The Fisher Queen Read Free

midst of a full load of ice and, hopefully, fish. I didn’t have to bury the food in the ice as it was a cool spring and would get cooler the farther north we went.
    Paul wasn’t happy that I’d gone into the hold but softened when I told him I just wanted to do my part. Content as a broody hen, I continued clucking around the newly painted cabin I had tarted up with sunny curtains and endless scrubbing.
    Lulled by the deep thrumming of the powerful Cummins diesel in the engine room under my knees and our gentle, swaying progress on the westering tide, I glanced up from stowing our precious crackers and cookies in the driest cupboard to his striking Mohican profile set in the heavy wooden frames of the four fo’c’sle windows and the endless dark treed islands and inlets. His coppery skin, ebony straight hair, jade eyes, long lithe body balanced on the balls of his feet. Watched his constant subtle checks and movements from horizon to depth sounder to loran to charts; his long artist’s hands wearing the first of the season’s many cuts and scabs and indelible dirt. He caught my eye as he suddenly turned from his steering perch at the wheel.
    â€œWow, that’s a funny picture,” he said, smiling crookedly. “You look like a little kid on Christmas morning with all that stuff around you and that grin on your face and humming away. What’s going on in that big head of yours?”
    â€œI’m just thinking about how happy I am to be here and how beautiful it is out there, all misty and silvery,” I said, easing back onto my heels and gazing out the little vertical window above the cookie-jar-sized sink. “I can hardly wait to see everything you’ve told me about and start fishing. Where are we going next?”
    â€œCome up here to the wheelhouse and I’ll show you on the chart. It’s that top one on the wooden rack to the right of the dashboard. No, not that one; where the hell is it?” I chose a likely-looking candidate from the compressed stack. “Okay, that’s it. Spread it out and find out where we are right now. The loran readings will give your coordinates.” He pointed to the metal box flashing numbers on a black screen. “You need to learn to sight where you are on the charts by landmarks.”
    â€œI love maps,” I murmured, bending close to the mass of spidery lines and numbers and convolutions and thousands of tiny islands between the 300-mile-long, pod-shaped bulk of Vancouver Island 20 miles to the west and the convoluted BC coastline reaching 1,200 miles to Alaska and the Bering Sea. “This is so cool, I can hardly wait.”
    â€œCharts, Syl, they’re called charts. And tomorrow I’m going to start showing you how to tie gear if everything goes okay.”

Sointula
    Everything did not go okay, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care that Paul’s self-proclaimed Taylor Curse had struck again, spewing four quarts of oil from a cracked valve onto the engine room floor, sending dashboard gauges spinning. I just got out of the way so he could yank up the floorboard in the middle of the cabin and jump down into the engine room without killing himself or me. I didn’t care that the autopilot still kept pulling to starboard even after we’d paid $600 to get it fixed before we left home—I just clambered onto the skipper’s seat and steered for the nearest harbour. I didn’t care that we had to do an emergency run into Campbell River even though we’d already stopped in Kelsey Bay the night before to tie up and walk the four miles round trip for a beer at the only bar. I just prided myself that I could keep up with his six-foot strides. I didn’t care that he spent two hours cursing and banging in the engine room. I just sat on the day bunk/couch/dining room reading Coast Salish legends and a book on Eastern religions I’d bought in Campbell River for a dollar, and handed