Saquish Journal 2006

Tranquility at the End

2007-01-24T16:51:00.000-08:00

Well, I need to wrap up 2006, and I have fallen considerably behind . So, I am not going to try and remember each and every outing since my weekend with Chip. But I remember the essence of the final month or so of fishing in Duxbury.

The fish lasted quite some time. I continued to find blues and bass in numbers throughout the first few weeks of October. Then the blues took off. But bass were still numerous, often congregating in the dog leg and just east towards Clarkes Island. Other times they were bunched up against the beach.

The final days of fishing the 2006 season were solo, except for one last day with my neighbor Frank Tenaglia. On a whim one Saturday afternoon we threw some gear in the truck, grabbed a few Heinekens, and were soon on the glassy water. The air was cold and the sun was sinking fast. I took us to a little rip just south of Clarkes Island and we hooked up immediately. Every cast a nice 22” fish. Then, as the sun sank and the colors turned bright tan, we fished along the western shore of the beach…near High Pines. Lots of schoolies. I hooked a bunch on the fly and on rubber shads and the like. Frank and I had a blast. At one point he looked to me and then to the almost-setting sun: “Shit man, why would anyone want to live anywhere else? We are so fucking lucky, aren’t we?” I agreed wholeheartedly because he was right. I joined Frank's gaze toward the backlit island and sighed in pleasure. But I didn’t want to push my luck so I said, "We'd better head in now and make sure we keep out of trouble."

On our way in Skip Bennett intercepted us along the northern side of the bay. The water was glassy smooth and the sun was just inches from touching the treeline on the horizon. We docked up to one another and drifte lazily in the calm water. Skip had just harvested thousands of oysters and had them all sitting right there in front of us in bins and buckets. They were spilling over and Skip had a hard time avoided them with his feet. I had a knife and so we started shucking. We slurped down a bunch of them – the best in the world – and finished what was left of the Heinekens. The sun set and twilight set in. We told stories and laughed. We admired the beauty and in silence, we all knew what we were thinking - much the same of what Frank proclaimed earlier. It was an absolutely awesome evening and we all felt lucky to be alive.

We finally realized it was time to head in. And we did. And that was the last night out fishing on the bay in 2006.

Compound Fracture 9/24/06

2007-01-24T16:47:00.000-08:00

Part 3.

On Sunday morning we rose to marginal weather. It was cloudy, a bit drizzly, and the wind was there although we couldn’t really assess its strength from the driveway. After a little coffee we trudged out to the truck, loaded up, and drove the 1.5 miles to the dock.

On the water: not too bad but not that great. I took us out to the middle of the bay where most of the schools from the day before were found. But we found nothing there. The tide was quite low and still draining, the wind from the SW and threatening to pick up, so I guessed that we ought to visit a few narrow, very shallow, eelgrass fringed channels on the southern side of the bay. We motored out there and immediately my bet was paid off because there were fish everywhere. And we were the only boat. Now a little fog mixed in and as we marveled at the dawn colors, I set us up onto a few drifts through this narrow channel – bounded by sand bars and eelgrass, and fog.

Chip was psyched. Every cast produced a fish. These were small fish, but the action was great and Chip, on his fly rod, was enjoying himself to no end.

And then it happened: Chip high-sticked his rod and , it shattered about 7 inches from the tip.

“Fuck!” he yelled into the fog. “Fucking shit!” he yelled again. “Piece of shit! I can’t believe this…..….fuckin’-A, man…” His anger tailed off to resignation and he accepted his fate. The rod, a nice custom that he purchased in Greenwich, was total history. This was the third such episode I witnessed – unfortunately, with Chip – over the past year and because of this coincidental, or rather, predictive self-repeating phenomenon – I couldn’t help but laugh uncontrollably. It was kind of like a TV show: poor guy pays the price of poor luck while the others laughs in disbelief. But it sucked nevertheless.

I had an extra spinning rod all set to go and we continued for a while. Chip caught plenty of fish, but the pain of his rod’s compound fracture still seethed within. After some time my phone rang and it was Don Gunster. He was on his way out of the harbor in his 23-foot Grady White and wanted to know where the action was. I told him our coordinates and soon he was nearby. However, Chip and I decided that we should head in, get some breakfast, and grab at least one of my fly rods for the remainder of the day. We headed toward Duxbury and on the way stopped along Captain’s Flats for good measure. Don followed us through the shallows and immediately found himself grounded on a shallow bar. The tide had just turned, so his wait was probably not too long. But he was bummed. We continued on – poor fellow – and scanned through the northern side of the bay before heading in. The sun was peaking through and we were hopeful that the weather would hold throughout the day.

It didn’t.

After breakfast we returned to the bay, which was now rolling and heaving. Sun and clouds and fast SW gusts. The seas were up and rolling us around. But we found the fish. Schools of stripers were found just north of Clarke Island and many were spread between the island and Eagles Nest. They’d come up, feed voraciously, then go down and pop up a quarter mile away. We chased them and caught many, then moved into Eagles Nest for a spell before heading into port. Chip had a flight to catch and the conditions were worsening.

We returned to the house, ate some lunch, and Chip departed in his rental car for Logan. It wasn’t what I hoped for – the weather – but we had fun and did manage to hook up, and break a rod or two.

End.

Leonard Nimoy - Ballad of Bilbo Baggins (MZK)

2007-01-22T13:13:00.000-08:00


I thought this cheesy little ditty would provide some limited entertainment for those who happen upon this page...I'll complete 2006 soon.

Horizontal Rain Keeps Men at Bay

2006-11-02T18:44:00.000-08:00

Saturday 9/23/06

About two weeks ago my brother-in-law, Chip, warned me that he’d be arriving on Saturday, 9/23, for a couple days of fishing. On Friday he phoned and I gave him a relatively good report (Part I, no injuries), but I ignored the weather reports which basically got worse and worse every hour: wind out of the south, and rain. But Chip hadn’t fished in Duxbury in two years and I was eager to have him out on the water again, on my own turf so to speak.

He arrived around 11 and after putting bags away and getting our tackle together, we made a stop over at the bakery for sandwiches which we ate at a picnic table on the water’s edge. The wind was just beginning (I had been out on the water at dawn when it was flat calm). We finished our lunch, loaded the boat, and we were off. The wind increased steadily to the point at which I felt like suggesting that Chip not use his flyrod, the only thing he brought out. But he was determined and within a few minutes I had us on a school of feisty blues along the mouth of the bluefish river. Another boat was with us and it turned out to be Frank, our next-door neighbor. We chased the fish around and around, the wind kept increasing, and then some rain began. Chip landed a couple of nice blues, as did I on my light spinning rod. But we had to chase them and this finally became frustrating as the wind had reached at least 15 knots with higher gusts.

“Let’s head across the bay to Clarke’s Island where we can find some shade from the wind. There’ll be some stripers over there too,” I offered Chip. He nodded and we began our pounding trip across. Right around Two Rock I recognized Brian McNulty, a former classmate of mine at UVM who also lived in town. We attempted communication in the whipping wind and rain, but this was unsuccessful and finally gave up….they were heading in.

At Clarke’s the wind was worse and the “shade” I spoke of turned out, in reality, to be a small triangle of roughly 50 square feet. So, we had to ignore the weather and seek fish. And we found them, right at the beginning of the beach channel. Lots of fish, some large ones mixed in, but mainly stripers in the low to mid 20s. And this was no reason to complain; fishing in the storm was fun and Chip and I were hooking up.

After some time I felt impatient and decided to move back across the gauntlet to the western side of the bay. The trip started out quite hectic as the swell was growing and cresting at heights equal to the freeboard of the boat. Chip looked slightly apprehensive in the 25 knot winds (gusts to 40), but I kept going through the rough stuff, not really sure of my plan. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a large school of fish. A mix of stripers and blues. We stayed as long as we could – Chip still fighting the wind with his fly gear (still unbroken, more on that below) – and then I spotted an enormous cloud of birds working inside Eagles Nest where there would certainly be shelter from the wind.

We were the first to arrive there, but others in the bay were watching and within a few minutes we were forced to share the limited space with three other boats. It was indeed calm, but the fish were nervous and moving from place to place. We chased, drifted, did what we could. I hooked a couple of nice blues, as did Chip. Then the action died. We were wet and not certain where to go or what to do. We’d only been on the water for about 3 hours but I asked Chip if he wouldn’t mind heading in to visit the tackle store and perhaps explore the waterfront where there was a classic boat festival going on. He agreed.

On shore the tackle store offered some temporary entertainment, the boat festival was winding down, and we ended up heading back to the house. We shared a beer and Chip napped for an hour while I got dinner things together. We didn’t end up fishing again that afternoon as the wind would not relent and we had planned on attending a happy hour at the maritime school down the street. So we did that (which was fun); ate oysters, drank some wine, and then came home to a grill dinner and drink more very nice French wine that Chip purchased.

To bed at a reasonable hour. Dreams of fish. The plan for tomorrow was solid and the alarm set for 5. It was good to be dry, warm, with a buzz on.

Before Part II

2006-10-09T18:02:00.000-07:00

....falling behind, but good stories ahead. Tomorrow.

Three Days on the Water. Part I: No Injuries.

2006-09-22T22:33:00.000-07:00

I was psyched. Friday was to be taken off from work to host a professional friend who was traveling up from Rhode Island just to fish Duxbury waters. Serendipitously, Joel Meunier was also available for the day and a plan emerged faster than shit through a goose.

At first light I met Joel at the coffee stop and while he crullered-up, I filled an extra jerry can of gas for the long day ahead: about 12 hours on the water. The first order of business was to run some maintenence on the oyster grant. Joel and I motored down to Mattakeesett to meet Alex and within a few minutes Alex had discovered an aweful thing: his keys locked inside his truck and a work day ahead for him. He tried to jimmy the door but failed to do so. He decided to borrow my truck to return home to grab his extra set of keys and by this decision he was out of luck for working the oysters.

So Joel and I did the oyster work for about 45 minutes and accomplished quite a lot more than I had anticipated we would. Then, still wearing our damp wet suits, we headed out for fish. First out to Saquish and beyond, but nothing going on out there. Then to Kingston Bay where we ran into Doug Carver near the dog leg near Howlands. He was on top of some blues and soon Joel and I were hooking into several fiesty fish...jumping, screaming, and making for all sorts of action.

After some time we decided to check the lobster pots and bait them with the fresh racks of 3 or 4 bluefish that Joel fastidiously bled and fileted. No lobsters but a small throwback. Then to meet Jim from RI back at the town landing.

I was thrilled beyond words to be off from work on this Friday. Having this freedom really agreed with me; knowing that I'd be sitting in that room, that chair ruining my back and ribs, telephone calls and computer screens -- the boredom at my place of employment (am I wasting my life?). I attempted to convey this all to Joel, but he was probably being polite with his nods of agreement.

We had an hour or so to wait for Jim; he was running late. So we went to the gas-n-sip to get some ice and bagels. Then ran into a talkative commercial shellfish guy in the parking lot who tended to monopolize the conversation. Then Jim arrived and we were off.

We had fish within the first five minutes: blues out front of the harbor, near Powder Point. Joel and Jim jabbered on as I took the boat from here to there, seeking schools that wouldn't evaporate in the blink of an eye, which they all did.

Duxbury Bay, Clarke's Island, Saquish, Kingston Bay, and finally back near Cripple Rocks where we were on top of schools of blues for an hour or more. But Jim’s luck was poor and it was beginning to piss him off. Follows, break offs, near misses, but nothing to show for it. He did a good job of containing his frustrations despite the fish Joel and I were successfully hauling in. And this is good because once just a little bit of negativity leaks out then the whole picture is ruined for everyone. A delicate balance where one must enjoy vicariously. “It is a beauty of a day though,” he said.

Soon we had decided to begin making way back to Duxbury. We stopped briefly at the Nummet, one of my favorite spring season spots, but it was unproductive. As were a couple other rips along the way; the sun was high and by then the boat wakes were probably spooking any slumbering fish in these deep holds.

After an uneventful checking of the lobster pots, we did manage to find a scattered school of blues along the north side of the bay. And at last, success. Jim’s fish was fighting hard and a smile was beginning to emerge on his face. But after a minute or so his grin flattened as he began to recognize that he had goofy-hooked the fish. The treble of his chub popper lodged equidistantly between the mouth and tail, right under its dorsal fin.

“You know, that’s a 4-point deduction right there Jim,” I offered as comic relief. But it probably induced more pain than comfort. We knew that this was it for the day and so after Jim tossed the back-injured blue overboard, we all sighed and looked toward shore.

Joel and I stopped in at the Winsor House for some post-fishing beverages and recapped the day. It felt good to sit down. We stayed for about an hour until the Friday night crowd increased in numbers. Surrounded by madras.

Two Weeks Lost to the Ether

2006-09-22T20:33:00.000-07:00

I do know that I fished several times between 9/11 and 9/22 (which is when my next entry begins). Water flat on many occasions with large schools of blues and bass and mixed assemblages all around the bay.

One notable evening on the water was with Don Gunster. I was discombobulated to a real maximum level; I ran late and met Don at the dock, but without my boat keys. But Don had his keys with him and we took his boat out. His is 23' and draws a few feet of water. The tide was low. But we had a few beers on board and it was a good evening to fish.

But we went aground a few times trying to reach the enormous school of bass that spanned from Captain's Flat north to the dog leg. We ended up getting close to fish and they moved from place to place which made catching them difficult. Lots of weed. Don ended up hooking up a few times and I, for whatever reason, ended up with a few near misses, but skunked.

I didn't mind, however, because as it darkened and the fishing slowed, we ended up having some good conversations and the rods went back into their holders. A few beers, drifting north with the tide and the wind, which by then had picked up from the south to about 10 kts. Clouds rolled in. It was a true summer night on the water and amazing to be there.

Back to the dock by lantern and Don's double vision.

9/11/06

2006-09-11T15:31:00.000-07:00

Joel and I met at the local Dunkin Donuts for coffee. Mine was on the house. Joel's was not. Hmmmn.

The forecast was for NE winds to diminish from 20 - 25 kts to 10 - 15 kts by morning. But when we arrived to the dock it was evident and obvious that we were in for a ride. The wind was whipping out of the NE and all the boats on harbor moorings were tossing. "Fuck it," I said. "So we'll get a little wet, so what." Joel didn't even acknowledge my comments because he didn't even have one shred of concern over the weather.

We headed out towards the Bug Light, anticipating some calmer seas in the lee of Clarkes Island. And after getting sprayed to an almost uncomfortable level, we arrived there and we were right. It was almost flat, but the wind would occasionally shift and catch us. Dark still, but the casting commenced. Once final swig of the coffee, not to rush it, but it was cooling off fast, and we began a series of drifts across the Saquish area.

Joel had brought along several newly crafted plugs. These were combinations of "jumping fish" or "surface swimmers." They were awesome. On was, in fact, a close replica of my cherished Meunier Cherry Popper, which was lost to a beast of a fish a couple weeks earlier. Joel sampled each one of these first and soon he had a very nice explosion and a 26 incher. Then a few follows. But then action died (never began for me) and we skirted out to Kingston Bay where birds had attracted us, but nothing there either.

But here's the story of the morning:

Joel paused for a minute to proclaim his newly found respect for sharp hooks after our "hook-in-quadracept-fainting" episode a few weeks back. He said, "Man, these new hooks are effin sharp," and I quickly agreed as just two minutes earlier I had accidently jabbed my left thumb into one of them and the blood was still beading out of the little hole.

But just one minute later, a sliver of time, Joel found a treble deep into one of his index fingers. The barb was not visible.

"I'm telling you Daddio, this is just fucking crazy! I mean, I've never been hooked below the barb, all my life, until our last trip. This makes two within the month on the same boat. What the hell?!"

I looked at Joel's finger. There was blood. I remembered his earlier testimony: Dude, if I see my own blood, I am gone. So I carefully asked Joel, "Hey, you're not going to pass out, are you?" Immediately I realized that the imagery from my question would automatically result in a swift loss of conscience. I readied to catch him from behind.

"Nah," he went on almost nonchalantly. "The thing is that it is different with finger. You cut your fingers so much throughout life that this is not such a big deal."

Then he asked for the exacto knife. I had to shed off the sections that held the blood from the last operation. "Clink" went the knife, against the side of the boat, and a new, sharp edge emerged. Joel took the knife and went to work on his index finger. I felt a little queasy and began humming some songs...can't remember which, and then in 8 seconds, he was done.

We continued to fish.

Man Attempts to Impress 7 Year-Old Daughter But ...

2006-09-05T17:55:00.000-07:00

I took my daughter out tonight to check the pots and maybe hook a fish or two. I had spent weeks telling her that the fish were guaranteed and due to some nice, big fish recently brought home, she had high expectations. But she also wanted lobster...with melted butter.

It was kind of a creepy night on the water. It got dark faster than usual and some rain drops fell now and then. The water was glass when we embarked but ended up in a little chop from the SW when we finally headed in with our lights on.

But the story is this: small bass were all around the mid-sections of Duxbury Bay. They were very, very finicky but jumping all around the boat. "Why don't you just catch one, Dad?" "Er, well, I'm trying..."

But we managed to hook three small stripers (largest about 18 inches long) and then a nice surprise, a huge hickory shad. The largest I've ever seen. I was overjoyed and told her, "These make great bait!" But the young girl couldn't stand to see that beautiful fish die. She threw it back. But just hooking him made my day.

The lobster pots were empty, except for the resident spiders and hermits.

We motored in, under the black/orange sky. The same colors as my pot markings.

North Winds and a Change of Scenery

2006-08-31T18:30:00.000-07:00

I met Eric Poreda at the Dunkin Donuts up the street at 5:05 this morning. The doors were still closed and there was a line: all fishermen waiting for some coffee to get their gears grinding. Among those present was Dave Bitters, who had nice things to say and reported that he felt the fish would be back in Kingston Bay this morning. By 5:15 we had our coffees and such and within minutes Eric and I were the first ones out on the dark, choppy water. Still dark.

We rode out to my beloved area where the cows were hanging over previous days. We managed 3 drifts before I told Eric that if they were there then we'd know it. So, on to the rip right along Saquish. It looked perfect, but it produced nothing. There was definitely a bit of a change with this 15 knot northerly.

Hmmmn.

"Well," I said. "Let's do what the man said and try Kingston Bay. It will definitely be calm back in there." Eric agreed (he would have agreed to any proposed location) and off we were towards flatter waters.

And they were there. Small bass with perhaps a few big ones mixed in. They were numerous, but difficult to coax. We switched from our surface plugs to rubber shads and minnows and this allowed us to hook about 10 fish each over the 45 minutes we spent there. Soon Bitters was there, the schools spanning most of the bay, and by 6:45, and boating a nice bluefish, we were on our way back towards Duxbury. Another stop at the P32 area to confirm that there were no fish available there today.

We did see some schools of fish up in the beach channel, near the bridge, but I had to get to work. It turned out that our friend, Don MacCauley, was there hooking small bass. He took his daughters out and one of them caught a 21" fluke. Later that night I was asked to stop by Don's house to instruct fluke fileting styles.

Off the water until Friday or Saturday. Storm (Ernesto) on the way.

Man Loses Only Keeper to Spasm and Nerves

2006-08-29T21:52:00.000-07:00

Well, tonight I returned to P32. It was dark, rainy, and windy. I liked it.

But the fish were not as plentiful tonight. I felt it may have been the tides; they are moving forward and going neap. But nonetheless I headed straight out there on limited fuel, hoping to repeat another cow day.

First drift: nothing.

Second drift: two explosions after my Yo-Zuri plug.

Third drift: nothing.

...hmmm, what's going on here?

Fourth drift: Pop. Bang. Slurp....but my plug was yet to be consumed. Then, at the very end of the retrieve, where I simply raise the tip of the rod to keep the plug moving......BAM....BAM! And this amazing fish was on just inches from the boat. But this was a retarded situation: the fish was trying its best to dive deep, but my line was taught and high. So it couldn't dive and, in fact, half its body was above the plane of the water and that tail was going wild. ..for about 10 seconds. The bottom line is that the fish went ballistic and I got wet as a result. I almost netted the thing right there in mid-tantrum, but I wasn't thinking quickly enough.

The fish ran for some time. It was a nice one, about 34 inches and 20 lbs. It ran and ran, and I finally gained ground on him. I got him right up to the boat and pulled out the net.

First try: not close enough.

Second attempt with net: Oooh, just about in, but he slid out..some wave or something.

Third try: he's in, but as I spastically change hands with the net he slides out.

(the fish is exhausted, mind you)

Fourth attempt: fish just about in, but some fumbling and hesitation on my part gives fish opportunity for one last shake...and releases himself from the hooks.

He then swam over the net and downward towards safety.

Good for him!

Cho's Red-Headed Dick Minnow: RIP

2006-08-28T17:52:00.000-07:00

It happened. I lost the dick-minnow. But not after hooking and landing a very nice 33" striper (which came home with me). I was back at P32 for a second day and man, was it hot. Fish after fish attacked the fabled lure. The keeper that I landed was hooked just like yesterday's: in the right corner of the jaw, by just one measily hook out of three, but solid. The action tonight was just amazing.

My last cast of my favorite lure experienced an enormous striper...had to be at least 45".. that totally exploded on top. The weight of the fish was amazing. I didn't even pull very hard, but the fish did the rest. One swift turn of its body and the line snapped just above my heavy mono leader. My line had been worn thin from all of the P32 fish and I really should have replaced it. The lure that I helped my friend Joel make in his basement last February was finally gone. This lure was simply amazing. The action was this random, splashy, side-to-side, and rarely diving action. The bass and blues went completely nuts over this thing. Several times it was this lure that produced when others didn't.

I was sad, but I knew it was inevitable. I had thought about retiring the thing after yesterday. But that seemed stupid, because it was the lure that hooked the fish, and I wanted to hook more fish. So, like several of its earlier forms, it vanished.

At last report, Joel is already forming some replacements.

P32 Part II

2006-08-27T23:52:00.000-07:00

Sunday PM

The rain was light but steady and when Ned called me up I was just lying down on the couch and taking in a Turner Classic Movie; something I seldom have time to do during the day. But Ned was in need and the need was to get his boat off of our mooring and to his trailer so he could get the gum out. His engine was gummed up, most likely due to the recent ethanol additive to our fuel.

After two or three mishaps I managed to get my boat underway and over to Howlands and then to the boat on the Nook mooring. We towed it over to the ramp, got it up onto the trailer, and then, awkwardly, I left. We both noticed the massive build up of birds over Kingston Bay. I told Ned, "Can you manage a half hour on those fish..and maybe back at my spot?" But he sadly replied, "Nah, I'd better get to my next job...have to do an estimate."

Ned works all the time. He teaches in Cambridge (high school history) during the school season and also doubles up throughout the year at carpentry, painting, building, ... and all that is related. He works his ass off. He is admired, however, by all who know him and makes us all look like lazyasses (particularly me!). This is a noble man living a noble life (hopefully his wife is not reading this). But the problem with all of this is that he fishes. His dad is a fishing guide and Ned is glued to the water most of the time. Well, as we all know, fishing and work do not mix very well, and in Ned's case it is pretty bad. I really wanted him to join me out there after pulling his poor boat...but I knew, very deep inside, that such an antic would not go unnoticed and that the remainder of the season would then be vulnerable to scourge. So, after about a two-second discussion on the matter, I left Ned on shore with little argument and headed south to the fish.

I didn't expect much. Lots of birds, a single boat that gave up and left, and knowing that the cows were most likely further out. But when I arrived at the relatively large school of rolling fish I soon caught on and realized that these were, for the most part, very large indeed. First cast and I had a whopper. He stripped out tons of line, then he shook the hook. "Man!" But then within about 5 casts I had one on firm. He fought well, taking line, giving in, taking line...then kapoot, just like bass are. He measured 28" on the nose and was soon released. Then another massive fish. Tails in the air, slapping the calm water, and such. He spit the hook and my hopes were dashed.

Then a blue. A hard fighter. Lost him at the boat.

I just couldn't resist heading back to P32 and when I arrived the features that I have come to recognize were just emerging. I set up a drift, well above the sweet spot, and prepared the Cho Cherry Popper (CCP). First cast and the line was screaming at high pitch. This thing raced about 40 meters of line off my reel, and then mysteriously, it was gone. I retrieved CCP and began again and found nothing. The next drift was similar: first cast screamer...near the boat, and off.

This happened about 3 times and then I decided to head home.

Several keeper-sized fish on one Sunday. It is rarely better than this.

P32

2006-08-27T17:34:00.000-07:00

Sunday, 9/27

Finally, a tale of good planning.

On and around Labor Day last year I began to notice something important. That one specific area of the bay held very large, aggressive striped bass under certain conditions. This area had produced several fish in the upper-30s to mid-40s range (inches) last year, and the interesting thing was that the birds didn’t give it away; they didn’t seem to notice. I keyed in this spot on my GPS unit (randomly assigned as point 32, or “P32”) and one day last month I decided to study the tide charts and attempt to predict when P32 would be most productive. It would require a certain tidal stage (elevation) and time of day. The current had to be right and cumulative daily boat traffic at a minimum. So I took out my calendar and marked the necessary mornings. Yesterday was one such date.

I had stayed out in Chatham with my family on Saturday night and, therefore, had to rise at 4:00 to get home in time to fish. This I did, and by 5:30 I was speeding out to P32 with two spinning rods that were stealthily fitted with only the best surface lures known to mankind: Joel Meunier’s red-headed dick minnow, otherwise known as the Cherry Popper. As I approached P32 I feared that both boats that had departed the harbor just ahead of me were going to land there first, that maybe I wasn’t the only guy around who thought he knew this spot. My fears seemed credible as I neared the vicinity; both boats looked like they were right there at P32! But as I gained ground it became clear that although they were close, there still was a considerable buffer to work within. It was still quite dark, but as I neared my spot I cut the lights to be less conspicuous as sometimes fishermen, particularly weekenders, will simply motor right up to where one is fishing to cash in on the action.

My drift was right on. I cut the engine. First cast: weed, and lots of it. Second cast: more weed. Crap! I was in no mood for this kind of situation. After I cleaned off the cherry popper’s sole, small treble hook, I gazed at the water for a little while to see whether there were any areas devoid of the floating weeds. I thought I saw a boundary to the stuff and cast the line quite far beyond it, knowing full well that I would encounter some weed, but at least have 20 to 30 meters of clear water. On the third crank of the reel I was jolted by an incredible explosion of water. The popper disappeared into a foamy hole that had opened up in the surface of the flat water and then a huge tail firmly slapped the flatness. And then the line began to scream.

The weight of the fish was felt in the rod and I had to double up my grip while it ran. The line stripped off the reel for an eternity and I thought I would get spooled. When the fish paused, and after I gained a few meters on him, I quickly looked around to the other boats; no one was noticing this event. Over the next couple minutes the fish and I drifted a significant distance out toward the mouth of the bay, passing lobster pot buoys at a surprising rate. The ground I gained on the fish was soon countered by the wining reel, line peeling off at incredible speed. OK, OK, you get the picture now…I’ll cut out the artsy-fartsy descriptions of the fight because you must be guessing that at some point, I got the fish to the boat. And this happened after about 10 minutes. My first glance at the thing made my eyes pop. “OK,” I thought. “Just concentrate on the fish, not the feeling of elation one gets when it is finally boated.” After 3 or 4 attempt to get him into my net I finally got him over the gunwales by grabbing the tail simultaneously as only half his length fit into the net. My hand was only barely able to grip the large tail. He was in. Holy Shit!

Soon I was back for another drift over P32, but upon returning a boat came out from Plymouth and must have sensed that I was onto something. It contained a father and son. They were a bit too close for my comfort. Nevertheless, we took turns drifting over the spot and after several lost fish and one or two mid-20s released, I finally hooked back into another large one. The explosion was even bigger. A long fight ensued and after I landed him I discovered yet another boat had descended upon the drift. This boat I recognized and was immediately discouraged by the man’s intention to drop his umbrella rig over the 8 feet or so of water. I began again towards the head of the drift, but then decided to quit. After all, I was on top and happy. There were two large bass in the boat and was turning into a beautiful morning.

On shore I dropped into Atlantic Angler to weigh and measure the fish. Bob O’Neil was impressed, as were the few others milling about the store. He took some photos and we assessed their metrics:

Fish #1: 41.5 inches; 25 lbs.
Fish #2: 39.0 inches; 23 lbs.

August 2006: Spring tides did it.

2006-08-22T18:04:00.000-07:00

After somewhat of a break I finally got back into the groove of fishing almost daily. The action was slow throughout the latter half of July and very early August due to, in my opinion, warm water temperatures and the natural cycle of baitfish maturation. But about eight or ten days ago I reentered life on the water and just in time. I predicted that the spring tides of last week would bring in the fish, and they did. This is because the spring tides of mid-August in Duxbury increase the flushing rate of relatively warm water out into Cape Cod Bay to be replenished by nutrient rich, cool water and schools of pelagic baitfish; the strong tides driving them far into the various crotches of the bay where they feed and thrive.

Last week was pretty great. I fished evenings mostly along Eagles Nest and Captains Flats where small bass were herded into very dense schools in only one to three feet of water. Here, at several sequential low tides, I picked up dozens of stripers ranging between eight and twenty-two inches in length. Far from satisfying in terms of weight and size, but the numbers were vast and by using single hooks, the damage was minor and no fish were significantly injured. Don Gunster, the namesake of the "hook ripped out of mouth and flying towards head" move, and I had some amazing fishing among the oyster leases within the Shipyard/Eagles Nest region. We found the elusive guzzles that one can only find once within the skinniest of water back there. Several solo trips and some with my friend Alex Mansfield (namesake to be determined) produced many small to midsized bass last week. Also, one evening outing with Mike Walsh and my neighbor, Ned Flaherty, produced both bass and blues on fly and spin.

But last weekend was the balls. Plans had been firming up for days and finally we broke all hesitation and Joel Meunier found a free weekend to fish in Duxbury. He arrived on Saturday around one. First we (Joel, Alex, and I) worked for a few hours out at our oyster lease; basic maintenence of cleaning and shaking. Afterwards, and after Alex had to scoot for the night, Joel and I fished the same Eagles Nest area, finding scores of fish. Doug Carver frantically called to proclaim his availability and interest in joining us, so we had him meet us at Shipyard Landing and soon we were back in the frenzy of thousands of small bass.

However, the fun was somewhat shortlived because, after landing a midsized bass, Joel managed to impale his right quadracept with a treble hook, one of the three hooks had sunk deep into his flesh, the barb not to be seen. This put Joel into somewhat of a state of shock. Here is a man who can cut open a deer and swim within its entrails, eat raw anything, and serve various species of roadkill to his family, but can't stand the site of his own blood. He told me this and followed with, "...and dude, I get queasy and faint when shit like this happens. I can't stand the sight of my own blood."

"But there is no blood," I returned. "All you can see is bare steel and flesh." But this description alone made Joel churn and soon he was on his back, on the floor of the boat. "Dude, I'm going....I'm going....really man, I'm going." And within a couple of seconds Joel's eyes rolled up and he was out cold. His lids never closed. About 20 seconds of odd convulsions, whereupon I exclaimed to Doug, "Maybe pull that fucking thing out of his leg right now, while he's out cold." But then Joel showed clear signs of life, regaining focus, and suddenly stating: "Ho-Lee-Shit! Holy Shit! Ho....LEEEE....Shit!!!" Back he was, shaken surely, but back. We returned to land and this is where Joel experienced his own blood: Doug used an Exacto Knife to cut the hook out of his leg and this is when Joel screamed in pain. I gripped his hand and tried to distract him throughout the operation, and I imagined the fields of Viet Nam.

We partied hard that night.

On Sunday it was discouragingly stormy and we were late rising. However, we decided to give it a go anyway. The bay was silver and rough. But the fish were in pure form. We were the only boat on the bay for some time and had schools of bass to ourselves. We caught countless on fly and spin. Most were small. But at one moment, fairly early in our excursion, Joel caught a mother. This thing pulled the boat to the extent that Joel couldn't land the beast. I had to motor up and head upwind towards the fish to give Joel a chance not to break his line. After some time we landed the fish: a 39 incher. "Ho...leee....shit!" yelled Joel. He was happy and full color finally returned to his face.

We eventually went in and feasted on the previous day's catch of blues (of which some were bycatch from the local marina's annual derby...more on that some other time). And there we ended the weekend.

Now, a few days later I have a couple more tales under my wing for the next entry. Hopefully I'll get around to writing them up.

An Interruption

2006-08-02T18:30:00.000-07:00

More is on the way. Enjoy the heat.

Full Circle

2006-07-04T10:04:00.000-07:00

Exactly one year ago this week I was fishing in Ireland with my brother-in-law, Chip, and two friends, Clive and Terry, who are both Welsh. Clive arranged the trip and the results included wonderful salmon, scenery, beers and whiskies, and a nice magazine article which was published last December in Ireland of the Welcomes.

Now, on July 4, I am home with my family. A hot, muggy day. I just cut the lawn after abandoning plans to head out for clams and lobsters with my son due to poor timing. I have been thinking about Ireland all day. Once in a lifetime.

The image shown above is the hotel we stayed in for that week, Healy's Hotel in Pontoon, County Mayo.

Nothing Stays The Same

2006-07-02T06:19:00.000-07:00

(Tired and hot: minimal content)

Saturday morning: out on Don Gunster's boat with Alex M. The 23-foot Grady White is sleek, but sometimes difficult to manuever in shallow water.

In essence, the fishing was poor. We fished the Saquish/Bug/Plymouth Harbor area for two hours and only hooked up about 2 times each. The regular spots were poor. Boat traffic was increasing exponentially by the quarter-hour....wake, noise, and motion probably put the fish down.

We were all tired and not really into it. Some story telling occasionally sparked us up, but ennui was the norm.

Don and I both snagged the same lobster pot bouy -- of course, after telling stories of snagging lobster pot bouys.

---

In the afternoon I took my mom and son out to check the lobster pots. SW wind - a little rough. We got one nice sized lobster and my son enjoyed driving the boat.

Of Stripers And Clams

2006-06-30T18:11:00.000-07:00

I took Friday off from work because I needed to. And I followed my plan. Fished the early morning and clammed the mid-morning. The fishing was great -- same place as last few days, some large fish, but none to take home. Great to be out alone with no immediate plans or expectations. After the fishing died down I motored to an area of the coast where I knew the steamers would be plentiful. And they were: 32 lbs in just under 2 hours. And I was loafing it for the most part. I ended up seeing several baymen on the water on the way in; a chance to see and experience a typical day of working on the water. I was able to sell my clams in short order ($2/lb, not bad), make it to my chiropractor appointment, then to my son's last day of basketball camp where I got to see the end of the final game.

A beauty of a day: Sunny, warm (mid-80s), and stiff SW breeze.

Dude, It's Moving The Boat

2006-06-29T06:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday’s afternoon email:

Are we still on for tomorrow AM ... Or is the weather not going to cooperate?I'm flying in from Atlanta. Shoot me an email and I'll get it when I land

Donnie

Despite my inability to recollect such plans (they must have been made at the Beach Party last weekend), I was game to head out again this morning if the weather agreed. It did, so we went out.

We were on the water at 4:30 and this morning was much darker than yesterday due to the heavy cloud cover and appreciable fog that hung over the area. As I waited for Don to arrive at the boat a man in a white t-shirt emerged from behind a rock jetty and approached me. It was a guy named John Bunar who is a local fishing guide. He needed a ride out to his boat as the marina pram was missing. So, we all made our introductions, swatted some big league mosquitoes, and were soon underway on the bay. John said he’d drop us some pogies if we happen to run into one another out on the bay – but this never happened.

It was misty and dark and I thought for sure it would rain. Don was worried about this and exclaimed that he should have brought a rain coat. Yes. But it held off and conditions were just about perfect for fishing this morning. I had decided that the same line of attack as yesterday would be the most prudent and logical thing to do. Our first drift over the rip and Don was onto a small striper almost immediately. Then a few more – all shorts. I worried that the big fish from yesterday were long gone but I needed to confirm this by heading up to Spot #2 which was not too far away. We drifted right through this area and did not hook one fish. Hmmmn. So, we ran back to the original area where our luck incrementally and steadily increased. The fish were getting larger every cast.

Soon I was wondering how Spot #2 would be now that larger fish were showing up. We found out: they were there big time. Just about every time we drifted through the sweet spot we were hooking big stripers. I finally landed a keeper (29”) and soon after Don’s popper was engulfed by white water and whatever it was just about spooled his reel. He fought the fish for about 2 or 3 minutes, then it let go. He was pissed. It must have been a fish in the range of 35 to 40 inches long. Nothing like seeing happiness turn to dismay.

We continued for some time and eventually the ebbing plume of Back River water ran over the banks, bringing with it loads of eelgrass and murkiness. This rapidly put the fish down and so, with one final cast, we agreed to head in.

Early Morning Pays Off On Solo Outing – Big Fish Are Back

2006-06-28T07:55:00.000-07:00

Last night I made a solemn promise that I would hoist my arse out of bed at 4:30. The past few mornings have been difficult to rise early, and my expectations were only 50/50, even though I made that solemn promise. But I did it and was actually on the water by 4:35.

The morning was absolutely beautiful: calm, glassy surface, awesome sunrise, and mild. The tide was ebbing with about 3 hours to go to a minus low, which means that the currents would be decent. No coffee, empty stomach, still half asleep – I ventured out with low expectations.

I noticed Dave Bitters out ahead of me by 3 minutes (Doh!). He rushed out to the same spot I was hoping to check out first (Doh!). But luckily, my 6th sense honed in on some birds along the way and I was soon alone with a mess of stripers and blues all to myself. The Saquish Rip is either on fire or completely empty, in my experience. It is also somewhat difficult on spring tides due to the high density of weed that funnels through the area. It is relatively shallow, with thick eelgrass (Zostera marina) that reaches up from the benthos which can foul deep swimming lures quite easily. This morning it was pretty much on fire. My first cast was a 26” bass with a full belly. What fun. I ran a few drifts over the rip, not far from Bug Light, and continued to hook bass after bass on both white surface poppers and a blue Yo-Zuri swimmer. What fun.

Soon D. Bitters made his way over to Saquish and I noticed several hookups by his clients. I continued running and drifting, hooking at least one bass each time. I also landed a small bluefish, which made me quite happy, and I kept him, thinking of him as breakfast (with eggs) if time permitted. Then I broke out the fly rod, a new acquisition that had only seen a few days of action this season. First cast – ZURP! - nice one on the end. What fun.

After a little bit I decided to run up-current to a spot where I had hooked huge bass last year (see Labor Day weekend report from 2005…when I post it). Again, all to myself and over the infamous rip that gave me a 45”er and a bunch of same size classed beauties on the fly last summer, and, until now, had not produced one fish this year. First cast --- CRUINK! About 5 large fish attacked my custom made Meunier surface plug; they were going totally ballistic (out of water). The first one landed measured 27.5”. The second, 27.5”. The third, fourth, and fifth – all 27.5”. There were larger ones in there – I could see them and I also lost a few of them – but I couldn’t manage to land any (Note-to-self: change hooks tonight). What fun. Oh shit, my cell phone is dead and therefore, I have no idea what time it is….hmmn, a few more drifts, a few more fish….hmmmn….crap, I wonder what time it is… the action has made me completely oblivious to time…I’d better get in.

Got home just in time to avoid conflict.

A series of storms are now moving in on the SW horizon as I write this up. The wind has picked up significantly. I hope tomorrow is as good.

A Sea Bass

2006-06-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

This guy was in one of my lobster pots yesterday. A black sea bass. I tossed him back in the water.

The End.

Misty Calm

2006-06-26T07:14:00.000-07:00

At last, a few hours of free time on Sunday afternoon. The weather was calm, mild, and damp. Rain and mist. The water, silver. Not many boats out on the water so I decided to attempt to hook some shad and attempt to live line in the channels. The shad, however, were not biting and only came across some menhaden. Rather than rigging up the bunker snagger (something that is less and less appealing to me over the years) I figured that topwater fishing the shoals and eelgrass meadows would be the most fun.

But first I thought to check and bait my lobster pots, and I am glad I did. The first pot was empty except for a couple of spider crabs. I baited with frozen mackerel and moved on to the next one. Finally, two legal sized lobsters! (The most expensive lobsters in the bay!!). The other two pots were empty. But I was quite happy and moved on to fishing.

The Cow Yard produced a few fish along a well-defined tidal rip. An absolutely beautiful scene of water rushing over subtidal sand dunes. These fish were small but energetic. Next I drifed along the Nummet area and only had one follow. One boat was anchored in the rip which made it difficult to stay and investigate further. So I headed south a quarter mile to the Plymouth Harbor entrance where tidal energy was readily visible and the water gin-clear. A few drifts over the patchy eelgrass/sandy bottom produced about 8 fish, no size to speak of. But much fun. My last stop was near Cordage where I noticed a dozen terns diving in very skinny water. I nudged into the line between sand and grass...about 6 to 10 inches of water, and man, hooked one striper on a surface plug that went ballistic: straight up about 3 feet. Again, the scenery was absolutely amazing.

The dampness began to attack my cell phone (it was rendering odd R2D2 noises) which reminded me of the time in this timeless day. I headed in.

Ellis The Rim Man

2006-06-23T22:17:00.000-07:00

Today I wore my "Ellis The Rim Man" T-shirt. I wore it to work, and to a semi-business meeting down on the Cape. I like the shirt because it is comfortable. But mainly I like it because it is one of a kind. Ellis The Rim Man was an automotive store on the Allston-Boston line, on Commonwealth Avenue until recently (I have no idea when the place folded....2002?). I lived, for a year, about three blocks from Ellis and walked, biked, or T'ed my way by the store daily. And through subsequent years I would note the huge red sign, with white block lettering, stating the exact position of Ellis The Rim Man. The ginormous sign up ontop of the building was also noteworthy...ELLIS THE RIM MAN!!!

So I wore my ETRM shirt today (an old birthday present from a former brother-in-law) and found distinct pleasure in seeing various faces light up throughout the day in response to it. First it was Corey, who I work with, who gave me that warm face that said: "Ah yes, Ellis the Rim Man....the good ol' days in Allston." Then there was Bill at my meeting on the Cape...he thoroughly enjoyed the shirt and we both went on about our youthful days in Boston and the BU neighborhoods. Then later my fiend Jason who gazed warmly at the shirt. All gazers stated that Ellis was out of business and that the shirt is certainly a collector's item. But I doubt anyone would want my shirt now.

Anyway, so what's this got to do with fishing, you ask. Well, nothing really, except that the shirt experienced my evening on the water, that's all:

Tonight was a mixed bag of weather: threatening black clouds and drops of rain. I ran into Don Gunster behind the Battelle laboratory and we both decided it would be better thinking and talking out on my boat rather than among the mosquitoes and gnats on shore. So we went out and first checked our lobster pots (to find only spider crabs, again, and one lonely little black seabass..which I almost kept for dinner). But, alas, Don received the telephone call that would dictate his immediate future. He had 20 minutes to get home (really, quite understandably) and so our trip was somewhat truncated.

But I was relatively free tonight and dropped off Don on the dock and continued my evening on the water. Seth and his friend (?) were fishing off the dock - Seth is the son of Ted, who works at Battelle. The two boys are out there every night fishing and the scene that they create make me remember my childhood in Westport, CT. I was usually out on the rocks and mud and sand trying to catch blues and stripers, or whatever was around, most days after school and throughout the summer. These two kids on the dock were displays of my past.

My plan was to attempt to hook some hickory shad (see last night's post) and do some liveling out at the dogleg for big stripers. I set up some drifts along the shore. It was mid tide, an incoming tide, and the wind also shifted to the south, so that my drift was fairly consistent along the western shore of the bay. I put a small, white fly on my new flyrod and soon I was hooking things. My first fish was a small blue, only 14 inches long, if that. But I kept it in my live well because I thought about livelining him. Then a striper, about 15 inches long, then another striper about 8 inches long....nothing too interesting, I know. But then the elusive hickory shad, I actually saw it take the fly right next to the boat. While I struggled to taylor my fly line it loosened its hold and was free. "Fuckin'....Ugh..." I said out loud. The shad would have been the cherry on the cake. I like the idea of hooking shad in saltwater. They are amazing fish, and apparently amazing bait fish for big stripers. So, after one more striper I docked the boat, spoke to the kids for a bit (they were too focused on their fishing to pay much attention to my fishing stories), and packed up.

The thing is, is that tonight was simply fooling around along the banks of the bay, catching small fish. The blue, which I kept, was my trophy of the night. I fileted him right on the kitchen cutting board (no one else was home) and fried the filets in olive oil, butter, and red onions (along with mushrooms and brocolli). Man, was that tasty - probably the best bluefish I've had in 30 years. But the point, again, is that just tooling around the marsh, among the mosquitoes and gnats, I found a real identifiable connection to a long lost youthful period in my life. I was mucking around and hooking little fish - not concerned with "keepers" or "corkers" or whatever the fuck people call them. Just plain fun.

Now, how Ellis The Rim Man fits into this story, I don't really know. But Ellis was on my mind all day and I just had to get it out.

The Best Time Getting Skunked

2006-06-23T07:50:00.000-07:00

I was late getting out last evening and only had about an hour's time to spend on the bay. My thoughts were that the blues would be around and so I decided upon a few spots where I've found them in the past and set out for the boat. But at the dock was Dave Sullivan and his son, Ben. They were just returning with a nice bass. They'd been chunking not far off and said the action was so hot that they ran out of bait. Dave was running up to get more frozen mackerel and implored me to join up with them in a little bit. So, I decided to check my lobster pots, look for a few blues, and then see if Dave would be in his spot.

No lobsters, no blues -- nothing. The SW wind was firm enough to stir the bottom a bit on this incoming tide. Conditions were not good for the head of the bay. I joined up with Dave and Ben. He was smiling: Seth (a boy back at the dock) had given them a live hickory shad which he had jigged up off the marshes. Ben put the shad on a hook and dropped it over. And as Dave and I fumbled mackerel over from his boat to mine, the shad performed and really, within one minute, the Sullivan chunk stick was screaming. Reeeeeeeereeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnggg!

A thirty-six incher with half the shad hanging out of its mouth. They were quite happy as they had entered into a local evening tournament and sure to win now. The shad was still alive and went back out on the hook. But after a few minutes, the Sullivans stated that they had to head in and asked if I wanted the shad (my mackerel chunks were just attracting crabs on the bottom). "Sure," I said.

I put the shad on my hook, and......nothing happened. The sun set and I pulled up anchor and motored in. The headline we were hoping for was:

Two Boats, One Shad, and Two Keeper Bass

But it was not to be.

Ben Sullivan holding his 36" Striper (photo by D. Bitters)

June 20, 2006

2006-06-20T22:30:00.000-07:00

My proposal "red team" meeting lapsed through until 5:37. I was pissed off at this - particularly since I felt it was only marginally productive. The room was also hot and smelly and the conferenced call was annoyingly fuzzed.

So, when it was over I sternly marched up to my office, turned off the computer, and glided to my truck which was waiting ambitiously in the parking lot. A quick return home to get my gear, and then back to the dock at my workplace to meet Don MacCauley for some stormy fishing.

That's right - stormy...but not really. A thunder storm had just passed through, but another line of dark clouds decended upon us. But the water was glassy and dark silver, and we weren't all that worried. Also, our wives had really sent us out to harvest a large striper or two for a communal gathering tomorrow night.

First we checked my lobster pots...four of them. Nothing but spider crabs. But Don was into this -- pulling up to the bouys and yanking up the iron-meshed traps. We also spotted some large baitfish near the pots. These were most likely moss bunker (menhaden), or more locally known as "pogies". I call them bunker as we did back in Connecticut (on Long Island Sound). My dad called them Moss Bunker. Interesting. Anyway, we were unable to snag any of these bunker as they were quite spooky. My idea was to collect a couple, keep them in a bucket of seawater, and then liveline them out at the Nummet for the two big bass that would feed us at tomorrow's party. But no dice.

So, we decided to check out the bay for fish. We came upon one school of small bass immediately. A few drifts along this channel's edge produced about 4 for me and 1 for Don. (I rubbed this fact into him - must keep things amusing). Then we headed over to another spot between Clarke's Island and the Bug Light, and this produced a few more fish...I think Don caught up to me here...maybe 7 to 5 or something like that.

Then the tide slacked (high) and I knew the place to go to. Once there we had some nice action. About 4 or 5 fish each...me, catching back up to Don for a final tally of 10 to 10 -- a tie. Finally, the wind picked up on the Plymouth side and white caps were forming. We cracked a beer and slowly cruised back to the Nummet for a few casts (nothing). Then, after refueling, we sped along the Miles Standish shoreline to the harbor. The sky was mixed with haze, clouds and a pink sunset. Beautiful.

Back at the dock we sported after some micro bass which were busting under some silversides. I finally caught one on a fly (attached to my spin gear). We would have remained there for hours, like kids, but the mosquitoes were horrendous and I knew it was best to head home.

All for today.

--

June 18, 2006

2006-06-19T10:41:00.000-07:00

Checked the pots: spider crabs.

Checked for fish: one short along the beach channel/High Pines.

Hot and decent SW wind. Amazing day.

June 15, 2006

2006-06-15T13:58:00.000-07:00

Wind and Pelting Rain Make for Tight Lines and Broken Knots

Matt and I made the pact to meet at 4:30, and we followed through. However, when I awoke at 4:00 I wasn't sure whether it was due to the alarm clock or the wind in the trees above. The rain doesn't bother me much, but hearing wind in the sixty-five foot oak trees in my neighborhood means one of two things: if its coming from the south then we're in for some chop at the landing, but if it is from the north or east, and I can hear it, then it's more like a storm and the bay would be rolling bad. I didn't know which direction (dark out there) until I checked the NOAA internet site which told me: north. And heavy rain on the way.

Crap.

But it was too late to cry and wine. I dutifully donned my clothing and jumped into the truck (pre-packed last night) and headed for the boat. Fog billowed from the sky and ominously cloaked Hall's Corner and immediately I realized that I would be very wet, very soon.

Getting underway was fairly smooth, as we were protected from much of the wind. But when we rounded Goose Point we took a pounding. Wind was blowing 15 to 20 kts from the NNE and the waves were crashing over the bow every ten seconds. I assured Matt that the ride would be short, that the place I had in mind was just ahead. And it was.

The Nummet was a tossed up scene and the tidal rip which characterizes this spot was not to be noticed due to the heavy seas. We tested a short drift or two to determine where we should begin each drift (you see, one must be cunning in this sport, after all) and within five minutes we had fish on. Each of us lost our first hookup within one minute of another. Then a couple casts later, we each had one on again -- perfect symmetry.

We continued the drifts, which were quick due to the wind and current. The rain really took off and soon we were completely (and I mean completely with a capital C) drenched. My old Gore-Tex gave up the ghost and let the water right in. But the fishing was excellent. These fish were going after Matt's white popper like those young women you see at wedding gown sales at Filene's Basement. They were ballistic, most of them, and this brought a big smile to Matt. Even though wet, cold, and the skin on our hands resembling wet cardboard, the energy and fight in these fish was amazing. The take of the day was Matt's 34" bass, and after landing that sucker, Matt managed to ignite a cigarette (in pelting rain and 25 mph wind). But this fish would have been lost had Matt not previously snapped his line off at a knot, which he then repaired. Prized white popper was free in surf - and we managed to find it!

We were joined by a green boat out of Plymouth with three guys fishing. The skipper was presumabely a guide as he did more at the helm than on the rod. They decided to keep their craft at idle speed on top of the rip, which annoyed me slightly, but they're entitled to do so.

At 6:30 we called it quits and motored in. The rain stung my face and this made me contort it into unnatural forms. I am glad Matt didn't notice.

June 13, 2006

2006-06-15T13:25:00.000-07:00

Flat calm. Everything was perfect today and I faced the dawn's first light alone on the bay. By 4:45 I was heading out of Howland's and off to the Nummet area. Ebb tide, moving fast. Fish were surfacing all around - not tons, but enough to let me know that they were there. First cast = first fish, a relatively small, but vigorous striper.

I had about 45 minutes of fishing time out there all to myself. And in this time period I must have landed fifteen stripers, all between 20 and 27". I had several large fish on the line at times, but lost every one due to poor sets. These fish, however, were going ballistic - coming fully out of the water, arching smoothly, and reentering like olympic divers. Sometimes they would take the plug on the way down!

After my stint of solitude I was joined by Dave Bitters and another boat run by one of his colleaques (Mark, I think). We all took turns drifting down the Nummet, over the rip, and hooking up. I continued on longer drifts; beginning way back (upstream) where I was hooking many fish, but the other guys focused only on the immediate area of the rip which resulted in more drive time and less fishing time.

I called it quits when the red Lund showed up and drove over the prime fishing area -- over and over. But overall, one of the finest mornings on the water this year. 25 fish in all.

June 11, 2006

2006-06-02T17:50:00.001-07:00

Crazy day. Max, my son, celebrated his 9th birthday with friends at an indoor field house: flag football, pizza, and all that jazz. But today was the first real nice day in over a week as we had white puffy clouds and dry summer air blowing from the west. It was good to see the sun again.

So, I had to go fishing.

Alex Mansfield and I hit the water around 4:00 on a dropping tide (low at 5:54). The Nummet rip was quite energetic so we stopped there, a few drifts, then on anchor, and hooked a healthy number of 25" bass. Then to the lobster pots which surprisingly yeilded nothing except for spider crabs and one, small black seabass.

Anyway, putting kids to bed now and wishing weekends were longer.

--

June 8

2006-06-02T17:50:00.000-07:00

Tonight I have decided to write about today only (even though I have lots of days to catch up on here, which will happen soon I hope). There are no photos to share, unfortunately, but perhaps my descriptions will suffice for now.

To begin, I was a bit hung over from the start. And this surprised me. I had attended two town committee meetings last night, then joined some of my fellow members at "the Library" where a couple too many MGDCs and guitar playing on an empty stomach may have gone a slight bit too far. I had hit the sack last night believing that I'd be up at 4:30 to meet Don Gunster along the shore to take my boat out for some early morning fishing. I was determined. But when I awoke, obviously late, at 6:00, I nearly jumped out of my skin and drowned in guilt. But soon I surrendered to the reality that I had unfortunately Borgarted poor Don's morning...and turned over to sleep another hour.

The day at work pretty much sucked. I was bent out of shape and it rained most of the day. My head hurt a little...only enough to annoy me the slightest bit. And I've come to realize that I don't enjoy my job nor much of my surroundings there. Depressed yet energetic to do something more, I felt that the afternoon would be a good time to cut out and hit the water. Don agreed, via telephone to the next building, and soon a plan was concieved.

By 3:00 I was on the road to the house to gather my gear and to fill the jerry can at the gas-n-sip at Hall's Corner. Off to the boat, and it felt so good to be free of everything. I had been clever enough to grab a sack of frozen mackerel from my garage freezer (specifically purchased to house fish and related products) for the lobster pots that I had not checked in almost a week.

The water was silver. Everything was silver and gray. Dark, ominous clouds skirted up from the southeast. The wind, initially east, was going all over the place. From a stiff breeze to calm, I felt odd and aprehensive as I navigated the boat eastward to the middle of the bay. Some good sized swells slowed me down as I approached an area called the Nummet...and I worrried more...or was it the edge of my hangover?

Don phoned me several times as I neared Two Rock anchorage where our lobster pots sat. He was attempting to get a business proposal out the door, late on Friday afternoon, and promised to be available for pickup soon. So I checked my pots: no fucking lobsters (again), but lots of rock crabs, and good sized ones too. I decided to keep the larger ones which amounted to about a dozen or so. I baited the pots and moved them to deeper waters among the mooring field. Then the phone rang and Don was ready for pickup at Matakeesett, the town landing.

The rain was coming down by the time I arrived and the wind too, was picking up and messing things up. Don added that some guy on shore was warning him that a major storm was brewing, that we'd be idiots for heading out on the bay. But we felt that we knew the waters and the conditions and moved on; plus, the worry wart was of questionable intelligence.

After removing only crabs from Don's pots we headed out to the mid bay area where fishing would presumably be better. A few drifts between Clarke's Island and the Bug Light yielded 3 for me and 2 for Don, although he "Gunstered" both fish which means, in essense, that he overreacted at the first sign of a bite and yanked the fucking lure out of the fish's mouth, hopefully not removing the entire jaw area. But then, on my fourth fish, I sent the Yo-zuri sailing back toward the craft (airborn), narrowly missing Don's face, and causing a severe, incapacitating laughing fit -- a good one.

So, we continued through the silver scene to a couple more spots. We picked up several small stripers along a nice ledge near Plymouth Harbor and drank a couple of beers as we drifted and told stories. We complained about work, which I am admittedly embarassed to write about, but it is true: I don't like my job right now. So, it was fun to complain, actually, and we narrowed our targets to deserving victims, and it felt good to vent and laugh. In the end, however, we sighed, unhooked a few fish, and realized how fucking lucky we were to be out on this bay, on a silver day, with no one else around. Really though, we are lucky, I am lucky, and I appreciate the time I can spend doing this.

We were wet, sipping down some Bass Ales, and headed into shore. The horrific wind had died and we landed peacefully along the shore and loaded up my truck with our gear, and a pail full of crabs. When I arrived home I pryed open a few oysters that my friend Skip had given me, steamed the crabs, and fried up a nice striper filet (in olive oil, butter, herbs, and paprika) from a couple days back (also some greens and mushrooms). I turned up some radio jazz and sipped some red wine. A nice night in all. Better than work, but I will need to face the job on Monday.

And that's my job for now.

April 22, 2006: Even Finer

2006-04-23T08:26:00.000-07:00

We were initially ambivalent about going, but once Alex and I returned from some early morning surveying along the Jones River, we felt the fishing bug return and had decided to join Matt down on Buzzards Bay. So, we pulled our boat out of Duxbury Harbor (approaching storm) and did some maintenence work on the thing in the driveway, and then made plans with Matt to be initiated into one of his favorite early season striper and bluefish spots a little ways south.

The day pretty much deteriorated into cold, clammy conditions with an east wind that held steady at 15 kts. Some sprinkles came and went as low-hanging horizontal bands of rain clouds skirted overhead at frequent intervals. However, where we were on Buzzards Bay was fairly well shielded from the wind and we could cast to the prime spots without much trouble.

The fishing picked up immediately. Every 10 minutes we were into small/medium striped bass almost every cast, then 10 to 20 minutes of nothing. We drank some beer, which we left vulnerable to the eyes of various family visits; the kids would come out to the end of the walkway to ask us about fishing, etc. Kind of cheesy behavior on our part - the beer and all. But we continued to fish in the aweful weather.

Then Matt hooked the big bass. A 33-inch long striper that kept him busy for some time. He was quite happy about this and before letting it go, he asked us if we wanted it. "Sheeyaah! Definitely, we'll take the fish!" (Matt, a fervent fisherman, doesn't like to eat "seafood".)

The action died not long after and we wrapped things up and headed back to our homes. I fileted the fish early the next morning and dropped off one of them to Alex. It was a thrill to grill this first keeper of the year. Hopefully, many more to come.

April 21: a fine day.

2006-04-21T17:27:00.000-07:00

"Yar!" is what my friend Joel would often say. Often this would be in response to a question with an obvious answer. The obvious answer being "yes" - so "yar" has replaced "yes" and that is perfectly fine with me. So last night I asked myself, "Should I get up at 5:00 and go fishing tomorrow morning?" The answer, emitted aloud for my confused family to hear was, of course, "Yar!"

Today's post is about today: my first day really fishing in Duxbury Bay this year.

From here on is my report from today.....

Well, I decided that a little fishing story is appropriate on a Friday in April. My morning started with mishaps, the first being getting out of the berth against an east wind and other docked boats banging around the hull. This resulted in the complete evisceration of my newly purchased, unsipped Dunkin Donuts coffee; one of life’s morning pleasures and necessities. The coffee spilled with a loud crack right on top of my tackle as I tried to avoid my fingers getting pinched off along the edge of the boat.

Anyway, I was soon off and running to my destination. The sun broke over the horizon as I crossed the midpoint of the bay and I enjoyed the few rose/gray low clouds moving fast from north to south. When I arrived at my secret spot (also called the “honey hole” by some odd fellows in town) I put a gray and white Fin-S on the line and wished for the best. [Soon I had realized that a package of storm shads had flown off the boat, unnoticed by me – my second mishap of the day.] I set up on a drift that would maximize coverage of an area that I suspected would hold some fish. The drift carried me from the edge of a marsh, across a subtidal mudflat, then over a creek channel. Just as I was getting the feeling back, on my second cast of the day, the line turned into a bird’s nest at the reel (mishap #3). This was one of those deals where the tangle remains stationary on the reel as you pull loads of line out trying to figure out where to begin. In doing this I had removed about 15 yards of line and soon I found the resulting knot to be unmanageable. So I cut the line, put the rod down and began pulling my l remaining line, and Fin-S, back to the boat and thought about how good a cup of coffee would be about then. And then, as you might guess, that is how I hooked my first striped bass of the season. He was a small, scrappy fish who was just as surprised as I to be meeting under these conditions. I quickly removed the hook and we had that moment of staring into one another’s eyes. “Hi little dude,” I said, gave him a kiss on the forehead and plopped him back into the chilly water. Yes, he had sea lice squirming about his tail.

I then straightened out my line by trolling it around the area for 10 minutes (which works quite well) and continued with about 3 more drifts over the honey hole. I ended up picking up four more fish – all between 12 and 14 inches and all with sea lice. A couple of these fish were quite lively, the others were a bit sluggish given that the water is still fairly cold. Anyway, that’s the story.

Here we go again