest of the day. I’ve just put a fresh pot of coffee on. You care for a cup?”

  “I’ve got to go up to the office for a minute, but sure, I’ll be right back down.”

  My return for coffee was the first chance I’d had to inspect the new boat up close, and I was suitably impressed. I sat in the wheelhouse, in the skipper’s custom-built, shock-absorbing seat. Properly strapped in he could maintain full speed no matter how rough the seas.

  “How fast is this thing anyway? You can tell me.”

  “You call my boat a thing and expect me to give you classified information?”

  “What are we talking here, forty-five, fifty knots?”

  “I could tell you but then you’d have to be arrested for having Crown secrets.”

  There was something about the way he was smiling at me.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’d actually do that.”

  “Damn right. You’d be the first to try our little high-tech jail. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity.”

  “No, that doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  “I could let you go for a ride in the helicopter, how does that sound?”

  “You can do that?”

  “Hey, I’m the law around here, aren’t I? Besides, it’s a new helicopter and we’ve never taken it up with a full load.”

  “That sounds like way more fun.”

  I took any opportunity to go flying that came along, even if it meant flying with the only law west of the inlet. We waited for the rest of the crew and the pilot of the helicopter to return to the boat.

  The pilot and the young constable (he was the same age as most of the guides) were out for a short run in the police Zodiac. The Zodiac usually sat in a special cradle on the stern of the boat. The stern was designed in such a way that the Zodiac could be dropped and retrieved while the mother ship maintained cruising speed. They used the Zodiac for short patrols and checking fishing licences and the safety equipment of the boaters and sport fishermen. We talked about nothing in particular while we waited, and then I hit on a touchy subject.

  “I notice you’ve got the engines running. Are you still trying to burn up diesel?”

  “The wheels of government grind on slowly. We’ve filed the request forms, but they said we need to fill out a 14W/24-9c, whatever the hell that is. They were going to mail us one from Ottawa, but that was over a month ago. We’ve got a similar problem with the helicopter.”

  The skipper enjoyed stories of official incompetence and bungling—anything that made the bureaucrats at the office look bad. He had worked his way through the ranks and had spent years of his life in isolated postings. Now he was in a senior position, he didn’t mind speaking out, at least to the guides.

  “They bought this new helicopter to patrol several different jurisdictions from here to Bella Bella. Each jurisdiction is assigned so many hours of flying time. Of course we have to use all of ours or we don’t get as many next year. Hell, we like to go flying, so we’re off again this afternoon.”

  The Zodiac returned before he could launch into a broader complaint about the bureaucratically inept. It was soon stowed on its cradle, and we boarded the helicopter and took off, heading south.

  In a short time we were over Cortes Island. I noticed smoke coming from a log cabin nestled in a small cove on the north end of Cortes, where we swung west. The helicopter was extremely
fast, and we were able to cover a great deal of territory. We flew over several spots that were well known as good sailboat anchorage, but no boats were moored in any of them. The officers seemed disappointed; they were on the lookout for something. We flew around the bottom of Reid Island and over to the Octopus Islands, another favourite spot for sailboaters. This time there were a couple of boats moored there. We circled above them.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “Oh, we’re just, uhhh . . . assessing our surveillance capabilities,” the skipper replied over the intercom. He was checking out the boat below with a pair of high-powered binoculars.

  “You know, it looks to me like those women on the boat down there aren’t wearing any tops.”

  “We’re on official business here. That would be more classified information.”

  “About as official as my ass! I can’t believe you guys, up here on taxpayers’ money, checking out some taxpayers’ breasts . . .”

  Before I got a chance to continue we passed the moorage and turned north over Reid Island. As we came up on a low ridge, the skipper noticed something and had the pilot come around for another pass. Scattered among the salal bushes and obviously out of place were some bright green plants. The skipper got quite excited and asked the pilot to find somewhere to set the helicopter down.

  He found a flat clearing not too far away and landed. Closer inspection confirmed they had found a small marijuana plantation, about thirty plants in all.

  “It’s a shame tearing these up now. In another couple of weeks they’d be mature.”

  I had to watch as they pulled the plants up.

  “Well, if you ask me, I wouldn’t mind if they legalize the stuff,” said the skipper. “It just means more paperwork for us, and even if the growers are stupid enough to be here when we land, the most they ever get is a hundred-dollar fine.”

  “Why do you bother stopping at all then?”

  “You mean, besides the fact it’s our job? If you want to know the truth, it looks good on paper and the bureaucrats give us more time to fly the helicopter.”