Skiff’s bow drops off the St. John’s stern into the trough.
I throw the gear into reverse, pull out the diesel’s throttle,
jump around the engine box, yank in the painter.
Back at the wheel, I spin it to the right,
dipping the starboard rail in the oncoming swell.
The net, corks bobbing, rings clanging,
slides off the St. John’s seine table.
Diesel roars.
Skiff surges on the breakers,
curling over toward the stack,
boiling up like a geyser on the rock.
St. John crests a swell.
Walt waves his arm in a circle,
points toward the stack, waves faster.
I pull out the throttle.
Net’s taut towline vibrates behind me,
skiff’s stern sinks lower,
bow lifts on the incoming swell beneath me,
sliding down the backside.
I inch closer to the rock,
breaking surf crashes beside the skiff.
I scan the swells between me and the St. John,
searching for salmon jumpers.
Skipper’s arm again waves in a rapid circle,
I check the gauge,
rpm’s already at the max.
A swell breaks beneath me,
skiff thuds into the trough,
bow points to the bottom,
stern to the sky.
Towline, tense, taut to the breaking point,
holds me off the rock.
St. John appears, disappears,
circles towards the skiff.
Walt, both arms straight up, motions me home.
Skiff turns broadside to the swell,
lee rail dips beneath the wave’s white crest,
haystack disappears behind the swell,
hull looms over me.
Walt leans over the bridge,
“How many jumpers did you see?”