David Giblin - The Codfish Dream

Copyright 2018 David Giblin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, audio recording, or otherwisewithout the written permission of the publisher or a licence from Access Copyright, Toronto, Canada.

Heritage House Publishing Company Ltd.

heritagehouse.ca

Cataloguing information available from Library and Archives Canada

978-1-77203-242-0 (pbk)

978-1-77203-243-7 (epub)

Edited by Kate Juniper

Proofread by Sarah Weber

Cover and interior design by Jacqui Thomas

Cover images by Alfiram/Dreamstime.com Dedication page illustration by David Giblin

The interior of this book was produced on 100% post-consumer recycled paper, processed chlorine free, and printed with vegetable-based inks.

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

22 21 20 19 18 1 2 3 4 5

To Kim

CONTENTS

one

THE CODFISH DREAM

HOME-STYLE COOKING, the neon sign said. I was very hungry, but something about the diner made me hesitate and stop just inside the doorway. Red vinyl-topped chrome stools, the kind you can spin around on, were tucked under a long Formica counter. Black menus in chrome holders matched the napkin dispensers and the shiny salt and vinegar containers. Each booth along one wall displayed a chrome and glass control for the Wurlitzer jukebox that squatted in the corner: three plays for a quarter. The place smelled of onions and the hot fat in the deep fryer. I could watch the cook put my order together. I got over my hesitation and took a seat at the counter. The restaurant was empty, except for the cook, and she didnt say anything to me, just kept polishing glasses with a white cloth. I picked up a menu. The specials were handwritten on a piece of paper taped inside: Salisbury steak or liver and onions, a choice of blueberry or cherry pie for desert. The soup of the day was navy bean. I was too hungry to think, so I ordered a deluxe burger with fries, and for ten cents extra I got mushrooms.

With one quick motion of the cooks hand, the patty hit the grill with a satisfying sizzle. The cook carefully opened the bun and placed it beside the patty. She hadnt said one word the whole time, and her silence was beginning to make me uncomfortable. But before I could think about it too long, the burger was ready. She slid it to me across the counter. It was fresh and juicy, with lettuce and tomatoes spilling onto a big side of fries. I picked it up with both hands and took a huge bite.

My mouth closed onto something sharp and metallic. A tremendous jerk from the burger lifted me right off the stool and up toward the ceiling. The diner disappeared and I found myself underwater being pulled toward the surface.

I tried to move my hands but couldnt make them work. I kicked my legs but they felt strange; looking down I saw they had changed to fins. I started to thrash about wildly. A dark shape loomed above me. As I was dragged closer I saw two people smiling down at me. One of them was holding something. The other looked like the cook from the diner. I didnt think they had my best interests in mind. I knew if they brought me to the surface it would mean my death.

I gave one last desperate shake of my head and woke up, sweating, in my bed.

two

HOMING

IT WAS 1983 and I was approaching the summer of my thirty-second year. For some time, five years to be precise, it had been my habit to spend the summer months fishing the waters around Stuart Island, north of Vancouver, BC. It had become a popular place, especially among well-to-do American sportsmen. Luxury yachts belonging to members of the Seattle Yacht Club crowd the docks, and a steady stream of float planes come in and out daily.

Now, I dont mean to imply that I was one of these amateur anglers, or a dilettante chasing after various and elusive species of fish merely for sport. Nor do I want to give the impression that I was only (and here I must lower my voice to a whisper) a tourist. My reason for travelling to Stuart Island each summer originated from a more primitive need: that grim spectre money forced me to take employment there as a salmon fishing guide.

The alarming state of my bank balance announced the coming season. As the summer grew nearer, the sum of money left in my bank account grew smaller. Finally, I had to leave my home on the southern end of Vancouver Island and travel north to the small town of Campbell River. There I could purchase any groceries and supplies I needed and charter a float plane to take me the last few miles to my destination.

Campbell River is world famous for the salmon that return there each year. Its shops offer an abundance of items a fisherman might need: the latest advances in rods and reels, as well as hooks, lines, sinkers, nets, and other such goods. Fishing equipment is everywhere, even in the gas stations and drugstores. The whole town revolves around sport fishing. All its streets lead down to the water. A jetty reaches out over the waves along the shore. Scores of people line the railings. They drop a lure into the water below and try to catch one of the salmon as they swim past on their way to spawn in the river.

The streets fill with people, their eyes slightly vacant, their minds lost in fishing reveries. They spend hours inspecting the rods, reels, and lures. They talk endlessly about the fish they have caught, the fish they did not catch, the fish they want to catch. I was too busy for such distractions. These lost fisher-folk, wandering the sidewalks and cluttering the aisles of the stores while staring off into the distance, acted only as obstacles to my errands.

After spending a couple of days in town, it finally came time to appear at the float plane dock, early, for the flight to Stuart Island. After a strange and restless sleep, I left the motel room and made my way to the mouth of Campbell River and the float plane docks. There I would meet up with another guide, my roommate for the summer.

three