Salmon Fishing Tales: Lessons from the Water
A Morning in Getla Cove
We woke up to one of those mornings that makes you pause. Getla Cove was glassy calm, Tangaroa tucked in so snug you’d think we’d tied her to the trees. The only opening was the narrow cut we’d surfed through the day before and we couldn’t wait to do some River’s Inlet Salmon Fishing.
Coffee and tea in hand, we sat on deck and soaked it in. A seal pup kept bobbing up near the boat, popping its head out of the water like it couldn’t quite figure us out. Out here, we were the strange ones.
The night before, I had met a couple while taking Maggie to shore. Their story stuck with me. Between them, they had over ninety years of marriage before losing their spouses. Then, they found each other. A new love story, right here in the middle of Rivers Inlet. It was the kind of reminder that made me smile all evening.
On the Hunt for Salmon
That morning, Captain Paul was determined. We’d been hearing reports of salmon running along the south side of the inlet. So we loaded up Punga with rods, tackle, and downriggers, and set out to see for ourselves.
The crossing was bouncy but manageable. Once we reached the other side, Paul started rigging up. I quickly learned salmon fishing isn’t as simple as tossing out a line. There were weights, lines, clips, leaders, bait, and more. I usually go with the “chuck it in and hope” method, but Paul? He’s meticulous.
By the time we had everything set, Punga looked like a floating Flying Dutchman, rods sticking out in every direction. We trolled slowly along the rocky shoreline, scanning for the strike. A few little fish came our way—sea bass, maybe rockfish—but not the salmon we wanted. Then things got interesting.
The Big One Got Away
Out of nowhere, Paul’s rod doubled over. His reel screamed like a siren, line peeling out so fast it looked like it would snap.
Paul’s face lit up with a mix of shock and adrenaline. He braced himself and started the fight. For five solid minutes, he worked the rod, pulling and reeling as the fish ran deep. My heart was pounding just watching.
And then—snap. The line went slack. Silence.
It had been chewed or cut clean through. Everything was gone: lure, leader, tackle. Paul slumped back, shaking his head. He figured it was at least a forty-pounder. Maybe more. The fish of a lifetime.
We just stared at each other for a moment, stunned. Losing it stung, but the story was worth almost as much as the catch. Almost.
No Prawns, No Problem (Sort Of)
By now, the wind was building and whitecaps were spreading across the inlet. Punga was taking water over the bow, and it was time to call it.
On the way back, we stopped at the point where we’d dropped our prawn traps the day before. With all the bouncing around, pulling them up would be a welcome task. Except… nothing. They were gone.
We checked again. Gone. Not a float in sight.
I tried to be optimistic. Maybe they drifted off. But after searching for days, we never found them. Either they sank or someone else hauled them. Either way, an expensive loss of gear.
Still, we tried to keep our spirits up. We had three more traps on Tangaroa, and hope is a stubborn thing when you’re hungry for prawns.
Back in the Cove
By the time we got back, we were wet, tired, and laughing at the day’s disasters. Blaine was waiting on deck with a smile and steaks sizzling on the grill. After a long day, nothing smells better than dinner cooking on the boat.
We sat down together as the evening light faded over the mountains. No salmon. No prawns. One lost monster fish. But a day packed with stories, salt spray, and scenery we’ll never forget.
And the best part? Out here, there’s always tomorrow.
Don’t forget to check out our YouTube channels and watch our explorations.
See you on the water!
Janis