The Fisher Queen by Sylvia Taylor Page B

our Bull Harbour neighbours. All that high-end protein and omega-3s along with the porridge and potatoes and brown rice created a high-octane fuel that powered us through 16-hour days and honed our bodies to bone and muscle. I was connecting deeply with my body again, trusting in its strength and agility. No matter what happened over the next three months, that recovery was worth everything. I was becoming me again.
    And later that night, as I stepped out on our deck to bring in the bag of fresh fruit Gerry had surprised us with, I turned a slow circle, arms outstretched to the tangy air and fiery sunset, the silent dark forest, the two old wood boats bobbing together companionably, the light from our cabin full of savoury smells and cigarette smoke and laughter, and filled myself up with it.

Salmon Prince
    There was nothing I wouldn’t do. I would turn myself inside out to prove I could do it. Anything. I was fierce: a lioness padding around my 39-foot territory. Bring it on, I snarled. Think I’m too girly? Bring it on. Think I’m too little? Bring it on. Think I’m too citified? Bring it on. I could sleep less, eat less, learn faster, make fewer mistakes and be more cheerful than any deckhand in this fleet. And when Paul told me not to, because it was too heavy or too dangerous, I’d wait ’til he was napping or distracted and then I’d do it anyway, and find a better way to do it.

    It was a rare and glorious day of oily smooth seas, caressing breeze, benign sun and all the world rejoiced—at least, this part of it did. Those were the days so full of God’s grace, when Gaia was her most loving and tender and I couldn’t imagine being anywhere or doing anything else.
    There’d been nothing on the lines for the last two pulls and there wasn’t another boat for miles. We’d scrubbed and organized, repaired and patched, tied more gear and checked the glistening beauties lined up in their chilly beds like dollars in the till, their gutted bellies chubby with crushed ice in the hold.
    I was secretly thrilled when Paul announced he was hitting the bunk for a nap. The autopilot was working for once and all I had to do was keep an eye on things. “Don’t get yourself into trouble,” he said, reminding me he wouldn’t hear me through sleep and the engine’s thrumming.
    We were trolling our way back to Bull Harbour and that would take hours. I was so excited it was hard to act nonchalant. I felt like a kid left at home alone and I was going to do everything. Alone. I was going to catch a Salmon Prince.
    I’d surprise him. When he woke up, I’d wait ’til he staggered out on the deck, blinking and yawning, glancing around for evidence of my folly. He’d see none. I’d pretend to be bored and make small talk. Then I’d casually mention that something got left behind the last time we dressed and iced the fish. He’d sigh and bitch about dried-up fish and lost money and yank the bin cover off. And there my prize would be. Huge. Perfect. Magnificent. And worth three days of groceries. Paul would never interfere with the fish on my side again and I’d pull in my own damn smileys. And I would smile and smile, just like the name intended me to do.
    I took a deep breath and climbed into my Hellys and gumboots and cinched them good and tight. I did an all-points check, walked carefully along the deck and eased myself into the cockpit. No vaulting—hard to pull in a smiley if you’re lying in the cockpit with a broken leg. One more scan and a prayer to the Salmon Spirits. I checked the gear, his side first. I willed everything into silence. If he woke up it would ruin everything.
    The usual pull-pull, grab-throw of the gear, elevated to a martial art: be the motor lever, be the spinning gurdy, the steel line, the clips, hoochies and hooks, the flashers, swivels and leads. But there was only a little drowned sockeye, which I set aside