The Fisher Queen by Sylvia Taylor Page A

never seen them so huge. Let’s go down there.”
    â€œAnd all some people want to do is come here and wreck it. Look at all this garbage. What a bloody shame. Maybe we can find some beads for you. I know you love that kind of stuff.” Paul scuffed at the mossy soil and glass shards.
    â€œNo, it’s okay. I don’t feel right about it. Let’s just leave things alone.” I felt a heaviness in my chest and took a deep breath to lift the sudden pall. The rising tide had already covered much of the beach, so we clambered along the rocky shoreline, carefully avoiding the brilliant kaleidoscope of sea life.
    â€œPaul, look at those anemones. They look like emerald-green broccoli standing up in a grocery bin and as soon as they sense us coming they pop into themselves. Now they look like St. Patrick’s Day doughnuts with chocolate centres.”
    â€œWow, they do. They’re making me hungry. How about one of those sandwiches out of your kangaroo pouch?” He gave the bulging front of my yellow anorak a playful poke.
    â€œOnce we eat our sandwiches, let’s gather some of those giant mussels on the rocks for dinner tonight with the boys. They’ve got to be six inches long. I’ll use this aluminum foil and sandwich bags to put them in, and carry them in my front pocket back to the boat.”
    â€œOkay, pioneer girl, let’s go hunt down dinner.” Paul smiled and brushed the mop of sun-streaked hair from my eyes.
    After we filled my pocket with mussels, I allowed myself one treasure to mark this astounding day—an exquisite abalone shell with vivid pearlescence that I’d found near the knoll. I whispered my gratitude as I held it to my chest.
    When we returned to Bull Harbour camp, I asked Anne, the first aider/accountant, if she knew anything about the old village site. Her grey eyes went stormy.
    â€œThat site has been horribly ravaged by non-Natives doing so-called digs, including using bulldozers,” she said, her mouth going hard as she turned my shell over and over in her hands. “They sell everything they can find, including little beads—disgusting. They’re no better than the European traders that came here 200 years ago. They’re still ripping off the Natives and can’t even leave that old site in peace.”
    As I turned to join Paul hurrying to the boat, I suddenly mentioned we had gathered mussels from the rocks for our dinner.
    â€œHoney, I wouldn’t eat those if I were you. Dump them overboard.” Anne pointed to a bulletin tacked to the corkboard in the office. “There is a possible red tide and they might be contaminated. Fisheries was here taking samples two days ago and gave us this notice to post. Didn’t you hear it on the Coast Guard radio? They will issue a report in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, don’t eat any shellfish from the north end. It could be deadly. The red tide is like clouds of toxic bacteria that just comes out of nowhere and contaminates shellfish. It’s deadly to humans and takes weeks for the shellfish to flush out in the sea water. Promise me you’ll throw that stuff overboard.”
    I solemnly promised and hugged her goodbye in gratitude. Paul watched dumbfounded as I poured the bucketful of mussels and sea water overboard and told him why.
    â€œJesus, we really dodged a bullet on that one,” Paul said. “Good thing you told her. They don’t know for sure yet, so maybe they were okay. Oh well. C’mon, let’s get untied and get out to meet Gerry while it’s still light enough for repairs.”
    After rounds of handshakes and hugs, Gerry and Mike helped Paul restring the steel wire and make up more gear lines while I cooked us up a feast—spaghetti and halibut steaks.
    We were poor as peasants but ate like royalty on the gifts the sea provided: salmon, red snapper, halibut, ling cod and the occasional crab or smoked salmon shared by