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Authors: Sylvia Taylor
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they were destined for the canned market and institutional use. When canners wanted to glamour them up, they labelled them Fancy Keeta.
The lowly pinksâalso known as humps, humpbacks or distasteful slimeballsâwere small and hard to dress and worth pennies a pound, not considered worth a trollerâs time, and were left for the netters until they earned their new name in the early â80s: Desperation Fish. With runs of all the other species at record lows from 1980 to 1983, trollers would scramble for the pinks to save their season. No one knew just how bad it would get. Record-low runs and 18 percent interest rates, competing users and tightening restrictions on seasons and areas were moving in to form a crucible of their own.
For another three hours we rolled and bounced until the engine began to overheat again and about noon we had to pull in the gear, turn around and run back to Bull Harbour. Weâd caught one 20-pound red spring that brought us $55 at the fish camp for five hours of rolling our guts out in the fog. At least we didnât come back skunked, but it was a grim ride back with Paul fuming about the Taylor Curse, which basically amounted to everything he touched turned to shit, according to him. There was nothing I could do to jolly him up, struggling with a bit of angst myself.
So what do you do when youâre stuck on a boat and you have to get away before you come undone? Some people are adept at leaving internally : their spirit is elsewhere. It is certainly more efficient than having to leave physically. There are very few experiences more powerful and unnerving than trying to engage with someone who is so Teflon-coated that nothing sticks to them. Mighty handy for long periods on a boat, especially in isolation. Personal boundaries are a luxury, and so people go inward to find space. It is also free, instantaneous and infinite. But for those of us who are deeply engaged in the world and Velcro-skinned, detachment is illusive. What do we do? The irony of boat life is, though youâre surrounded by limitless space, thereâs nowhere to go.
Paul and I were dying from constriction in the midst of endless space. I knew he was upset by all the boat problems, no fish and looming boat mortgage payments, but I had to get away from The Dungeon banging and didnât have anywhere to go but the 40-foot float.
I noticed the skiff was still tied to our midships cleat where Paul had used it to inspect the intake valves for obstructions, and I got the brilliant idea to get away by rowing around the bay. I poked my head through the floor opening and told him my plan. He grunted in reply. I strapped on a life jacket and told our dock neighbour that Iâd be rowing around. I knew better than to go out in the wilderness alone without taking precautions.
With every pull on the heavy wooden oars I felt lighter, like leaving the gravitational pull of some dark planet. I imagined myself as a water bug, skittering weightless across the surface, then a swan, gliding and elegant. It was so blessedly quiet and calm, the air so warm and gentle, and I couldnât tear my eyes from the ripple of my wake. My bones and tension softened like putty. I couldnât remember what Iâd come out here to do and what had driven me here. My hands dozed in my lap as I drifted and drifted on the incoming tide.
It seemed the most natural and sensible thing to slide down onto my back. I knew Iâd be perfectly safe in my gently rocking cradle, as certain as an infant, as I watched two eagles in a love dance high above me.
Suddenly, the silver blade of a jet bisected the sky. I smiled at this odd intrusion, smiled as the eaglesâ ballet continued in spite of it and wondered which was the greater miracle.
I breathed back into myself and patted my skin into place before rowing back across the silver bay. Our neighbour gave me a little wink and wave as I tied up the skiff and clambered back on board.
The lowly pinksâalso known as humps, humpbacks or distasteful slimeballsâwere small and hard to dress and worth pennies a pound, not considered worth a trollerâs time, and were left for the netters until they earned their new name in the early â80s: Desperation Fish. With runs of all the other species at record lows from 1980 to 1983, trollers would scramble for the pinks to save their season. No one knew just how bad it would get. Record-low runs and 18 percent interest rates, competing users and tightening restrictions on seasons and areas were moving in to form a crucible of their own.
For another three hours we rolled and bounced until the engine began to overheat again and about noon we had to pull in the gear, turn around and run back to Bull Harbour. Weâd caught one 20-pound red spring that brought us $55 at the fish camp for five hours of rolling our guts out in the fog. At least we didnât come back skunked, but it was a grim ride back with Paul fuming about the Taylor Curse, which basically amounted to everything he touched turned to shit, according to him. There was nothing I could do to jolly him up, struggling with a bit of angst myself.
So what do you do when youâre stuck on a boat and you have to get away before you come undone? Some people are adept at leaving internally : their spirit is elsewhere. It is certainly more efficient than having to leave physically. There are very few experiences more powerful and unnerving than trying to engage with someone who is so Teflon-coated that nothing sticks to them. Mighty handy for long periods on a boat, especially in isolation. Personal boundaries are a luxury, and so people go inward to find space. It is also free, instantaneous and infinite. But for those of us who are deeply engaged in the world and Velcro-skinned, detachment is illusive. What do we do? The irony of boat life is, though youâre surrounded by limitless space, thereâs nowhere to go.
Paul and I were dying from constriction in the midst of endless space. I knew he was upset by all the boat problems, no fish and looming boat mortgage payments, but I had to get away from The Dungeon banging and didnât have anywhere to go but the 40-foot float.
I noticed the skiff was still tied to our midships cleat where Paul had used it to inspect the intake valves for obstructions, and I got the brilliant idea to get away by rowing around the bay. I poked my head through the floor opening and told him my plan. He grunted in reply. I strapped on a life jacket and told our dock neighbour that Iâd be rowing around. I knew better than to go out in the wilderness alone without taking precautions.
With every pull on the heavy wooden oars I felt lighter, like leaving the gravitational pull of some dark planet. I imagined myself as a water bug, skittering weightless across the surface, then a swan, gliding and elegant. It was so blessedly quiet and calm, the air so warm and gentle, and I couldnât tear my eyes from the ripple of my wake. My bones and tension softened like putty. I couldnât remember what Iâd come out here to do and what had driven me here. My hands dozed in my lap as I drifted and drifted on the incoming tide.
It seemed the most natural and sensible thing to slide down onto my back. I knew Iâd be perfectly safe in my gently rocking cradle, as certain as an infant, as I watched two eagles in a love dance high above me.
Suddenly, the silver blade of a jet bisected the sky. I smiled at this odd intrusion, smiled as the eaglesâ ballet continued in spite of it and wondered which was the greater miracle.
I breathed back into myself and patted my skin into place before rowing back across the silver bay. Our neighbour gave me a little wink and wave as I tied up the skiff and clambered back on board.
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