Fishing for Whales

                              	
Blues and Orcas are rare in the Strait of Georgia;
Dad and Eric troll for salmon, I watch for whales. 
Whale shadows slip between islands
leaving whale shaped waves, whale colored rocks.
I am an Orca tasting salmon:  
salt, crunch, fins scratch my throat.

Ocean bends into smooth troughs,  
soft waves tap, tease, tongue the bow.
Rain curtains hang gray,
drips make paths through seams 
and threads to find my skin. 
Sky, rain, and sea merge. 

Herring race in schools, dimpling the tide, 
seabirds dive.  The downrigger squeals, 
we jump for the rods- Dad cuts the motor,  
Eric snaps the pole up, pauses, 
reels– the chinook flashes silver, 
runs, rises.  I slide the net under tail 
and lift twenty live pounds to the deck.

Rain drips down my cheek like tears,
Eric clubs the fish, 
A whale blows in the mist.


[Photo Credit Vince Harke]