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Spiek-Out
A Spieker Family Newsletter
10/07/01
Page 5

wild salmon. At times schools of a thousand salmon or more swim aimlessly round the harbor as if caught in a whirlpool.

Little different than these fish, I paused in my own aimless wandering to look at the silver-gray glistening bodies of four pink salmon lying on the cement boat dock. A gruff voice drew my attention to the back of a boat and in it, to a man cleaning fish. Somehow he had me pegged as a fly fisher. He baited this hook with words.

"Fly fishermen just play with their food." He whacks the head off another pink-kaThunk-bouncing his battered scrap of plywood-as-cutting board for emphasis.

Like some street hawker he talks through my silence, busily whacking, slicing and tossing remains of another
fish into the harbor. 'Ploush,' it separates at the glassy surface, head and spine sinking quickly out of sight in the murky water. Scales, slime and blood swirl beneath a thin film of oil.

"These there're pinks," waving a hand past three, foot-long pieces of fish as if lecturing a biology class. They hang eye level by their tails from a two-by-four. With a shake of the one in his hand he adds, "And this'uns a chum. Dog, some call 'em."

He bends to slop the meat in a plastic bucket at his feet and straightens up. "It's all food to me." With a 'clunk' he staples it next to the others. "Dunno anybody uses staples to prepare fish," he says, humoring himself, bringing up a chuckle. "Spent plenty time in Asia. Seen all kinds of food hanging 'round there." Another pause as he studies his staple gun. "Suppose staples would be high tech stuff there." Another chuckle from his sinuses before he offers an introduction. "Name's Stan. And you'd be...?"

My own name sunk deep out of mind, swimming clear of Stan's lurid words before surfacing. "Uh, I'm Jeff."

His boat was small, twenty-six feet, bow to stern. Not a commercial fishing boat, rather a converted cabin cruiser. A pleasure craft Stan bought, "for the cost of a tank of fuel. The guy at least wanted to get that back." Stan spoke excitedly as if a child given a long awaited gift. "Sure, I said! Two hundred forty-five dollars, ha!"

That, plus some scavenged construction material, a few blue tarps and some plastic sheeting make this

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Spiek-Out A Spieker Family Newsletter 10/07/01 Page 5
wild salmon. At times schools of a thousand salmon or more swim aimlessly round the harbor as if caught in a whirlpool. Little different than these fish, I paused in my own aimless wandering to look at the silver-gray glistening bodies of four pink salmon lying on the cement boat dock. A gruff voice drew my attention to the back of a boat and in it, to a man cleaning fish. Somehow he had me pegged as a fly fisher. He baited this hook with words. "Fly fishermen just play with their food." He whacks the head off another pink-kaThunk-bouncing his battered scrap of plywood-as-cutting board for emphasis. Like some street hawker he talks through my silence, busily whacking, slicing and tossing remains of another	fish into the harbor. 'Ploush,' it separates at the glassy surface, head and spine sinking quickly out of sight in the murky water. Scales, slime and blood swirl beneath a thin film of oil. "These there're pinks," waving a hand past three, foot-long pieces of fish as if lecturing a biology class. They hang eye level by their tails from a two-by-four. With a shake of the one in his hand he adds, "And this'uns a chum. Dog, some call 'em." He bends to slop the meat in a plastic bucket at his feet and straightens up. "It's all food to me." With a 'clunk' he staples it next to the others. "Dunno anybody uses staples to prepare fish," he says, humoring himself, bringing up a chuckle. "Spent plenty time in Asia. Seen all kinds of food hanging 'round	there." Another pause as he studies his staple gun. "Suppose staples would be high tech stuff there." Another chuckle from his sinuses before he offers an introduction. "Name's Stan. And you'd be...?" My own name sunk deep out of mind, swimming clear of Stan's lurid words before surfacing. "Uh, I'm Jeff." His boat was small, twenty-six feet, bow to stern. Not a commercial fishing boat, rather a converted cabin cruiser. A pleasure craft Stan bought, "for the cost of a tank of fuel. The guy at least wanted to get that back." Stan spoke excitedly as if a child given a long awaited gift. "Sure, I said! Two hundred forty-five dollars, ha!" That, plus some scavenged construction material, a few blue tarps and some plastic sheeting make this
Page 4 * Page 5 * Page 6