From Sturmaid in Well Water:
One day, Tom fell in love. Now, he loved his steel jet boat. And he loved the river. And he loved cold beer and the sound the line made when it ran with the movement of a big ol’ Chinook salmon, but this was different.
As he settled his boat along an inlet surrounded by wind-shaped trees, he saw the sturgeon belly-roll at the crest of a passing white cap out on the swift moving water. Odd. The wind was coming up. At first, he was more involved in making sure his anchor wouldn’t drag and he’d find himself fighting that current, but then he saw it again. Closer. Shouldn’t be a sturgeon up here in the bright, he thought. Something must be wrong with it.
Imagine his surprise when a sleek head popped up not three feet from his boat. Silvery white hair, eyes like a cloudy day. She stared at him. He almost dropped his pole. He was mesmerized. Coming closer and closer, she finally grabbed the side of his boat, webbed fingers wrapping over the rail. Tom felt breathless. He looked around, but not a soul was nearby.
She watched him for a few minutes, then released her hold and flipped, the scutes along her thick, glowing tail glinting in the sunlight, and he saw the problem. Someone had been gigging for salmon. Not fishing, he thought sourly. She had a treble hook stuck in her side. She popped back up and held onto the rail, her eyes beseeching.
Tom pulled his multitool out of his pocket and showed her the plier portion, gesturing to her side and she pulled her tail to the surface. The ragged spots around the barbs were angry red. It had been in there awhile. He leaned over, assessing. Reaching back into his tackle box he dug around until he found the wire cutters. Let her see them. Then he went to work.
Cutting the barbs off, he watched them sink into the green brown water with a satisfied smile. Then he slowly worked the rest of the hook out of her skin, tossing it into his tackle box. She winced as he pulled, but didn’t move. He pressed a little on the wounds, but bright blood came out, not pus. “You’ll be okay,” he told her. She tilted her head and mimicked his smile, though her pointed teeth were serrated at the edges. He imagined she was a fierce hunter beneath that benign disguise of sturgeon skin and he had a brief moment of nervousness. She reached out and touched his sleeve. Gestured for him to come closer. He couldn’t help himself. Her kiss held every answer.
Then she was gone. He felt empty.
He waited for her to come back, just sitting, not fishing. Forgot all about the cold beer. Staring, watching the water. When the sun began to set he reluctantly went home. Sunburned. Tired. Exhilarated.
The next day he returned to the river. Same spot. Same waiting. He cast his line for awhile, but didn’t catch anything. The fish knew an entirely unexpected predator had arrived. His wonder was answered when she came to the surface with a large salmon in her teeth. A gift. He thanked her and dropped the shining offering into the fish box while she watched. He returned to his spot along the rail and time fled as he stared into her eyes. Her silvery pupils dilated in delight when he offered her a cookie from his pack. Showed her how to take a bite. She chewed for a few seconds, then flipped away in excitement, coming right back. Her kisses seemed even sweeter.
The following morning he brought his boat in close to shore and set up on the inlet’s beach. It was Tuesday, and he’d already missed too much work. Probably fired by now, but he couldn’t stay away. He could only think of her and how to be closer to her cold touch and her cold lips. He figured since she breathed air she could likely come up on land. He waited all day for her until the brown velvet of the Klickitats lost their detail to shadows as the sun sank low. Started a fire as the darkness fell. He was dozing when he heard noise at the river’s edge and the sound of her sliding onto the wet sand. He went to greet her. His lungs filled with the sweetness of Spring as their lips met. He barely felt the cold of the Columbia as she pulled him in. Under.
Tom’s friends looked for him until his boat was found floating loose near Hood River, a rotted fish in the box. Tackle and tools undisturbed. A bit of some sort of fish skin was snagged on the rail, but only ragged pieces of a cookie package were scattered across the boat’s puddled floor.
