By Cameron J. Kirby
A rounded slab of fur and flesh breached the tension of the water — rivulets streamed from its crown and flowed back into the river from whence it came. Another set of inky eyes watched us from the port side… they were working in tandem.
We were trolling for late-season salmon, upriver from the mouth of the Columbia: the graveyard of the Pacific, where over 2,000 boats had reached their end. Chinook and Coho were open, and we had four poles rigged to trail in the wash. It had been a slow morning, with few bites and no fish caught. Seals and sea lions materialized and dispersed like phantasms of the periphery. They paced the boats in anticipation of an opportunistic feast.
“Fish on!” Scott cried from the starboard side as he grabbed the Ugly Stik from the rod holder and began to reel. His lower body braced against the gunwale as the fish pulsed and pulled in defiance below. The line came in, followed by the mechanical clicking of drag as it retreated into the depths.
“Tighten the drag,” Chris yelled out from the opposite side of the deck. “That sea lion is going for it!” From over the transom, the pinniped in question dove beneath the waves, leaving a small outward-forming aquatic crater. The coho came into view, its brilliant silver body flashing in the limited light filtered through the overcast ether. Chris grabbed the net and pierced the water — guiding the fish into its synthetic web.
“It’s a keeper,” he called out, dragging it aboard. I grabbed the “thumper” and brained it — its fight drained instantly — in concert with its life. A knife appeared and surgically swept the gills, leaving the deck awash in crimson. Along the top of the fish, there was a 4-inch chunk missing — with rows of teeth marks gouged out along its edges.
“That sea lion almost got your fish.” As if on cue, the voracious lion breached the surface in a wild and chaotic froth, only to trail our boat once more. “It looks like he’s not done with us.”
The Lions of the Wash
Seaweed had been abundant this year, which meant we weren’t running our typical diver to flasher rig of times past — any time we’d pass through a clump of the aquatic verdancy, it would trigger the diver, and force us to reel everything in and reset it. Instead, we had triangle spreaders with lead cannonballs to reach the proper depth.
We passed a green navigation buoy, and with each wave it tolled a dirge — a dinner bell to the ugly beasts languorously perched along its painted base. Nearby, the pelicans were diving into a bait-ball, acting as a beacon for our bow.
“Fish on!” I called out as the rod tip dipped with every piscine pulse. I grasped the rod and began to reel. I could feel it dive against my drag. I paused my reeling as it fought — using the rod against it instead. “Grab the net,” I called out.
Two sea lions appeared from the starboard side, their patchwork-like coat on full display, gleaming wet on the misty day. Seemingly communicating, they both dove beneath the waves in unison.
“They’re gonna get your fish, reel faster!” I could feel them approaching from beneath the surface; my reel was spinning, and the fish was lashing out at its unseen tormentor — sandwiched between three malevolent predators.
Racing the Attack
The coho was now visible along the surface, its silver flesh blending with the crest of forming waves. Chris was leaning over the gunwale with the net positioned; I hauled the fish toward it.
“Got it,” he pulled it out of the water — it sporadically drummed the side of the boat with its powerful tail. “Bummer, it’s a native… Man, it was a nice fish too.” Two parallel sea lion heads surfaced 50 yards to our aft.
“They’re waiting for you to throw it back; they eat the fish we can’t keep and barely have to work for it.” The words were like an aftertaste — burning like rye. Chris dug the hook out of the salmon’s mouth, serrating his arm in the process. His blood drained, mingling with the fish’s blood that had traced its way along his fingers.
“Furry bastards.”
“Yup, but what can you do?” he said as he tossed the fish back into the churning water.
“I’m rooting for the fish.”
“I think we all are.”
