David Berger
Herring Ball
I was on a family fishing trip near northern Vancouver Island. We flew in by seaplane to a floating lodge nestled in a wilderness bay. Fragrant evergreen trees surrounded us. Each day shortly after dawn we headed out in two-person skiffs and trolled for migrating king and silver salmon in the cool morning air. We hooked into salmon 10, 20 and 30 pounds, netting them and dispatching them with a blow to the head with a short wooden club, the boat filling with silvery bodies and blood.
I mostly fished with my dad, but once I fished with a distant cousin from the East Coast. I knew he had been raised by a single mom and had some issues. I suspected abuse. His dad was in prison. Trolling around we ran into a herring ball. I’d never seen one before but I recognized the activity from reading. We could see the water boiling, the herring swimming and jumping for their lives to avoid attacking salmon. Birds appeared from nowhere to dive in and take their share, and a bald eagle flew through the action. Pandemonium. Then just as suddenly everything returned to perfect stillness. The birds gone, the water calm, and the silence near absolute among motionless trees. The next morning I was back to fishing with my dad, and after lunch we returned by seaplane to Vancouver, and to our home cities.
my cousin clubs the head of the already dead salmon again and again
About the Author
David Berger is an author, visual artist and haiku poet, and was visual arts critic at The Seattle Times. Published books include Persimmon and Frog (Chin Music Press, 2020) and Razor Clams: Buried Treasure of the Pacific Northwest (University of Washington Press, 2017). He lives in Seattle, and enjoys hiking and fishing.