He was willing to row all day long with suitable intervals for his meals—but any attempt to keep him on the water at meal-time was somewhat sulkily resented.
We fished together for some thirty days, more or less harmoniously, and there was only one great explosion which threatened to sever our connection.
Through his gross stupidity my boat, which was being towed behind the Cannery launch, was upset, and I had the pleasure of seeing all my fishing-tackle, fly-books, the companions of years—all my pet flies, spoons, spring balance—sunk in sixty feet of water—£20 worth of tackle gone in a moment.
Fortunately I had taken my rod and camera on board the launch, or they, too, would have been lost.
It was infra dig. that he should express any regret, and very unreasonable from his point of view that I should show any annoyance, which I did in what I considered very moderate terms, considering the provocation.
On landing, he suggested that I did not seem satisfied with him, which was quite true, and that "Joe," a hated rival, was disengaged and available.
I very nearly took him at his word and "fired him out"—but we made it up somehow, and he remained my boatman, though I never quite forgave the loss of so much valuable tackle.
Fortunately I had only a few more fishing days left and had some spare tackle to replace what was gone.
Our opening day was simply glorious, a bright sun and a crispness in the air which made one feel that it was good to be alive.
The scenery was exquisite. The sea calm as a mill-pond, only broken by the oily swirls of the rushing tide, and then there was the possibility of that long-hoped-for big fish, who did not come that day, though every pull from a cohoe might have been him.