The Fisher Queen by Sylvia Taylor

taking my frustrations out on you. It wasn’t your fault and God knows you’re hard enough on yourself trying to get everything right. Jesus, it’ll probably be me that drives you nuts, not the fishing.”
    Tears welled up. I couldn’t trust myself to speak, and let the gaff drop to my side. The last thing I’d expected was this much conflict between us. I could stand anything but that, after the end of my marriage less than two years ago and the pitiless divorce and husband I was still not free of.
    â€œLook, if I ever yell at you like that again, you can kick me in the ass. Okay?”
    â€œWhat?” I burst out laughing through the lump in my throat. “Are you crazy? I can’t do that.”
    â€œI’m serious. I deserve it for being such a jerk. Okay, how about this. We’ll be in Bull Harbour soon and I’ll buy some more flashers and Perlon on credit. It’s going to be a sunny afternoon, so how about we take your salmon sandwiches and go around the corner from the camp to an old Indian village site I heard of and look around for a while? Then I can just finish up this stuff tonight. Just put down that gaff, okay? I don’t want to end up in Davy Jones’s locker.” He chuckled and flashed his gigolo smile.
    Just before the Nahwitti Bar, we noticed a distinctive orange hull anchored by itself in a small bay. Paul radioed on the short-range Mickey Mouse, hoping it was our friend Gerry from False Creek. He was just about to give up when Gerry’s unmistakable Kris Kringle voice broke in. He and his six-year-old son, Peter, and his deckhand, Mike, had just arrived at the top end and were anchored up getting ready to start fishing the next day. When he heard of our gear disaster, he graciously offered to lend us one of his spare cannonballs so we could fish with all six lines. He’d heard the fishing was slow everywhere and likely knew we were broke from scratching around for the last five weeks and couldn’t afford the cannonball, the most expensive part of trolling gear. We decided that after our little exploration trip and buying more regular gear (on account) in Bull Harbour, we would run back out to tie up with Gerry in the bay that night.
    â€œHey. How would you like to go straight to the old village site now and have lunch? Looks like it’s clearing up a bit and it’ll be nice there.” Paul glanced over at me refolding and stowing charts in the wheelhouse and pushed the throttle forward to pick up speed after the choppy bar.
    â€œThat would be great. I’d love that,” I said, stepping over to smile up at him. “What about the gear?”
    â€œWe can pick it up on our way back out to tie up with Gerry in the bay. We have to get it on credit, so I’d rather be there around dinnertime when there won’t be so many people in the store. Jesus, it’s embarrassing.” His face darkened. “What the hell. Let’s go explore. I’ve heard you can still find some beads. Pack up our lunch and get ready. It’s just a few minutes away around the bottom end of Hope Island here.”
    We anchored in the idyllic little bay and rowed to a perfect white crescent beach rising to a grassy knoll bordered by salmonberry bushes, trembling aspens and towering pines. Remnants of a wooden two-storey house set back in the trees and stunted corner posts on the knoll were all that was left of the Native people’s village. But the graffiti of carved names and painted We been here and carpet of smashed booze bottles revealed later visitors.
    We stood in front of the tumbledown front door. “Imagine seeing this out your front door,” I said, looking out over the glittering bay and islands dotting the channel. “It’s paradise. Everything you could want is here. Look at the next little cove. I can see the gorgeous colours in the tide pools from here. And look at the size of the mussel shells. I’ve