The Fisher Queen by Sylvia Taylor Read Free Book Online

the biggest and oldest commercial fish handler since the late 1800s.
    I was like a terrier, scurrying around the deck to see everything all at once. Since the space along the floats was limited, we could tie up at the servicing dock only to unload fish or take on ice, fuel and water. Lots of boats had to anchor out in the bay, away from the clamour and the company. While the more reclusive folks preferred this, most fishermen tended to be friendly and sought out human contact and conversation like a Bedouin would an oasis.
    Bull Harbour was the only fish camp north of Hardy, the entire top end, and for a hundred miles down the west side of Vancouver Island. The only place for fuel or water or the precious crushed ice that kept your dressed fish from turning to rotten mush over 10 or 12 days before offloading and uploading for the next stint—a blur of action called The Turnaround. Every day lost to weather or breakdown or hangover was a financial loss, never mind the exhaustion or injury.
    After we registered our logbook, names and social insurance numbers at the office and made nice with the new managers, we spent the last of our money on diesel, cigs and a coveted chocolate bar, then filled up the sectioned bins with crushed ice and topped up the teeny water tank. After lunch Paul started the Talk Circuit. He strolled the floats, checked in with old friends, caught up on rumours and gossip, greeted strangers and occasionally remembered to introduce me. In time I would get accustomed to and even learn to ignore the bold stares, usually from older fishermen, the leering inquiries about whether I was looking for a job and the predictable curiosity about Paul and my personal status. But it was still early in the season and the men not long from their homes, so all was tolerable. Many of Paul’s pals were genuinely warm and friendly, welcoming me to the industry and acting almost courtly. Some of them would become very dear to me, and welcome havens in the tough days to come.
    I hadn’t had so much coffee and nicotine since college, and between the chemical buzz and the excitement of starting fishing the next day, I was getting pretty jingly. Paul suggested we row to the back of the bay and hike across the narrow neck of woods to Roller Bay. Dave, the camp manager, hadn’t been too keen to let me use their phone to call my parents, but Marji, his sweetheart of a wife, melted like Mother’s Day chocolate and said I could make a quick call after dinner that night when things had slowed down at the camp. With a quick hug to her, we were off in our skiff to explore.
    We made for the crossed trees that marked the trailhead. Bathed in warm sun and Paul’s assurances we’d only be gone a couple of hours, we brought nothing to eat or drink and wore only sweatshirts, jeans and sneakers. Full of fun and frolics, we set off at a jaunty pace until we came to a fork in the trail just inside the dense pine forest that rose like a fortress behind the scrub and salal of the waterfront. It was a toss-up which way to go. Since Paul couldn’t remember which side to take and both paths were equally untrodden and vague, that’s what we did: tossed a coin. Seemed like pretty much everything else was up to the whims of fate, so why not this too? We took the right fork and hoped for the best. How far could it be? We could already hear a faint rumbling, which we took to be the surf.
    Padding along the spongy trail we fell into a silent, dreamy rhythm, lulled by the pulse of life around us. Vegetation didn’t just grow in the rainforest, it vibrated and hummed in a million shades of green so intense we could almost taste the chlorophyll. And today was particularly symphonic since it wasn’t being lashed by wind and rain for a change.
    If the forest was Gaia the Earth Goddess’s heart, then the ocean was her breath, the draw of her mighty bellows. Growing louder ’til it resonated in every cell like a