I sat there in the sunshine,

waves soothing in my ear.

One hand was on the “Down rigger,”

the other clasped a beer.  gbvvvg

Ten salmon lay in ice below.

The tide was at the slack.

When a tingle ran up through my arm,

then came a mighty thwack!

I jumped up in an instant

as the ratchet gave a squeal

and laid my finger on the drum

to control the screaming  reel.

The tingle and the flexing rod

stir the blood, I know he’s mine.

I shout with joy to feel his strength

vibrating through the fishing line.

Out, out it sang, without a check,

oh would he never bend

before the line ran off the drum,

down to it’s bitter end?

Then when the line was almost spent,

the great fish tried another tack.

He doubled back towards the boat

and I brought in the dripping slack.

When all at once, still far astern,

he shot into the foam flecked air.

Trying to shake the stinging hook;

the pain of which he could not bear.

After a dance upon his tail

he fell back with a mighty splash.

To take more line from my old “Peetz,”

in another head long dash.

My beer lay on the cockpit sole,

my glasses were awry.

My arms were tired from playing him

and sweat ran in my eye.

Now back and forth, close to the stern,

my monster salmon tugged  the line,

dragging the dodger to and fro,

which rolled and flashed  in bright sunshine.

I hardly saw the fish at all.

But now and then the line would rip.

And I could feel his every move

transmitted through the tapered tip.

Yet again he swirled and dived,

trying to shake the hated bait,

which once had looked an easy meal

but now controlled his very fate.

With doubled rod I turn his head

leading him firmly to my lee.

Dave grabbed the net, stopped the prop,

taking his place abaft of me.

The sun bleached net of many years,

lay quietly in the greeny sea.

Waiting it’s turn to dart beneath

the largest fish we’d ever see.

Then with a last despairing roll

the net enfolds him in it’s mesh.

We raised him from his watery home,

while he still fought to his last breath.

But all at once, before we’d time

to end his long eventful life.

The net gave way and he fell through,

the hook bent straight by all the strife

And though it’s sad to loose a prize

by fault of hand or eye or hook.

I think that we were glad that day,

When he escaped, that great Chinook.

David Garlick, Victoria, Summer, 1987