Read Online Surviving Bear Island by Paul Greci - Free Book Online Page A

this was a chance—a chance to know something. A chance to discover. A chance to survive.
    I stood like a statue. I had to do this, and do it right.
    When Dad took me dip-netting for salmon on the Copper River the summer Mom died, he had said, “Picture the fish swimming into your net.”
    The Copper River was so full of silt that you never saw a fish swim into your net, you only felt it. You try to hold a net the size of a big trash can in the water on the end of a twelve-foot-long pole. You just feel a thump and haul your net out. But it was like pulling a net through wet cement.
    Dad had said, “If I can imagine feeling the bump and then lifting, then I’m ready to dip net.” That year we netted thirty salmon in two hours. A week later Mom was dead.
    The fish moved upstream, approaching where they’d been before I’d spooked them. In another wave the fish advanced to their original position. I bounced on my toes and that made my blisters burn even more.
    Do it and do it right. But how did I know what was right? I just had to feel it. Try it. Imagine bringing the gaff down and tugging. Yanking a fish onto the gravel bar, then pounding it with a rock.
    The salmon were headed upstream to spawn—that was their goal. And not up just any stream, but the very stream where they’d had their start as eggs. Well, they weren’t all gonna make it. Not if I could help it.
    I raised the gaff with both hands, held it over my head, then swung it down, hard. A splash and wave erupted on the water’s surface.
    â€œI got one! I got one!” I shouted, as I pulled a fish from the water.
    On the gravel bar the fish flopped wildly, and broke free from the hooks. I dropped the gaff, scooped both hands under the fish and flung it away from the water. It hit the rocks and kept flopping and flipping, then became still. I picked up a grapefruit-sized rock, grabbed the fish just above the tail and smashed it on the head. Spasms ran up and down the fish. It broke free and flopped again.
    I gripped it by the tail and hit it a second time. It jerked once, then became still. Blood ran from its bulging eyes.
    I picked up my gaff. I wanted more. I could scarf down three or foursalmon, or eat a whole school, no problem.
    I had the situation under control. I was doing it right. It was almost easy.
    I waited. The school of salmon moved back to its original position. I swung again, connected again, and yanked, but then stumbled and fell backwards.
    Broken ends of fishing line trailed off the pole.
    â€œNo,” I said. “No. No. No.”
    I raised the hookless gaff over my head and slammed it down. I stood up and kicked the gaff. I picked it up, stared at the place where the hook should have been, and slammed it to the ground again.
    â€œWorthless,” I shouted. “I’m worthless.”
    Then I felt the trembling. If I kept losing hooks, I’d starve. And that would be sad, loserville-sad—to starve when there were lots of fish just because I couldn’t figure out how to catch them.

    That night, by the fire with a burncooked fish in my belly, I sat with the hookless gaff in my hands, the broken ends of fishing line hanging in the firelight.
    I knew I needed to catch more than one fish with one hook. I’d die if I couldn’t do that. No room for mistakes. Or at least, no room for making the same mistakes. I needed to learn from this.
    Learning life’s lessons sure can be hard.
    You can’t learn nothin’ if you don’t leave the yard.
    Yeah, more of my mom’s lyrics. My mom would say that by gaffing a salmon I’d left the yard. But now, if I just tied another hook onto the end of the pole without changing the way I did it, that’d be like staying in the yard.
    I set the pole down. I lay back on the life vests and covered myself with the emergency blankets.
    I worried about the gaff some more, but no solution came. I’d been so proud of how