Monkey Beach by Eden Robinson Page A

spelling and pronouncing “oolichans,” so the fish are also known as eulachons, ooligans, ulicans, hollikans and oulachens. Other people on the coast make oolichan grease too, but Mom always said, “Ours is the Dom Perignon of grease.”
    When I was a kid, I assumed Dom Perignon was another kind of fish oil. I was very disappointed when I found out that it was just a champagne, like Baby Duck, which I’d snuck a sip of one New Year’s Eve and hated. I coughed, spitting and sneezing as the bubbles tingled sharply up my nose.
    We drove past Costi Island, which splits the channel in two. We took the north side. Behind Costi Island are the Costi Rocks, a small chain of bare rocks. All except the highest are covered by the high tide. Light brown seals lay like fat cigars, crowded together, barking.
    “You want some seal?” Mick yelled.
    I made a disgusted face.
    He laughed. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” He paused, slowed the boat down, then let the motor idle. “You want to drive?”
    “Really?” I said as we drifted in the tide. “Really?”
    “Come on, hop over,” he said, sliding out of the captain’s chair. I was too short to see over the bow, so Mick let me sit on his duffel bag. He gave me a brief lesson on the steering wheel and the stickshift. The outboard motor, he explained, could be sped up or slowed down, but reversing was tricky because the engine tended to stall.
    “I’ll get it fixed sooner or later. Keep the bow towards a sightline,” Mick said. “See that point way down there?” I nodded. He continued, “Drive straight towards it and you’ll be okay. When we get there, I’ll take over. Whoa, gently, gently,” Mick said as I cranked the engine. “Start off slow and work your way up or you’ll burn our motor out. And watch ahead of us for deadheads. Do you know what deadheads are?”
    “Old logs sunk underwater but floating near the surface.”
    “Good. Avoid kelp too. If it gets tangled in the blades, we’re going to have to stop and take it out, and that’ll waste good fishing time. Okay?”
    “Can I speed up now?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead.” Mick sat back, smoking, as I pushed the engine as fast as it would go. It felt as if we were barely touching the water. I saw a flock of black ducks bobbing on the surface and swerved to go through them. Mick swore, but didn’t tell me to stop. The ducks rose up and, for a moment, flapped alongside us. Mick lifted his arms like he was flying, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and honked. They honked back, sounding aggravated, then climbed into the sky and flew north. Mick grinned at me.
    He took over near Wee-wah, a small cove about a half-hour from the village. A forestry camp is there now. They built their base over one of the best crab beds on the channel, but back then, the crabs caught there were large and fat. We set our traps. Mick let me bait them and toss them into the water. We drifted on the ocean for a while, bobbing with the waves. Mick turned his face to the sun. I played my cassettes, but quietly, because Mick hated Air Supply. If I played it too loudly, he’d reach into his bag and pull out Elvis and we wouldn’t be able to listen to anything else for the whole trip.
    “It’ll take a while. You want to wait at the hot springs?” he said.
    “Hot springs!”
    “Get your swimsuit, then.”
    I dug around until I found it. The hot spring was a squat little hut tucked fifty feet up from the shore and surrounded by high, creaky trees and squishy moss-covered ground. But the water, when I dipped my toes in, was silky and warm. Mick went up into the bushes to change into his shorts and let me use the hut. The air was cold, so I sat down fast after I changed. The concrete tub was slick and my feet slid so I landed on my rump.
    “Knock, knock,” he shouted.
    “I’m decent,” I said.
    He came in, dropped his stuff by the door and sighed as he sank down. His face went red with the heat. His hair flopped over