Out Of The Rough

A couple days ago and much earlier in the morning than I usually realize I’m awake, I slipped quietly out of the house, started up my truck and pointed it west, heading toward a rendezvous with my favorite Hula Girl.  An hour and a half later I strolled through the front door of Westport Charters, nudging past Jason as he peered out into the driving rain –
 “Another beautiful day in paradise, Bob!” he announced,
“Are we on for today?” I asked, looking at both Captains Westrick as his dad, Steve joined us.
“You bet” they agreed, “It’s looking much calmer where we’re heading”.
Checking to make sure my anti-puke patch was still in place I hunkered against the wind and fought my way over to where the Hula Girl was waiting.  I had been invited to spend the day as a volunteer for the Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife (WDFW) tagging Black Rockfish, or what many folks call Sea Bass.  There were six of us on board along with a three-man WDFW crew and the two Captains Westrick, Steve and Jason.  Our job as volunteers was to catch as many fish as fast as we could until our arms fell off while the crew dudes measured and injected tags into each fish before releasing them on their own recognizance back into the ocean.  Steaming out of the harbor, talk turned to the usual stories (ok, lies) fishermen tell and Yours Truly was not to be outdone.  Except mine was actually true.  Honest. I mean no sh*#, really!  One of the guys had pointed to a photo of a 30# lingcod and asked if I’d ever seen one that big. Why yes, indeed I have.
I don’t recall which early ‘70’s year it was, but I had hitchhiked, walked on a ferry, hopped a bus, and flew from Ellensburg to Sonora Island off the northeast coast of Vancouver Island.  The trip was almost cut short at the border when I was escorted from the station wagon I had been riding in to the station where long-haired hippie looking people with backpacks received special attention:
“OK, what’s this brown powder you have in this container, boy?”
“It’s freeze-dried chocolate pudding, Sir” I answered.
“Right.  If you come clean now it will be better for you, son”
An hour and a half or so later two of the welcoming committee returned with the jar of freeze-dried chocolate pudding I had been given to deliver to my buddies Pete and Gene who I was going to visit.  It tested negative for narcotics, I was told, so I was invited to proceed on my journey.
Having survived the welcoming committee at the border, and a couple of rock-throwing drunks in Vancouver who referred to a group of us sleeping in a downtown park as “Nagasaki derelicts”, I got dropped off by the float plane at the wrong end of the island. Totally lost I set off along a path that ended abruptly at a seaside cliff.  Edging along the top of the cliff, I caught a whiff of smoke.  Finding a few hand and toe holds I was able to work around the cliff, arriving at a cedar shake camp making ready to move to another site. 
I don’t know who was more shocked to see whom, but a kind logger with arms the size of my thighs offered to row me to my destination about 10 miles away.  A couple miles into the trip the float plane returned, the pilot having discovered his error upon returning to Campbell River.  He saw us frantically waving and set down in a nearby cove.  I thanked the logger as I climbed from his rowboat into the plane while the pilot apologized profusely for dropping me off well beyond the middle of nowhere.  Fifteen minutes later I was balancing along the log serving as a dock in front of Pete and Gene’s cabin which actually was in the middle of nowhere.  Bob and the pudding had finally made it!
While they were glad to see me, they were really excited about the pudding.  After a month of a steady diet of sourdough bread and rockfish the cabin was in desperate need of airing out and Gene’s girlfriend Marge was in desperate need of the boys eating something else.  She offered to make up a batch of pudding while Pete and I went fishing.
Now I’m not one to belittle another man’s yacht, but the 10’ wooden boat we were going to be fishing out of left more than a little to be desired and me wondering if this was such a good idea.  Originally built for one or two, it was now a three-man boat – two to row and one to bail out water. The two oars were remarkably functional considering Pete and Gene had hacked and carved them out of a couple trees they cut down.  A coffee can served as the bailing device.  Climbing in with our fishing gear - two 100’ coils of climbing rope to which a hook decorated with some yarn was attached – we rowed and bailed our way out to the fishing grounds. 
Spying a kelp bed fronting a small inlet, Pete directed us over to its edge. 
“Just lower the rope over the side until it hits bottom and jig it up and down until you feel it wiggle and jerk” he advised.  “Then pull it up as fast as you can before the fish comes off”. 
I was amazed at how well this worked:  You didn’t need any fancy stuff like a fishing pole or reel. A length of rope and a crude hook was all it took!  We hauled up a few small rockfish sufficient for dinner and were just about to leave when Pete’s arm suddenly was stopped in mid jig.
The side of the boat complained loudly as Pete strained at the rope, hauling it up barely a foot at a time. 
“Grab the gaff, Bob, I think I’ve got Moby Dick on the end of this thing!”  I grabbed the gaff and was all set to help drag Pete’s prize onboard.  Then I saw it.
 
Now, if you have seen a large lingcod you can relate to this tale.  If you never have seen one, imagine a gaping mouth big enough to swallow a Volkswagen and packed with foot- long razor sharp teeth.  Attached to this evil head is about four feet of thrashing spiny-backed pissed-off monstrosity. 
“What the hell is that?” I yelped in horror as the giant mouthful of teeth broke the surface.
“It’s a ling. Gaff it quick!” Pete hollered, “I’m not sure I can hold it much longer”.
“Are you crazy?  I don’t want that damn thing in the boat.  If it doesn’t swamp us it’ll eat us.  Look at those teeth!”
“Come on! Get the gaff in it, Buhl!”
I quickly discovered three truths about sea monsters:  First, they don’t like being hauled up away from their dinner table by some fool with a rope.  Second, they really don’t like it when another fool impales them with a gaff hook.  Third, they lose all civility when two fools commence to kicking and beating them on the head with a coffee can while trying to avoid being eaten or bludgeoned by a wildly whipping gaff hook handle.
I had no sooner finished subduing the beast when Pete and the boat began straining again.  Exhausted from the first melee, I rooted in vain for the fish to fight free.  This bad boy dwarfed the first one!
Somehow we managed to get 70lbs of ling cod in that little skiff and make it back safely to the log dock.  Relaxing in the cabin after feasting on ling and sourdough I discovered the fourth truth about those sea monsters – ugly never tasted so good!  Oh, and about an hour later I also discovered why Marge ate outside.