The River Killers by Bruce Burrows Page B

you can.” I glanced inquiringly at Pete and he took the mike.
    â€œHi Jimmy, it’s Pete here. One other thing. We want to make sure the samples are as representative as possible. Could you ask your power skiff crew to grab a few buckets from along the cork line?”
    â€œRoger that, Pete. We’re gonna have breakfast now and then get to work. Talk to you later.”
    Another radio came to life. “ James Sinclair , Northern Queen .” That was our other test boat, farther south toward Seaforth Channel. As I reached for the mike to answer him, the sideband issued its typical metallic buzz and the northern report began from Prince Rupert. And then a second VHF began issuing the marine traffic report at the same time as the seven o’clock weather report started on weather channel 2.
    I’d lost the knack of listening to five radios at once but there were enough of us there to absorb all the pertinent information. A single seine boat skipper could have listened to and processed all the information as a matter of course. I didn’t like to think about what this implied about the ability of a few DFO personnel to manage hundreds of fishermen.
    Streaks of red began to appear over the eastern mountains. The white peaks of the coastal range took on an orange tinge against the brilliant blue sky. It was going to be a beautiful day. I looked at George Kelly, captain of the James Sinclair . “Let’s go for a cruise. See what we can find.”
    He nodded and picked up the intercom. “Can we get a couple of guys to pull the hook?” It wasn’t really a question, and almost instantaneously we heard a click and a hum as an unseen deckhand engaged the hydraulics. As the anchor chain rumbled onto the winch, George casually positioned himself at the wheel. He turned on the Wesmar sonar and adjusted the range on the sounder. The anchor clunked on board, and George raised an eyebrow at me. I looked at Pete, who shrugged.
    â€œLet’s head up Spiller and look at the eastern shore,” I said. “I want to see if there’s anything schooling up in the shallows.”
    George pushed the throttle forward and the powerful engines quickly accelerated the big grey boat to her cruising speed of twelve knots. It was quiet in the wheelhouse, but I knew that the engines were producing almost as many decibels as horsepower, which was why fishermen liked the James Sinclair. It couldn’t sneak up on anyone. As we headed for Spiller Channel, all eyes were on the sonar and the sounder. The sonar showed a pattern of radiating lines, like the sun’s rays. If schools of fish were present, the lines would become brighter and indicate the direction and distance of the school. The sounder gave us a picture of what lay directly beneath the boat. Usually it just showed the ocean bottom as a solid red line, but if schools of fish were beneath us they would show up as light blue or yellow smears depending on their density. Really dense schools, such as big bunches of herring, would show up as solid red just like the bottom, so you had to know the bathymetry of the area.
    When we were about one mile off the eastern shore, the sonar lines flickered and intensified, indicating a large school about forty-five degrees to starboard and about a quarter mile away. George turned us toward the fish and, as we closed on them, our eyes turned to the sounder. As we passed directly over the school, the flat red line of the bottom bulged into a red semi-sphere that started at about thirty fathoms and ended just above the bottom at sixty fathoms.
    â€œFifty to seventy-five tons,” I said. “What do you think?”
    â€œMaybe a little more,” said Pete. “Definitely worth setting on.”
    â€œDepends on how much time in the opening. And how lucky you feel.”
    And that was how we spent the rest of the day. We covered a transect about a mile off, all down the eastern shore of Spiller