Jonathan Bender's Cape Chacon - Part II

Sunrise at the Lodge.
Deckhands start their day

If you haven't read Part I yet, go ahead and do that now, so you can pick up the thread. My apologies for being so long between posts, but Christmas and all that...

Looks like it will take at least one more posting in addition to this one to finish up Jon's story. Hope you enjoy it.

Captain Mac

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For the past two months I had made my home on another obscure cove, tucked into the eastern side of Prince of Wales Island. There, I’d developed and kept a nearly uninterrupted routine for 64 consecutive days. I’d crawled from my bunk each morning at 4:30 to eat breakfast and prep the boat; spent the day tying lines, baiting hooks, checking gear, chit-chatting, netting fish, hosing off and scrubbing the boat, filleting fish, chit chatting, pulling hooks out of my hands, filleting fish, cleaning the boat, and… filleting more fish, before crawling into bed at around 7. But I enjoy that stuff; helping people have a good time. Otherwise, why would I take the extra time to whip up some wasabi for the fresh, halibut cheek sashimi when there’s a successful catch to celebrate? Why would I go through the trouble of snelling my own rigs when there are pre-tied ones available (with duller points and that tacky nickel finish)? It’s kind of like taking a friend to a movie you’ve already seen, enjoying their reactions to your most memorable scenes, maybe feeding their excitement beforehand. So, all this drudgery, it’s all the cost of being able to offer what I offer, and in such a wonderful setting. A powerful experience awaits every morning, not just for the guests, but for me too. We have access to this spectacular place where so few people ever venture. It’s just the Inside Passage, raw nature, and our little fleet of four. This is the thought that goes through my mind as we motor out of Gardner Bay this morning This is what fuels me, and I’m all too eager to share this world with anyone willing.

This is a particularly fun group. They’re after the experience, as opposed to those unfortunate ones, the people that come for a $3000 box of meat. These guys, three father/son teams, are wonderful, enthusiastic, and they’re having a great time. The group of six had grown close over the previous two days, and they’d shared personal stories and aspirations. Two teams, both from Missouri (by coincidence) were most excited about salmon fishing. The other pair, the Martins, were celebrating young Tim’s high school graduation. They’d fished together for years in northern Minnesota, catching walleye, pike, perch, and smallmouth bass in the many lakes that dot the countryside, but Tim’s dream, for some years now, had been to land a large halibut. He’d read articles in magazines about these amazing creatures, about their somewhat mysterious habits, their adaptations for ambush, their incredible strength. He talked about this dream on the way out the first day, to an apprehensive, but supportive audience. Of course, I had told him the tale of Ron “Marlboro Man” Johnson.

The lodge’s Maintenance Team Leader, a self-proclaimed grizzly cowboy, Ron is like no other. He sports a 50’s, Elvis hairstyle—a bright silver, pompadour swoop across the top of his forehead that frames the sharp, angular features of his prematurely aged and pockmarked face. He’s remarkably strong and fit, an amazing fact considering that eats only chicken, once every two days (he’s nursing an untreated ulcer). His leathery, expressionless face is punctuated by the wide, lipless mouth, slightly curved, perpetually revealing only the beginning of a smile that just can’t seem to surface. And he smokes, constantly, as he’s done for 35 years. Over the years, Ron had developed a reputation for occasionally winning the “biggest fish of the day” competition amongst the staff. He would head over to a creek mouth around the corner in his skiff, and return with a 200+ pound Halibut in tow. He never brought a gun or harpoon, but instead, he’d reel up the giant, reach over with a knife to cut its gill, and then fight it back up to the surface again as it slowly bled to death. Anyone else that tried his spot was rewarded with nothing but frustration at the endless dog sharks that trashed their line and gulped down bait. No one else had ever caught anything edible there. This year, on one of Ron’s two trips to the spot, he brought a harpoon with him. He’d been convinced by one of the skippers, much to the dismay of Captain Mac, the lodge owner, that it was superior to his method, more reliable. Ron had reportedly sat there, in his spot, for maybe an hour, shaking off the recognizable dog sharks that nibbled at his salmon head (his preferred bait), before finally hooking up, as usual. This fish, according to Ron, was the largest he’d ever seen. It didn’t move, instead acting much like a concrete bridge abutment being hoisted slowly toward the surface. When the monster had surfaced, it was nearly the size of the 11 ft. skiff, an eyeball-estimated 350 lbs. easily, making it the largest halibut ever seen at the lodge. Ron, faithfully, grabbed the harpoon, sinking it into the fish up to the hilt, and then actually pushing the fish a good foot below the surface before withdrawing the shaft. He then manned the harpoon line, a thick rope, abandoning the rod at the floor of the skiff. The harpoon head is designed to go through the other side of the fish and rotate 90 degrees, such that it is pulled flat against skin. The fish dove, jerking the fishing rod overboard, and tearing the harpoon rope through Ron’s burning hands. He sat back, pulling the rope against the side of the skiff, trying to gain leverage and resistance against the behemoth, when the line suddenly went slack. The fish, and his rod, were lost. Apparently, the harpoon had pulled out; perhaps the fish was just too thick for the 18-inch harpoon shaft. This, the most remarkable tale I’d heard, would never have been believable except for Ron’s reputation for success, his raw, burned palms, and his unnaturally pale, shaky skin as he told the story that evening. As I related the saga to our group I could see Tim visualizing the story, living the tale and imagining his moment of glory.

To be continued...