The Last King Salmon: A True Fishing Story for My Dad

I didn't catch it but I was more than happy to pose with the last king salmon my dad will ever catch.

My dad wasn’t just a fisherman.

He was a king salmon fisherman.

He was born and raised in Ketchikan, Alaska,

part of a long line of men who worked the water.

His grandfather fished. His father fished.

And from the moment he could hold a rod, he fished too.

Fishing wasn’t something my dad did. It was who he was. But not just any kind of fishing.

He loved the dance of the king salmon.

The hit on the pole.

The run of the line.

The fight.

King salmon don’t just bite.

They battle.

You have to let them run.

Let them burn themselves out, then reel like hell.

Then let them go again.

It’s a rhythm.

A test.

A conversation between strength and patience.

And when they’re finally tired enough,

when you’ve held steady and let them wear themselves down,

you bring them to the boat and net them.

I was a little girl on that boat.

Impatient. Watching the poles.

Waiting for the run.

Bored half the time.

Below deck with Ding Dongs and Vienna sausages.

Salt on my lips and sugar in my veins.

Honestly, I don’t know how I survived my childhood diet.

But I lived for those days.

He wasn’t just good at fishing.

He was legendary.

Between 1983 and 2015, he caught over 2,300 fish on his boat.

He kept handwritten logs, every detail.

Date. Time. Location. Tide. Weight.

Who was there. Who caught it. What lure they used.

Later, he entered everything into Excel,

sorted it a dozen ways,

and emailed it to everyone he knew.

That was my dad.

As I got older, he taught me how to captain the boat.

How to feel the tide.

Read the current.

Watch the commercial trollers creeping too close.

He tried to teach me how to bait a hook too.

I never quite got the hang of it.

Maybe on purpose.

When my kids were old enough,

he took them out fishing too.

Just like he had with me.

Watching them reel in their first fish,

his hands guiding theirs,

it felt like time folding in on itself.

They didn’t get the Ding Dongs or Vienna sausages, though.

Some things are best left in the ’80s.

My dad died on April 11, 2025.

And not long after, we knew what we had to do.

We planned a trip to Herring Cove,

his favorite fishing spot,

his resting place.

Clay, one of his closest friends and longtime fishing buddies,

took us out on the boat.

Me.

My sister.

My mom.

My son.

And Joe.

We spread his ashes in the water that raised him.

The place that knew his hands,

his rhythm,

his laughter.

It was peaceful.

It was sacred.

And then, like him, it was hilarious.

The wind kicked up

and blew his ashes straight into my mom’s face.

Into her eyes, her nose, her hair.

We tried to be solemn.

We really did.

But we were laughing too hard.

Even in death, my dad had a way of showing up with perfect timing.

Some of his ashes landed on the flasher and lure of one of the fishing poles.

Clay looked at it and said,

“You know what we need to do?

We need to drop a line in the water for Bill.”

So we did.

Joe noticed the ashes stuck to the lure.

He smiled and said,

“This one’s gonna catch a fish.”

And it did.

Fifteen minutes later, the pole went off.

The line ran.

Joe grabbed the rod,

let the fish run,

reeled it in,

let it run again.

Clay helped net it.

A king salmon.

Joe held it, looked at me, and said,

“This is the first fish I ever caught with your dad.

And it’s the last fish your dad will ever catch.”

And he was right.

Somewhere between tide and memory,

my dad reached out and caught one more king.

I love you, Dad.