Closer to the Ground by Dylan Tomine

Author:Dylan Tomine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Memoir about living closer to nature and teaching children about nature
ISBN: 9781938340000
Publisher: Patagonia Books
Published: 2012-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

Opening Day – just six weeks ago – up at Port Townsend, our annual multifamily camping trip to kick things off. Anticipation ran high with the whole season stretching out ahead of us. After a long afternoon of setting up tents, stacking firewood, and organizing camp, Stacy suggested that Sweeney and I go fishing. There was a stiff breeze out of the northwest and a lousy tide, but we put the boat in the water anyway. Out on Midchannel Bank, the wind whipped around us and a vicious chop made fishing nearly impossible. The boat rocked and pounded, floundering in the waves. Minutes after I asked Sweeney if he thought we should be worried about safety (his answer: “Possibly”), the portside rod hammered down. In less than an hour we hooked five big, ocean-fresh king salmon and put four in the box for a ridiculously quick limit. When we pulled back into camp, Stacy said, “What did you forget?”

A week later, my mom came to visit. Stacy was busy in the garden, and the heat made cooking dinner indoors less than appealing. A little picnic on the water sounded perfect. The fish had yet to arrive here locally, but I figured we might as well drag some gear around while we ate. About a mile south of Kingston, where the bottom slopes up from 150 feet to less than 80, we were busy watching an osprey hunting along the shoreline when I happened to glance at the rod. It was shaking furiously and I knew right away our gear was dragging bottom. I grabbed the rod and felt solid resistance. Dammit. Hung up on a snag. Just as I threw the motor into neutral, line started peeling off the reel and…fish on! The kids took turns fighting the big king – their first ever – and my mom got to be part of the excitement. When the fish came aboard, we all hugged and danced around the boat. As they say, better to be lucky than good.

I think of the early morning trip with Smarty, when he was supposed to be at work by nine and we’d fished too long. On the way back in, he was frantic, running the boat wide open, skipping from one wave top to the next, asking for the time every three minutes. Halfway across the big open stretch south of President’s Point, he said, “I just lost the steering.” “What?” I yelled, thinking I must have heard wrong. He looked back at me and spun the wheel around several times to demonstrate. The boat kept going straight. And fast. But he refused to back off the throttle – this being the middle of king season, he was already on thin ice with his boss. We somehow made it across the Sound, into the harbor, and right up to the dock by dragging a five-gallon bucket on alternating sides of the boat to steer. He made it to work on time, too, but I’m pretty sure my arms are several inches longer from hanging on to that bucket handle.

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