Sometimes life is sweet. Sometimes the wind is blowing just right, the sun is up, shining on the sea just right, and the gulls, pelicans, and small diving birds are out taking the little bait fish near the surface. Sometimes, everything is just right.
We were out off Stintson Beach about three miles on the seaward side of Ducksberry Reef near the marker buoy trolling for the last run of Pacific Salmon. We got there about ten-thirty in the morning.
We had been skunked last week. The trip out of the Bay, this morning, passed Treasure Island were the USS Roosevelt was getting ready for the day's festival, her frigate and submarine, the USS San Francisco were docked in the old Embarcadero wharfs and could be seen with binoculars off our starbroad beam. These and the big carrier looked very trim, very fast, and very deadly. The carrier seen in a three-quarter view, cut an amazingly beautiful figure against the entire San Francisco skyline, brilliant and magical in its flatten perspective, shimmering in the morning light. West PAC was in the Bay for Fleet Week and the Navy Blue Angels were performing this afternoon. But we were on our way out under the Golden Gate, out along the Marin headlands and the old gun emplacements on the dark red and rusted brown cliffs of Fort Baker and Fort Cronkite.
Both engines were running in the small fishing boat called 'The At Last' a tribute to my boss's dream of never running under sail again. The port engine was working for a change. John had worked on it several days last week when he should have been at work.
So, there we were trolling slowly at about seven hundred rpm, rigged out with two pound weights, big number five hooks and herring as bait. I heard my used reel give off a few clicks, and then stream out in a long solid pull. There was a little hesitation, and then another unmistakable pull. As I took the rod out of its stern holder, I looked down while I took off the ratchet and grabbed the reel crank, and put on a little tension with the secondary spider. The spindle was feeding out line a few yards at a time, and kept feeding, even under the increased drag. The rod was bent in a u-shape while the salmon tried first to swim down and gain depth. Then as it changed direction heading off toward the coastline, it also began to rise. We dropped the engine rpm to reduce the heavy tension on the twenty pound test line. The weight had long since snapped lose and sank to the bottom. We were in about eighty-five feet of water.
I was reeling in all the time, but only as the fish permitted, when it turned or wasn't heading away from the stern. It was all I could do to keep from increasing the drag. I had been working the fish for about five minutes and my arms were already feeling the struggle. After another five minutes of reeling and watching the spindle turn in the opposite direction, it seemed like there was some progress. There was a lot of yelling back and forth as John and my warehouse buddy Joe were giving each other and me orders. The net was out and being waved around, but it was still too soon to think of landing it. As the struggle wore on, I was beginning to worry that I might not bring it in close enough to land, that the fish might finally decide to put in a last chance effort, and succeed. Just keep reeling in you bloody idiot--John is from Timbe. As long as the tension was kept on the fish would wear itself out.
Finally some progress. The fish had risen to near the surface about twenty yards off the stern. I could see the line almost horizontal, and could feel when was the best time to take in line. It's a monster, someone said. And just about that time, the salmon made a run. Just as he came up near the surface and I caught a quick glimpse of him. He was indeed a monster, big, fully bellied, strong, and he turned away, breaking the surface, swimming on the surface, making a small wake, and then splashing in the air. The reel spindle was spinning out line as if there was no drag at all. All the work of bringing him in, was lost.
Slowly, reeling against the drag, the fish was coming back in. After another few minutes, he was back near the stern. This was the first good look I got. He was huge, easily the biggest fish I ever caught by a foot or more. It was an entirely new scale. When I saw him, he was swimming straight along side, his fore fins spread wide to plane the current. This was serious fishing.
There was more commotion over positioning the boat, moving the other poles out of the way and making sure lines were not crossed. All the while, I was reeling in. Finally I could tell he was immediately off the stern, and then in an amazing maneuver, he went under the boat, and everyone laughed after they heard him hit the bottom of the fiberglass hull with a solid knock. Out again and along side. The net was in the water, and John was struggling to position the net behind the fish. I was on the opposite, starboard side, still reeling, just to keep him up near the mid-port side. And then finally he was in the net. As John pulled the net up and over the port side, the net handle broke and the almost four foot long salmon slammed on to the deck, still fighting, tangling himself in the net and monofilament line.
He measured forty-two and half inches, and weighted in at thirty-five pounds. It was damned lucky he didn't break the twenty pound test leader within the first few runs out.
A few hours later, on the way in, the Blue Angels had started their afternoon show for the sail boat regatta. We watched them over head as they performed a horizontal star burst, screaming just above and just under the span of the Golden Gate. Then one turned directly vertical in a cork screw, twisting an ever widening gyre and then disappeared in the hazy altitude. They look like fast moving predators, blue sharks with orange under bellies.
Joe's father had been in the Navy as a lifer, starting with WWII in the Pacific on a carrier. Joe showed me the parts of the Roosevelt through the glasses. There were three helicopters on the forward deck, and the stern was covered in F-18s. We could see the skyline through the giant bays in the rear and the lesser cantilevered decks leading to the maintenance bays below the main deck. In rear profile the flight deck was extremely broad, beam to beam, and the entire superstructure of the conning tower overhung the water.
Tonight at home in my small apartment, I cleared off the entire sink counter and cleaned the salomon under the cold running water. There were fifteen steaks and four filets, all the size of beef T-bones more than an inch thick. I took one, crushed lemons into an enameled pan and marinaded it in the lemon juice, with garlic, sweet basil and a good sauvignon blanc. When the rice was almost done, I put the enameled pan in a wok, half full of water on a wooden rack and poached the steak.
I drank a small glass of the wine and ate a few pieces of baguette with brie while I waited for the steak. Then I arranged the rice on one side of the plate and slid the steak out on the other side and poured the wine, garlic, lemon and sweet basil juices over the whole thing.
I poured another glass of the wine, and took the first bite.
Don't let anybody tell you that the working class in the US is always miserable. I can count at least three working slobs and their boss, tonight, sitting back with bellies full of Pacific salmon, thinking about a great day fishing off the California coast.