The Codfish Dream

by David Giblin

  A red-faced man in the stern of the tourist boat shouted angrily, “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m cutting your lines,” Vop replied cheerfully.

  His razor-sharp fish knife parted the lines, sending all their expensive gadgets and hardware to the bottom.

  Once he got clear of the tourist, who was left sputtering impotently, Vop was on top of the pack of guide boats. He had to pass his rod under one guide’s lines, but the rest were already reeling up and getting out of the way. Vop caught up to the fish that was now sitting on the bottom of the hole and sulking. All the guides cleared out a space for Vop to work the fish. He was sitting in the middle of an empty area with his rod bent straight down into the water.

  Vop had the man lift up on the rod to try to move the fish off the bottom. Nothing happened. By steering into the current that swirled around them, Vop kept the boat over top of the fish. Vop checked the drag and tightened it just a little. The rod bent even farther into the water and still the fish didn’t move. Vop tried hitting the butt of the rod with the palm of his hand. Sometimes the shock travelling down the taut line was enough to spook the fish into moving.

  If the fish wouldn’t run, there was no way to tire it out and the line could get snagged on the rocks on the bottom. Hitting the butt of the rod seemed to work. The fish began to move and the line started peeling out again. Vop turned to chase it and saw another tourist boat looming in front of him. It had floated into the clear section of the hole, the operator no doubt thinking it would be a good spot to fish, being empty of all the boats except one.

  Vop waved at the tourists to move. They waved back.

  Vop, caught up in the frenzy of the chase, screamed at them, “Hey, you morons, what the hell do you think I’m doing here? Reel in your lines!”

  There were four morons in the small thirteen-foot Boston whaler. They all had a line in the water. They looked blankly at Vop as his boat came toward them, pushed by the crest of a surge. The fish circled their boat and came back toward Vop.

  “Excuse me!” he yelled, trying not to lose control.

  His guest lifted the rod to try to stay out of their way. For some unknown reason he also hit the freespool lever on the side of the reel.

  “Don’t touch that!” Vop yelled, horrified.

  He reached out to flip it back in place, but he was too late. The reel exploded in a massive bird’s nest.

  “Oh shit! Oh shit!” the man observed helpfully.

  Vop pulled his knife out and hacked at the tourists’ lines. Each time he touched one, a rod on the other boat snapped straight. The tourists looked on incredulously. None of them wanted to say anything to the madman with the knife in his hand.

  Vop’s man started to pick at the mess of line surrounding his reel. Vop stopped him.

  “Forget it, it’s hopeless. I’ll have to cut your line and splice it onto the other rod and reel.”

  “What do you mean, cut the line?”

  “Do you want to argue? Or do you want to catch this fish?”

  “What are you doing with that knife?”

  “You’re going to play the fish the old-fashioned way. By hand.”

  Vop cut the line.

  The man’s mouth hung open. He couldn’t believe Vop had just cut his own line. Maybe he had gone out of his mind, the man thought. Maybe ol’ Vop here was having some sort of a breakdown. He still had a knife in his hand, though, and the man decided he didn’t want to argue with him. He very much wanted to catch this fish.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Watch.”

  Vop swung the boat around the tourists and left them staring at their empty rods. He gunned the motor after the fish.

  “Haul the line in by hand, so the fish doesn’t get any slack. Be careful how you bring it in. Let the line fall in coils onto the floor at your feet, but whatever you do—don’t step on it. That’s it, hand over hand. You don’t need to be all that neat about how it coils. When you catch up to the fish, don’t pull anymore, just keep tension on the line.”

  They passed the guides on the edge of the rip and followed the fish into the main channel. The man piled the line on the floor of the boat. His forehead was furrowed with concentration.

  “Don’t let your feet get tangled in the line,” Vop warned him.

  “I can feel it, the salmon, I can feel it pull. It’s still there, the fish is still there.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t jerk on the line, just keep it taut. If the fish runs, let the line slip through your fingers. Make the salmon earn the line but don’t pull hard enough to break it. Don’t forget, it’s only twelve-pound test.”

  “How much is twelve pounds?”

  “Not much!”

  “Oww-ow-ooooww. . . ,” said the man, “it’s taking line.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It’s hurting my fingers.”

  “Isn’t this great, just like in the good old days!”

  Vop was already getting the other rod prepared. Letting the boat drift with the current, he stripped off the weight and leader.

  “Ow-oww-owwooowww. . .”

  Vop listened to the sound of the man’s discomfort the same way he listened to the clicker on the reels. He could tell what the fish was doing by the sound.

  A blood knot is used to join two similar pieces of monofilament. The knot is simple: one line is wrapped around the other and passed back through the beginning of those wraps. The other line is wrapped around the first, and the free end is passed back through the beginning of those wraps but in the opposite direction. The free ends are held, usually by the teeth, and the two lines are pulled to tighten the knot. If it is wrapped properly and the free ends don’t pull out and lose the tension, it works; if not, you start again.

  Vop tried not to notice the coils of line disappearing as he tied the knot. With both hands busy and the free ends in his teeth, he couldn’t run the engine or steer the boat after the fish. The knot had to be finished before the line ran out. He worked quickly. The knot was the only one that would work in this situation, and he had to get it right. He took the two lines in either hand and pulled. The knot slipped and came loose. He had to tie it again.

  “Keep the line tight on the fish. I’ve almost got the knot tied,” Vop lied to the man. He turned the boat and took a little run toward the fish. The man gained more line back and piled it on the bottom of the boat. Vop tried to tie the knot again now that he had won some more time.

  “It’s running!” the man shouted.

  Sweat was pouring down his face and he was slightly winded. Last night’s activities where coming back to haunt him.

  “Owww-ooooow-owowoow. . .”

  The coils on the floor whipped off into the water. The line made a whispering sound as it ran. It hissed Vop’s name over and over, teasing him.

  “Vop—Vop—Vop—Vop . . .”

  Vop concentrated on the knot. He knew this would be his last chance to get it right. The fish showed no signs of slowing down.

  He wound the lines around each other. He passed the free ends through the eye of the knot, one on either side. He held them in his mouth. He pulled on both lines. The knot slipped again and came undone.

  Vop took a deep breath. He had done this knot a thousand times. He had done it at home and he had done it while playing a fish the same way. He knew he wasn’t paying it proper attention. The thought of the prize money was spoiling his focus. He grabbed the clippers and snipped off the now curled ends of the two lines. He sat down to start afresh.

  “What are you doing?”

  The man’s eyes popped as he saw Vop sit down so casually. The boat bobbed up and down, spinning slowly as the current pushed it about. The man couldn’t believe his eyes. Vop was actually smiling to himself. The line in the man’s hand pulled and the fish ran again. He looked at his guide sitting down, fiddling with the line like some damn Sea Scout earning a merit badge.

  Vop paid him no attention and di
dn’t bother to answer. He was no longer on the boat. He was home on a rainy day, a fire burning in the wood stove, changing the line on his reels without a care in the world. He worked slowly and methodically.

  “Oooooo-oo-ow—Oww-oww—OWWWWW. . .”

  The coils were vanishing from the bottom of the boat.

  “Vop—Vop—Vop—V-V-Vop—V-V-Vop . . .”

  Vop finished wrapping the lines. The free ends were in his mouth. He pulled. The last coil shot out of the boat.

  “Here!” Vop handed the man the other rod. “Start playing the fish with this one.”

  The line came up tight, the rod dipped, the knot held. They were playing the salmon on the end of a rod once more.

  The boat had drifted a long way down the tide. The Second Hole was a tiny cluster of boats in the distance. The riptide off Kelsey Point was just ahead, and they still hadn’t seen the fish. They avoided saying what was on both their minds.

  Vop steered the boat to a calm place inside the point. The man worked the rod smoothly and gained his line back. The knot clicked through the eyes on the rod. The fish was coming to the surface, and the man was reeling in slack line.

  “I can see the weight,” he said after a few more minutes of quiet reeling.

  Vop picked up the net and dipped it in the water. The weight came to the tip of the rod. Vop reached out with the net. The tired fish rolled on its side and Vop slipped the net over its head. As the fish hit the floor of the boat they both let out a whoop of relief and victory.

  “What do you think?” said the man as he looked down at the fish.

  “Man, it’s going to be close, really close. It’s long enough, but I can’t tell if it’s going to be thick enough.”

  The man looked at his watch.

  “In another ten minutes it won’t make any difference how thick it is.”

  Vop understood him immediately. Without cleaning the boat or putting the fish in the box, he started up the big motor and sped back to the lodge.

  A crowd of people had gathered to await their return; word had spread quickly that they had left the Second Hole playing a big fish. Their exit from the fishing hole, after cutting every tourist’s line, had made certain everyone noticed what was happening.

  There was a collective intake of breath as the crowd saw the fish lying on the floor of the boat. Vop carried it over to the scales and dropped it on the hook. Troutbreath leaned in and squinted at the markings on the balance beam. He rubbed his chin and cleared his throat in an official manner. The counterweight was still set at the previous winning weight. The balance beam bobbed up and down. The crowd of people quieted as it slowed to a stop. The beam wasn’t straight.

  Troutbreath made the official announcement.

  “It’s the bigger fish by half a pound.”

  forty-eight MAINTENANCE

  THE END OF the season at Stuart Island is a peculiar time. People keep disappearing. A guide or a member of shore staff, someone you’ve seen around and gotten to know on a casual basis, is suddenly not there anymore. One day they’re carrying boxes at the company store or fishing beside you, the next day they simply vanish. It keeps on happening, like a strange horror movie. No one even comments on it. There is a slow whittling away, until there are only a handful of people left.

  The same thing happens with the yachts. One by one they leave the docks and never return. Like the leaves on the maple trees, they fall off and disappear. The docks are left looking like empty branches awaiting the winter storms.

  The activity around our house slacked off. It became peaceful; no helicopters or float planes taking off and landing; the number of outboards whining past greatly declined. The guides who used to come in and out, laughing and telling loud fish stories, had all disappeared.

  Vop and Carol were off camping in Estero Basin. I decided to take advantage, in the best way possible, of the peace and quiet that had descended on the house and lay down on the couch to take a nap after lunch. I was just drifting off when there came a knock at the door.

  “Hey, Brother Dave, are you in there?”

  “Who is it?” I called out sleepily.

  “It’s me, Nelson.”

  “Oh, hey. Sorry, I was almost asleep here.”

  “I’m sorry, man, I didn’t mean to disturb you, but I need some help with one of the eagles. I wonder if you can give me a hand?”

  “Sure thing, that’s no problem.” I yawned sleepily and shook my head. “Don’t mind me, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  I pulled on some warm clothes and my rain gear. A thick fog had rolled in that morning and the sun still hadn’t burned it off. The far shore of the bay was hidden, and our voices and the sounds of the footsteps on the dock were muffled. No sooner were we away from the dock than we were closed in by fog. Though we were surrounded by land, all we could see was the water in front of us and the thick, white cloud all around.

  We picked our way through the rapids and crossed the main channel in the direction of Nelson’s resort. We went slowly and steered toward the unseen land with quiet certainty. The docks of his resort loomed suddenly and magically out of the fog.

  He pulled up beside the outer finger. An aluminum ladder had been laid there, awaiting our arrival. In the filtered light of the fog, the ladder glowed. It looked Hamlet’s father had used it to climb the walls of Elsinore Castle. We picked it up and laid it down the centre of the boat, the last few feet sticking out over the bow.

  Once again we left the land behind and headed out into the blankness. Nelson made a few careful corrections to our course and a shoreline appeared before us. We ran along the shore for a distance and then Nelson picked a spot to land the boat. He ran it up onto a small gravel beach, the rocks sounding dully on the hull. We unloaded the ladder together.

  We trudged along the fog-shrouded shore carrying the extension ladder between us. We conversed in hushed tones.

  “So, Nelson, I’ve been meaning to ask you. What ever happened about the problem you were having with your eye?”

  “You know, that was the strangest thing. My doctor in Campbell River couldn’t figure it out, so he sent me to a specialist. They couldn’t find anything obviously wrong either. It wasn’t till just a couple of weeks ago, this specialist from Vancouver came to the River and I had an appointment with him. They were all there, my doctor, the specialist, the eye doctor from the big city, we even had a couple of other doctors who were just curious. They’re all peering at me under a bright light with scopes and instruments. Then this specialist guy goes, ‘Hmmmm . . .’—don’t you hate it when a doctor goes ‘Hmmmm . . .’? Then he puts something in my eye to freeze it up a little, gets this fine pair of tweezers out, and pulls a herring scale off my eyeball.”

  It took a moment to register the information.

  “A what? Are you serious? A herring scale?”

  “I swear, man, it was a fucking herring scale. You know how they get everywhere. I can see perfectly now.”

  “That’s too weird.”

  “So I hear Vop won the big derby at the Carringtons’.”

  “And he’s been impossible to live with ever since. Did you hear the size of the tip he got?”

  “No, I just heard he’d won, eh.”

  “The guy was so happy he won back the biggest fish, he went nuts. He talked his partner, who’d slept through the whole afternoon, into splitting the prize money three ways. They didn’t like awkward numbers, so rounded it up and gave Vop $3,500 dollars. By the time they’d partied it up all night Vop looked worse than Big Jake did the day before. He’s gone off camping with Carol to recuperate.”

  “I hope they aren’t sleeping under any trees.”

  “They’re on the rocks in the middle of Estero Basin. The tallest tree is three feet high.”

  Nelson grunted his approval of Vop’s choice. We cut away from the shoreline and into the trees that fringed it.

  “How long do you think it will be before Wet Lenny marries the Brelands’ daughter?” he aske
d.

  “He’s practically one of the family by now anyway. He’s not guiding next year. Mr. Breland offered him a job.”

  “Well, that’s fitting. It won’t surprise me if he’s running the company one day. He wouldn’t be any worse than most of these guys we take fishing. I wouldn’t trust most of them to organize my tackle box. Here’s the tree up ahead.”

  We leaned the ladder against the trunk of the tree. The eagle was in the branches not far above us. Nelson hauled on the rope to raise the extension until the ladder was resting on the branch beside it.

  Nelson paused before he climbed. Floating in the rapids in a Santa Claus suit waiting to die of hypothermia had given him a more philosophical turn.

  “Some people might envy him, but I feel sorry for the poor bastard. Give him another twenty years and he’ll be just like Herbert Crane and the rest of them. He won’t know his own children or his wife—hell, he won’t even be able to find his ass if you gave him the charts and a compass.

  “I know people who believe a shadowy cabal of cigar-smoking men runs the world, holding private meetings in mahogany-panelled rooms to decide the fate of the world. I wish I could believe in that too . . . I could sleep at night! It’s a much simpler world. All we’d have to do is get rid of those men and you could change things for the better. It would all be so easy. But it isn’t like that at all, and that scares the hell out of me.

  “It’s like we’re on this huge ocean liner. A big luxury cruise ship, you know? The wind’s starting to blow and the seas are kicking up. Waves are crashing against the hull and it looks like we’re getting too close to those rocks up ahead. The passengers complain most of the time anyway, but now they’re really getting upset. The boat is rocking too much. It’s affecting the enjoyment of the cruise. They can’t play shuffleboard. Only a few of them even notice the reef, and they just expect the people on the bridge to take care of things . . . But you and me, we’ve been up on the bridge and the only people there are a couple of dipshits like us doing maintenance! Mopping the floor and polishing the binnacle with a white cloth . . . the ship’s going down, but at least it’ll look good while it sinks.”