The fog hung thick over the bay that morning. We left the Homer Spit on the Sea Predator, a power cat that cut steady through the gray water. The captain said the fishing would be good. It was.
I brought up two halibut first. They were small. We measured them and let them go back down into the cold sea.
Then came the cod, two of them, solid and fighting. Two rockfish followed, bright and strong. One fish came up that none of us knew. The deckhand shook his head. We released it.
The pinks hit steady after that. Six of them, silver and quick. I kept them all.
In the last fifteen minutes the rod bent hard. The king took the line deep and fought like a man who would not die easy. It ran and turned and ran again. When the net closed around it, the hook fell free from its mouth. Fifteen pounds of clean muscle. A good fish.
Back at the dock I traded the cod and rockfish to some women for more pinks. They wanted the bottoms. I wanted the salmon.
I had the pinks smoked dark and rich. The king I froze, eating what I could fresh. The fish lasted a month. Good eating every day.
I will go back. To Homer and the Kenai. Next time I will bring another freezer. The fish are there. The sea is true.