At Davis Bay on a beautiful end-of-summer morning, I sit watching fishermen in waders. Up to their waists in water, they cast their lines into the Strait of Georgia angling for Pinks.
They’re out there. From time to time a fish jumps, breaking the surface, a tease, a promise.
There is a delicacy to the actions of these fishermen, a poetry of motion as they cast their lines, pull back, release, pull back, release—a song of racheting spinners clicking as lines are reeled back in.
A flash on the water and heads turn. Did he hook it? Are there others?
Not a single fish is basketed while I sit but the fishermen persist, some moving from spot to spot, some stubbornly rooted in position; all sharing a love of their silent sport and a wish for fish.