The anchovy is about the length of the hand, from heel of the palm to finger tips and the hooks cut in easily through the back of the head. A blue solution the anchovies had been soaking in drips down around the hand as the hook pierces the back. It smells like anise and low tide.

Fingers work with precision, gripping the cold rigid fish and angling the hook where it should dig in, as the boat rocks. And the boat rocks, stern to bow as the captain pilots the 20-ton vessel up a swell and down the other side. When the captain turns to circle around for another pass through the same stretch of water, the boat settles into a trough between the swells, and the world violently tilts up and down on an axis centered somewhere below deck. Fishermen are trapped on some sort of horrible seesawing experiment.

The anchovy, the spinner, the lead weight goes overboard pulling the rod tip down as if it’s pointing at the salmon somewhere 30 to 60 feet beneath the surface. A switch on the reel is flipped and the thumb presses against the spool to ensure the line doesn’t spill out haphazardly. Some 30 pulls of line later, an arm length each, and the drag is set and the fisherman waits.

We’re out on the Joanne Mary, a boat built in 1962 in Vancouver, British Columbia, about 8 miles from the Washington Coast on the Pacific, having launched from Westport earlier in the morning. In a past life, she had been named “Miss Harriet,” but Captain Mike Johnson bought her in the last year and renamed her.

I ask a stupid question: “Who is Joanne Mary?”

“My mom,” Captain Mike says.

Captain Mike is originally from Oakville, but recently he’s lived in Ocean Shores. In a past life, the Joanne Mary was a shrimping boat. Now it’s a recreational fishing boat. A diesel that putts slowly among newer boats with high-powered dual outboard motors. Leaving the marina, crossing the bar, and approaching the spot where we’d drop lines, the Joanne Mary traveled about 7 knots, or a little more than 8 mph. When Captain Mike bought the vessel in Victoria, it took him and a friend several days to pilot the vessel to Westport. They slept on board.

While Captain Mike pilots the boat, three of us are trolling for salmon. Rodney Smith and Tom Kovis, both visiting from Nevada, man their poles and fight sea sickness as the boat rocks. The poles bend and straighten with the lean of the Joanne Mary.

Strangely, so far from dry land and what we know as civilization, there are 30 to 50 vessels all within sight. At times, as the Joanne Mary putts past, we get near enough to other boats to see their catches as they work landing nets to hoist the struggling fish from the water. Boats vary in size, from large charter boats (with their own names, my favorite name being The Cormorant) to a small bass boat, better suited to a calm lake than the ocean.

When a fish strikes, the rod tip shakes as the salmon fights to flee and shake the hook. The two times my rod shakes, I take the rod from the holder and reel the best I can, but after a few moments, the tension eases and I bring in only a half an anchovy. I’m used to fly fishing — casting, drifting, mending, setting the hook, fighting the fish and the current and obstacles. The trolling process reminds me of fishing the lakes in the Detroit area while growing up. There’s a lot of waiting, but strangely, there must be more skill than what presents on the surface, because though I get bites, I’m not skillful enough to land them.

Rodney, a miner who is hit the worst by seasickness, is the only fisherman to land salmon. He catches two. One we keep, the other is native, all of its fins present, and must be thrown back.

We fight the motion sickness the best we can — except Captain Mike who seems impervious to the ill effects of the swaying. Tom, who is semi-retired and owns a car wash, took Dramamine before the trip and pops Tick Tacks while we’re on the water. Tom also falls asleep as the drowsiness sets in from the medication. I called my primary care provider several days before the trip and was prescribed a motion sickness patch that goes on behind the ear. Despite the effectiveness of the patch, I still feel green around the gills as we cross the bar on our way out to fish, the boat violently enduring the waves as water bottles, fishing tackle, snacks, and anything else not strapped down crashes to the floor and rolls at our feet.

Rod took no medication, but he pops Tick Tacks and stays out of the cabin as we travel. He’s the only person to finally succumb to the motion sickness, but he’s also the only person on the boat with a fish at the end of the trip.

The sun comes out and the clouds clear as we’re out fishing. I lay back on the deck and close my eyes as we head back toward the marina, but as we cross the bar I’m awoke as the boat hits a swell and I slide across the wood deck.

Back at the marina, the reports come in from other fishermen — nobody caught much. It must be a common thread between all types of fishing — fly fishing, lakes, ocean, whatever: If the fish aren’t biting, they’re not biting.

During the week of July 24-30, more than 4,200 anglers dropped lines in the Westport coastal fishing area. About 1,700 Chinook and more than 3,200 coho were caught. In total, since the season opened in the Westport fishing area on July 1, more than 4,200 Chinook (about 20 percent of the area guidline) and more than 6,600 coho (43 percent of the area sub-quota) had been landed by July 30. The season closes on Sept. 4.

Out in the water, a fat seal suns itself on a swaying buoy. On the dock, the boat is tied, garbage is bagged, and we all learn to walk again, no longer fighting the sway.