204fishing
Fishing boats tie up at the east end of the Portage Canal, Lake Superior’s Keweenaw Bay in the background.
By Stephen King
A Morning’s Fun
The following is a true incident. The story takes place during that wonderful year when I fished a small skiff in Lake Superior’s Keweenaw Bay. That summer was one of the best I have ever spent. The year before, I had lost my restaurant, gotten divorced and lost almost everything. So, I did like anyone should in such a situation: I packed up my bags and my boat and went fishing.
The dock I was working from was owned by a man who, over the course of that summer, became one of the best friends I have ever known. However, sadly, he passed away a few years back.
The motor responded with a roar as I pushed the throttle forward and brought the boat up to top speed. As I sped down the Portage Canal toward the lighthouse, which marked the end of the canal and the beginning of Lake Superior, I took in the beauty of that early fall morning. Little did I suspect that this day was going to be one to remember.
The morning began as any other. I was exercising one of my rights as a member of the Keweenaw Bay Indian Community and working as a commercial fisherman on Keweenaw Bay. The boat I was using was a 17-foot aluminum runabout, completely open except for a small section in the bow, which ended about four feet back from the bowpost. It had a windshield and a dashboard, on which was mounted a steering wheel, compass and sonar. At the stern, the 65-horsepower Mercury outboard gave the small boat more than adequate power and a top speed of more than 35 knots.
That morning, as I did my usual routine of fueling the boat and stowing the gear properly, I noticed nothing unusual. The air was crisp and calm with no perceptible wind. The sun had already risen and was shining with a dazzling brilliance through the cold clear air.
Above the mirror-like surface of the canal, a light mist was gently dancing over the cool water. As I stood at the dock waiting for the motor to warm up, my only thoughts were of how lucky I was to be working in such a beautiful place.
After untying the boat, I headed east, toward the open lake. Standing at the wheel, the feel of the cold lake air in my face as I sped down the waterway was invigorating. My black, shoulder-length hair was blowing in the wind as I neared the end of the canal. As I neared the lighthouse at the end of the canal, I got the first clue that something was up.
About two miles from the lighthouse, red sandstone cliffs rise up in a wall about 100 feet high. My eyes, trained by a lifetime of working on the Great Lakes, quickly focused on the spray that was reaching a quarter of the way up the side of that wall. I knew at once the size of waves it took to make spray like that.
I passed the huge lighthouse at the end of the breakwall and turned the corner into the open water of the bay. Immediately, I met one of those waves up close and personal. With a big “wumph,” the bow of the boat dove into the side of an eight-foot swell. As the boat slowed suddenly, I was overcome by an irresistible urge to give the top of the windshield a little hug and kiss.
Recovering quickly, I brought the throttle back to idle and thought the situation over. After lighting a cigarette to calm my nerves, and to get the rotten taste out of my mouth (the windshield I had just kissed was coated with a mixture of fish-slime, dirt and sea-gull droppings), I took in the scene.
The swells were running about eight to 10 feet high, but without any wind, the surface of the lake was like a mirror.
High above, the sky was completely blue, not a cloud to be seen. The clear blue sky reflecting off the mirror-like surface made the waves seem to disappear. It was an odd illusion, but one I had seen many times before.
Mildly amused, I brought the boat back up to an acceptable speed and continued. The next three miles to the buoy that marked my nets passed uneventfully,
As I started pulling in my gill nets, I grew even more amused. From years of experience, I knew that I was in no real danger from the big rollers. As I removed whitefish from my nets, I was also enjoying a free carnival ride.
Also, being ever thinking, I had put these huge waves to work for me. While going up, I would just hang on. After going over the top, I would pull the now slack nets as fast as I could. It worked just like an automatic net puller.
I worked like this for some time, when I noticed one of the large fish tugs heading for the canal. This should have set off a warning bell in my head, but I was having too much fun and, although the phone rang, nobody was home. I just laughed, “Those guys in the big boat can’t handle a little rolling.”
About a half-hour later, I was still laughing when Mother Nature sent out an alarm signal I did get. Looking up as a sudden puff of wind hit me in the face, I got this message. She was about to blow.
Looking north, I saw a white line about three miles away and coming toward me. I knew what was coming. That may have been why my stomach was suddenly invaded by a flock of butterflies. I realized that the gentle swells were about to turn into a seething white mass of breakers. The little kitten I'd been playing with all morning was about to turn into an ill-tempered lion.
Immediately, I started the engine and, while it was warming up, I let the nets go back out until I came to a place where I could untie them and tie the buoy back on.
This took less than 15 minutes. In that time the white line had crossed the three miles from where it was when I first noticed it. Just as I released the buoy, the storm hit.
Injected with a sudden shot of steroids, I watched the waves now run 10 to 12 feet high. The lighthouse at the end of the canal now looked incredibly small and far away. With a silent prayer to the great spirit, I moved the throttle forward and told the boat that it was time to go home.
My years of Lake Superior experience showed as I started in. Within seconds, I had the timing of the waves down. Within a minute I was laughing out loud, the little twinge of fear having passed. I'd climbed onto the lion's back and was going for a ride.
To get back to the canal, I had to ride parallel to the waves - “In the trough,” in sailors’ terms. On a bigger boat, this would have meant a very rough ride indeed. For me, with my small boat, it meant playtime. I’d take the boat almost to the top of the breaking side of a large wave and ride it almost like a surfer. After playing for most of the ride back to the canal, I was in an exceptionally good mood.
Reaching the dock, I quickly tied the boat up and took off my fishermen's rubber bib overalls and life jacket. My feet barely touching the grass, I quickly crossed the yard to my friend Don’s house, hoping he had the coffee pot on.
As usual, I knocked once, entered and yelled, “Got any coffee?"
His response came from the kitchen. “Yeah, come on ... Heh! Aren’t you supposed to be on the lake?”
“Little wind outside.”
Immediately knowing what my idea of a “little wind” was, he went to the living room window, pushed the curtain aside and looked out toward the end of the canal. Almost on cue, an exceptionally big wave hit the breakwall, sending a shower of spray up along the whole length of the wall to a height of at least 30 feet in the air and completely across the canal.
“You weren’t out in that,” he said, laughing, then turned, looked at me and realized that I looked as if I had just stepped out of a shower.
In disbelief, he said slowly, “You were out in that, weren’t you? ”
“Yup,” I answered, smiling like a Cheshire cat. Then I added, “It was even kind of fun.”
Still looking at me oddly, he started laughing again, shook his head and said, “Fun!?! Don’t you ever tell the white folks what your idea of fun is! They’re just startin’ to think they’ve got us tame.