“It is in truth not for glory, nor riches, nor honours that we are fighting, but for freedom alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself.”—Declaration of Arbroath, Scotland, April 6, 1320

      Introduction

      For a twelve-year period from 1978 to 1990, I ran a charter fishing boat on the West Coast of Canada, off the shores of Vancouver Island. It is a time in my life that instills delight whenever I flick through the ship’s log and photo album. The stories and anecdotes in this book are all taken from that log and from my personal memories and those of my children, who have vivid recollections of their time aboard my charter boat, a fifty-foot Monk cruiser named MV Kalua. Revisiting these experiences has been incredibly gratifying and entertaining as we laughed together at the memories.

      This is not a manual on how to fish, although fishing is the thread that binds the stories together. This book is not so much about fishing as it is about human nature and people’s quirks and eccentricities and, in some cases, their enormous generosity of spirit. Some of my charters were marvellous, almost magical. Mixed in with those joyful charters were some that still move me to great sadness, while others were peopled with arrogant fools who could spoil a quiet sunrise with their presence. The biggest pleasures of my charter fishing business happened when my trinity came together—great weather, great people and great fishing.

      I formed Magna Charters Ltd. in Victoria, BC, Canada, both to give me a means of financial support during the summer months and to allow me the freedom to teach drama for the Bastion Theatre during the off-season. In Victoria the charter boat season runs from late May to a few weeks after Labour Day. There is some trickle business beyond that date, but it is referred to as “shoulder” business and consists of only enough activity to cover a little more than operating expenses.

      I chose salmon fishing as a means of financial support over numerous other possibilities because the sea, rivers and lakes have always been my safe place. It is difficult to explain the peace in my heart as I drifted slowly past Race Rocks with a crew of like-minded people, observing the plunging birds and the wondrous orcas and the majestic Olympic Mountains and . . . smelling the sea lions. The scent of the sea lions is a bonus and not appreciated by all comers. More observations on this unique smell can be found in the second chapter of this book.

      When I folded Magna Charters in 1990, I felt it had run its course and served its purpose. The decline in the salmon stock in my areas was one of the reasons. It was still possible to go out and catch some salmon but it was more difficult. It was time for a change, so I purchased a fifty-acre equestrian centre near Duncan on Vancouver Island and used it to raise ostriches . . . but that is another story.

      For privacy, I have taken the precaution of changing the names of everyone mentioned in this book except those of my family.

      chapter 1

      Visitors from Texas

      “Well, we have a tall Texan.”

      A hundred yards from our slip, by the marina office, I could see our party making its way down the rattling metal ramp to the floating dock. Between them they were carrying enough bags and baskets for a ten-day fishing trip.

      “So what’s your guess?” I asked Sten.

      This was a game Sten and I played before each charter. Simply by the appearance of our guests, we would guess at how the charter was going to turn out. I counted the number in the party—I knew there were supposed to be five.

      “They’re all there,” I said. “So what do you think?”

      We knew from the booking that a local resident was hosting visitors from Texas whom he wanted to take salmon fishing. We also knew they wanted to troll as opposed to drift fish. In those days, trolling—fishing with the vessel in motion—entailed the use of large flashers, hand-cranked downriggers,heavy rods with heavy line. By far my favourite choice was drift fishing—allowing the vessel to gently drift with the current with the engine off.

      Sten was peering at the advancing group through my Zeiss binoculars. “They’re going to be a pain,” he predicted. “I’ll take the helm the whole trip. You handle them.” Usually the man at the helm had little to do with the guests. His job was to find the fish, keep us clear of kelp and keep us off the rocks.

      “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m not hearing that little alarm bell in my head that I sometimes get with certain idiots. So go ahead—take the helm. I think this is going to be a blast.”

      I said this partly to tease him but also to initiate the bet. We invariably had a bet on what the people were going to be like. This time I was certain I was right, but the bet was on as usual.

      It was a lovely, clear day with no wind. We would reach the high slack tide—slack tides are prime fishing periods—in about an hour and a half. If the people were pleasant and the fishing was good, except for the fact that I’d rather be drift fishing, the trip would be perfect.