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(hence the barbless hooks). The drowned ones were whisked into our oil-stove oven. Chum salmon were fall runners and mostly caught by net fishermen. A troller could still fish anywhere on the coast, inside or outside waters, for any species (according to openings), then slap on a drum and go gillnetting in the fall. By 1995 the DFO and its Round Table restrictions narrowed the window of opportunity to a porthole. Trollers, who were hardest hit from every direction, were left stunned and angry and asking questions: Why was the most viable, sustainable fishery type being systematically beaten down? Why were fish farms and sport-fishing camps taking over every good anchorage on the coast? Battle lines were being drawn and every user group was ready to fight it out. But some had louder voices than others, and those voices were heard by more powerful ears.

    A tense restlessness filled the cabin and I learned to tie gear as fast as I possibly could to keep the polite and distant communication from blowing up. I would be the best gear-tier ever: an arm’s length of line attached with a three-wrap knot pulled tight with spit to the swivel so the flasher would spin in the water; then half an arm of line, another swivel, a spoon, a bead, then a green hooch with the line passed through end to end and tied to a barbless hook; then the hooch pushed down to almost cover the hook with its fluttering tentacles.
    â€œYou’re doing okay but some of your knots aren’t tight enough,” Paul said, “so I’ll have to redo them or the gear will just unravel in the water. No, I’ll do it. Your hands aren’t strong enough or toughened up enough yet and the line is starting to cut your hands. Bad news when you’re working with fish.”
    Did I feel bad about luring a fish to its death? No, but I did feel bad that I couldn’t tie the knots tight enough—yet. I had been fishing with my dad since I was eight—ironically, mostly lake trolling—and I could bait a hook with a live worm, reel in the trout, conk him over the head and gut him out for the fry pan. Dad used to joke that he stopped taking me fishing cuz it was too embarrassing getting skunked by a little girl. We had the Kodaks to prove it, especially the one where he grinned sheepishly into the camera with his one little rainbow trout while I stood proud as hell with a string of speckled beauties. I didn’t know it, but those long, quiet days with Dad puttering up and down a lake not only were precious then but were filling a deep well I would draw from for the rest of my life.
    Suddenly a familiar voice called from the float. “Hey, Paul, Syl, you at home?” Boat etiquette insists on a call-out before stepping on the deck, a knock on the door, even if it’s open, and no entry until invited.
    â€œRichard! Steve!” I bounded out the door and onto the float to give our friend and his strapping good-natured deckhand from Vancouver a huge hug and cheek-kiss.
    â€œHey sweetie, good to see you, you little pipsqueak,” Steve said in his mellowed New Yorkese and held me at arm’s length. “You look happy and healthy as always, so things must be going well. Where’s the old man?”
    â€œHey, good to see you too,” Paul said smiling in the doorway, broodiness all forgotten. “We’re just about to go check on the pilot. Wanna get together for dinner tonight?”
    â€œI’ll make spaghetti,” I chimed in. It was the only thing we could afford. With their bread and salad we would feast and laugh and tell stories and ignore the howling gale and that “asshole electronics guy” who hadn’t fixed the pilot and couldn’t get to it for days because he was so busy and needed a part he didn’t have, and the pilot should be replaced anyway cuz it was getting too old. And we’d ignore that the little bit of money we scrounged to get here was almost used up by fuel and