The swells of the Straits of Juan de Fuca seemed to toy with Dad’s fourteen-foot Lund as we searched for Kings in front of what locals called “the cave” near Sekiu, Washington. This isn’t all that bad, I thought as I reached into Dad’s green tackle box for another peanut-butter cracker. The sloshing in my belly was finally giving way to the crackers and the excitement brought on by the brightening yellow glow in the east.
“Make sure you hold your rod right, Son. The bite’s comin’.” Dad put his coffee cup back into the holder he had bolted to the wood seat that summer.
I studied his rod, looking for the secret grown-ups never reveal to each other but pass down to their sons. Although I couldn’t tell exactly how Dad was holding his rod, I was convinced this was the secret to Dad’s success with salmon.
I waited, staring at the eyes staring back at me on the end of my six-foot salmon rod. Suddenly my face felt hot and the boat seemed to exaggerate its motion with every swell. Up, down, up, down. The green and white pole in my hand became two poles, then three. Dad eyed my changing appearance cautiously.
“Oh, oh, looks like it’s time to feed the fish,” Dad’s voice sounded muffled, so far away.
“Feed the fish?” I puzzled, looking down at the frozen herring in the package at my feet. Seconds later, pieces of cracker and peanut butter floated behind the eighteen-horse Johnson.
“You’ll feel better when it quits hurtin’,” Dad assured me, his cheeks vibrating with the throttle in his left hand. Before I could even think through the significance of Dad’s comment, something tried to rip the Fiberglas pole out of my frozen fingers.
“Fish on!” Dad’s yell.
“What do I do?” I pleaded.
“Just keep your tip up and don’t stop reeling.”
I reeled as fast as I could while Dad swung the Lund around in the direction of my rapidly descending line.
“I can’t do it, Dad. It’s too strong.” My arms ached after only seconds of trying to hold the tip of the pole above my head. Exhausted, I succumbed and the rod crashed against the edge of the oar lock.
“Keep your tip up, Son, you don’t want to lose him.” Dad’s face was bright and glowing.
“I can’t, Dad. My arms hurt. You reel for me!” My forearms and wrists begged with me, as the salmon continued to dive.
“He’s your fish, Son.”
“But I can’t keep my tip up, Dad. I can’t reel. You gotta help me.”
“You can do it. Put your leg over the end of the rod. It’ll help you keep your tip out of the water.”
I saw my dad reach for the rod and then quickly pull his hand away.
“He’s your fish, Son. We’re gonna get him. You wait and see.”
Somewhere from deep inside me new strength surfaced, and fifteen minutes later so did the twenty-pound King.
“There he is!” Dad let go of the throttle and grabbed for the net. The little Lund rocked sideways, slamming my knees into the aluminum rivets that held the boat together. Dad grabbed the belt loop on my Levis and yanked me back into my seat. I stuck the end of the pole under my leg again and repeated the circular reeling motion.
One turn. The muscle-rending strain of the fish made the small distance my wrist had to turn seem like a mile.
Two turns. The line edged one inch, two inches - dragging the salmon closer.
Three turns. I felt the fish give up.
“Hold on, Son, just a few more minutes.” Dad seemed to talk more to the fish than to me.
A few more minutes? I thought. Isn’t he going to net the fish? My questions were drowned by the singing of my reel as the salmon powered his way downward, rubbing his victory in my face with each yard of line he tore from my spool.
“Not again!” I sobbed. “I’ll never get him!” The aches doubled. I was beat.
“Dad, I’m gonna lose him. You’ve gotta reel him in! Please, Dad.” I tried to move my wrists around and around, but the salmon’s dive was stronger. The foot I had put over the end of the pole was lifted off, and I slid toward the ocean. Dad grabbed for me again and pulled me back.
“You almost have him now. He’s your fish, Son. Don’t give up.” I saw him reach for the pole again. This time his hand moved back more slowly. I searched for strength within, but nothing came.
I prayed, “Please God, just this one fish. I promise I’ll go to church for the rest of my life and be nice to my sister.” I felt sure God liked fishing, but I wasn’t sure what he thought about my sister.
Suddenly, the line went limp. It was the most horrible feeling I had ever felt. The fish was gone. All that work. All that aching. For what?
“Son, keep reeling! He’s comin’ straight toward the boat!” Dad’s voice shattered my sobs, and I reeled faster than I knew possible. The empty spool began to fill with line. Dad grabbed the net with one hand, scooted me to the opposite side of the boat with the other and lunged toward the line. His knees slammed against the aluminum frame as he buried his arms and the net beneath the boat.
For what seemed longer than a math class, Dad stayed there. Bent over. Silent. Then with a sudden surge, his shoulders shot backward, his back straightened and the net and the biggest fish I’d ever seen came flying straight over Dad’s head into the boat.
Neighboring fishermen cheered as I held the fish up, my fingers through his right gills and my dad’s through his left. I looked up into Dad’s face and saw the widest smile and the first tears I had ever seen.
It proved the biggest salmon on Olson’s dock that day. At least, it was the biggest one I saw. All the way back to Tretevick’s campground, I stared back through the window of Dad’s 1970 Chevy at the long silver body draped across a dull-red fish box. The pain in my arms and back reminded me what I had done. I had reeled in a fish when all my strength was gone. I had done something I felt I couldn’t do. And now the best fish I had ever seen had my name written all over him.
My family gathered around for the picture. Mom focused the camera and counted, “One, two,” as a smile stretched over my face and I struggled to keep the fish’s tail out of the dirt. My dad put his arm on my shoulder, and I heard him whisper again, “He’s your fish, Son!”
- Marty Trammell