Casting Without Fishing

The tide is pushing through the narrow breachway at mid-tide and the sun is setting.  As the Boston Whaler crosses the boundary from the pond into the confines of the breachway, the force of the flow increases.  Small baitfish splash along the western edge which has a small section of shadow growing over the eddies and swirls along the seaweed-laced granite “rip-rap”. 

Mixed in with the small splashes of tiny fish are bigger swirls and loud splashes and schools of fleeing bait of bigger size.  The rocky bank has no visitors other than the snowy egrets and little green herons waiting like sentinels for preoccupied silversides being swept into the pond. 

We edge closer to the action and the rocks.  There are pockets of baits being swept in and corralled into an indent in the wall and the action and our hopes quicken in unison.  Under the boat, thousands of two to four inch fish are swept along with the tide and around them millions of tinier other fish that dimple the surface like a steady drizzle.  Seaward, three terns dip into the schools and wheel away to return dinner to their mates on the beach across the dune.  The rip rapped shore is thick with Montauk Daisy and beach plum and the air smells like low tide and bayberry.

As my partner hold the boat steady in the current, I pull the line from the reel in 12 movements.  The yellow line coils at my feet and I’m careful to look for “catchpoints” on the deck before I cast.  In four metronomic sweeps, I drive the Clowser minnow to its full length.  I let it drop at the rock’s edge and begin pulling back in short, quick strokes through the disappearing swirls of feeding stripers.  I’m anticipating the bump and heavy resistance that a hit will produce but it doesn’t come. 

The feeding becomes more frenzied and now some mid-20 inch fish begin cartwheeling through the pods, large square tails briefly pointing skyward – a sight that the most seasoned angler would be hard pressed not to be thrilled by.   My casts are strong and downstream at 45 degrees with no result.  I turn the rod over to my partner and take the wheel.  He begins the same drill but hooks up after several attempts. The bass is small but healthy and strong and we lift the 20-incher and admire it for a second before sending it back.  I continue as the feeding builds in pace.  He takes another smaller fish with a Kastmaster and we decide to drift back into the pond. 

We anchor on the flats  in four feet of water as the sun nears the horizon.  4 paddle boarders cross the channel and several small bass actively feed on both sides of the boat as the light continues to drop and the bait continues to flood in.  I finally hook up with a small fish and we release it as the sun sets.  He continues to cast and talk drifts to the health of my dad and the loss of his mother and father in the past year.  We talk about medical issues of aging, which, as a physician, he is learned in.  We move on to talk about quality of life as we age, mortality and the emotions that men usually avoid discussing or reserve talk of for moments of quiet beauty and casting a line without fishing. 

Sight Fishing for Fluke

Fluke sometimes haunt my dreams.  Yesterday, I awoke from a dream of lifting (by hand) seven sluggish “doormats” from crystal clear waters in a slow river.  I’m not going to try to figure that one out. I don’t think that “dream interpreters” know what a "fluke" is anyway.  I think I know where the dream came from though.  

The season and limits for Summer Flounder change from time to time in Rhode Island.  This fact is not as strange as the appearance and habits of the fish itself.  The larvae hatch with eyes on both sides of their head.  The right eye “drifts” over to the left side as the fish slowly sinks closer to the bottom in the first days of its life.  The fish spends the rest of its life lying on its right side, camoflauged in the sandy bottom, lying in wait for squid, minnows, crabs and anything else unlucky enough to drift or crawl across its lightning-fast jaws, ringed by needle sharp teeth.  

Growing up, my brothers and I didn’t like "fluking".  “Bottom fishing” was considered boring as we focused on chasing blues, bass and bonita across the coast of Southern Rhode Island.  The sluggish pace of fluking was left to older generation of my father and his friends.  We couldn’t understand the allure of bouncing a squid-draped jig off of the bottom, only to catch a fish that felt like a perforated trash can lid as it rose from the depths.  

As I got older, I started to come around to the joys of fluking.  I don’t know exactly what started my fascination with them.  Maybe it was the fact that they would occasionally rise off of the bottom of the breachway channel to take a fly or trolling lure.  It could be that the quality of the flesh was so good that I recognized that the “tribe” I was helping to feed valued it above all, especially when a fillet was set 

with tomato and lettuce

between two pieces of good, crunchy bread.  

One event that I know has fueled my love of fluke fishing is the first time I ever “sight-fished” for them.  It was early September and my father was spending Labor Day with my young family and I near the salt pond.  The weather had been fair and the water was clear of the usual late August “storm gunk”.  We took our small Whaler out to fish the incoming tide.  From earlier success in the summer we had a bag of “fluke-bellies”, the white strips of skin and flesh taken from the underside filets.  They’re far more durable than squid strips and the fluke don’t seem to mind the taste of their own kind.  Key to our trip would be finding Mummichogs, fat little minnows that inhabit the marshes along the New England coast.  We learned long ago from an old local of the existence of a “secret” mini-pond adjoining the salt pond.  At the pond, we’d throw our minnow trap (baited with marsh mussel) in and wait and talk.  After about 10 minutes the trap can gather about 30 or 40 “mummies” on a good day.  

Once we gathered up the mummies we headed out to where the breachway meets the pond.  For a while, my dad had preferred to fish in the pond for fluke rather than going out the breachway into the sound.  He’d claimed to many skeptics in the neighborhood that the fishing inside was just as good as it was outside.  I was one of the skeptics.  He had a habit of announcing the arrival to his hook of an interested fish by saying “I feel ya’ knockin’” and usually closed the deal with a sharp pull back to set the hook.  On this day, the tide started slowly and our first few attempts at a good drift were not great.  Eventually the tide and a light breeze created a strong drift straight into the pond.  The morning light and the gin-clear water combined to give a vivid view of the bottom as we drifted above it.  The water runs from about 10 to 16 feet deep and, as we began to bump our bucktails along the sand, we could see what looked like tan shadows following in the path of our jigs.  It took a few minutes (and a few “hits”) for us to realize that we were seeing numbers of fluke lining up behind our bucktails.  After catching a few “shorts”, we had our first bigger “shadow” line up and take a mummichog.  As the drift approached the shore, we ran back up to the head of it and repeated.  Again, the bottom appeared to be a collection of moving tiles, attracted to and investigating our bucktails, then attacking the mummichogs.  I honestly think that watching the fluke gather and attack was as much fun as boating the fish.  

After three hours and countless drifts, the tide began to die.  We’d tallied nearly 40 fish with 6 over 18”.  It was an extraordinary morning that I haven’t been able to repeat since.  I’ve “sight-fished” again with my sons in the pond and with my brother-in-law in 5 feet of water off of the Vineyard and Monomoy.  I hope to find those perfect sight-fishing conditions in real life again soon.  Until then, dreams will have to do.  

Nantucket Sleigh Ride

I’ve noticed that if children catch fish early in their lives, they usually like fishing.  It seems like a basic notion but I’ve seen enough situations when little ones are subjected to hours of “patience building” with adults who are well-meaning.

My oldest son is ten now.  He caught his first keeper striper a few years ago and he loves fishing.  My eight year-old has had some success but has never been in the “right place at the right time” to catch a big one.  He doesn’t make a big deal of it but I can tell he’d like to.  I also know that he’d probably like fishing a bit more after catching a big one.

Recently, I was fishing a marshy shoreline on an incoming tide in a wide salt pond.  The youngest boy and my wife were happily kayaking nearby when I had a strike and miss on my chunked squid.  I called for her to kayak him over to me in case we had another.  On the next cast, the fish struck again.  I was using a rod better suited for snappers and mackerel fixed with 6-pound test and the fish screamed line off the reel as the rod tripled.  I handed the rod to the 8 year-old and told him not to touch the line and to hold on as I shoved the kayak fishward.  I yelled to my wife to follow the fish and began to laugh.  I expected a quick but unsuccessful finish to what started as a wild fight.

I had explained to the boys the night before what catching a fish on kayak was like.

“Its like a Nantucket Sleigh Ride.”  I told them, incorrectly expecting them to know what that meant.  Their puzzled looks pushed me on.

“In the old days, the whalers in small boats would harpoon a whale and tie the line onto the bow of the boat and hold on for dear life.  The ride would be fast and furious and sometimes the boat would be destroyed.”

As the little blue sit-on-top kayak took off, leaving a wake behind it, I continued to laugh at the site of the 43-pound boy holding on to the screaming reel as his mom paddled furiously to keep up as the big fish surfaced and thrashed about.

Time passed and the line didn’t snap.  The fish didn’t wrap around a buoy or any of the numerous weedy rocks in the cove.  The rod didn’t break or fly out of the little guy’s hands.  My laughter stopped as my expectation rose.  After about ten minutes, the kayak was about 300 yards away and my wife had begun paddling backward toward the marsh.  In five minutes, they had maneuvered the boat to a spot where I could help land the fish.  As the late afternoon shadows began to hit the marsh, I slid my thumb into the bottom lip of the striper and I lifted it to the boy, his face alight with wonder.  28 inches!! A keeper!!!  

I looked at him as he gazed down, smiling, at the line-sided monster.

“Do you want to eat it?”

“Nah,” he said, without hesitation “Let’s let it go for good fishing Karma.”

I had to laugh a little.  I’m sure that I had mentioned to him before that sometimes it’s good to let one that you could keep go, just because.  We made sure to take a couple of pictures for posterity.

  

We gently moved the fish forward through the cold water for about five minutes until it began to thrash about.  We pushed it out from the marsh grasses into the deeper water, the powerful tail gave two good sweeps and the light green shadow was gone for good.  The Nantucket Sleigh Ride had come in just the right place, at just the right time.

Stripers in the Fog

I remember the excitement of being asked to go fishing, at night, with my dad.  In the steamy days of late August, Striped Bass haunt the rip-rapped breachways of southern Rhode Island.  Sometimes they are itinerants, moving their way ahead of the fall migration to winter homes in the Hudson, Delaware or Chesapeake.  Some have been there since early spring and have found the routine of predictably changing tides moving through a narrow channel to their benefit in feeding. 

My father had heard they were there and we had heard stories of him catching a big one in Newport long ago.  We were within a mile of the breachway on the edge of Ninigret Salt Pond in our small month-long rental.

I was twelve.  He was then and has always been a giant in my eyes.  A picture on my refrigerator now shows me at 2 looking up in awe at his young, weathered face as we sit before a massive pile of split wood.  When he asked if I wanted to go with him at 2 in the morning to the breachway by boat to fish for stripers I leapt at the opportunity. 

I remember a small dock and the beach next to it that we laid the boat on.  The boat was the classic 12 foot “tinboat”.  We had two gray wooden oars and a small outboard that pushed us across the glassy pond in the pitch dark.  A long, serpentine channel lead to the breach. I held a flashlight over the bow as we traveled and I imagine he told me at some point to turn it off to conserve the battery.  Looking into water like that at night with a light has always fascinated me.  The water was rich with life and mystery.   Our pullout was a sandy recess on the West side of the channel, across from the state parking area.  We could hear the crashing of the surf in Block Island sound, only 200 yards over the barrier dune from our landing.  As he fished, I continued to peer into the water. I remember great schools of Silversides and many green crabs roaming the openings between the breachway’s slippery rocks.  I remember Striped Killifish mating at the very edge of the water at the top of the moon tide.   I’m sure that he was a bit disappointed that I was more interested in looking in the water than I was casting the Rebel plugs into the middle on the incoming tide.  I can’t remember much about the fishing except that we didn’t catch any Stripers and that the trip was cut short by an envelope of fog as the dawn approached. 

We packed out our gear with some urgency and raced (as best the small engine could) through the turns of the channel to the pond.  Once in the pond the fog settled completely on us and we were lost.  A thick fog makes a mockery of sense of direction.  The mind’s imaginings become confusing.  Navigating is like walking through your house with your eyes closed. 

He seemed more concerned about me and how I felt.  He told me that the best thing to do in fog was to set the anchor and “hunker down” until the fog lifted, which it surely would.  Once we’d navigated back out into what we thought was well out into the open pond, we set anchor.  For three hours we tried to get sleep on the hard, damp aluminum hull with little success.  I spent some of the time peering through the water, with and without the now useless light as the foggy darkness led to foggy light. 

As the fog began to lift and we recognized where we were, we laughed together.  100 yards to our north was our dock and beach.  We had been within 300 yards of our beds the whole time.  I remember sleeping well and him telling me that he didn’t mind being stuck in the fog with me, or something to that effect. 

Looking back, like all sons of good fathers I suppose, I would love to be lost out there, alone with him for another three hours.  Its not that bad being lost with your dad in a boat.  It sure as hell beats being lost by yourself. 

We haven’t fished for a while lately.  Now, more often than not, I’m the one carting sons out for adventure.  He had Lyme so bad last year we thought we were going to lose him.  He’s feeling better now and I’m hoping to get out a few more times with him on any water, with or without fish or fog. 

Sacred Sidewalk

A slab of broken rock isn’t usually sacred ground.  I suppose flagstone steps leading up to the Dalai Lama’s prayer station or a makeshift Civil War battlefield alter would qualify, but the one I’m thinking of is made of 1950’s-era concrete sidewalk, buckled in the middle by years of heat, wind and waves.

It lies next to the bridge from a once vibrant shorefront inn, not far from Westerly, RI.   The inn has been in a state of reconstruction for the several years.   It is a beautiful structure but its current dormancy has at least one benefit:  increased fishing and crabbing access at the little bridge that leads to the inn.  The culvert underneath the bridge is 5 feet wide and at full tide is about 4 feet deep.   It allows water from the salt pond to pass into a small shallow basin. In late summer the passage fills with clouds of small peanut bunker, mullet and silversides that are pushed and pulled by the tides and wind. The abundance of prey attracts Blue Crabs, small Bluefish and, on occasion, Striped Bass. 

My son was seven. He is fascinated catching and eating his own food.  I think it’s a tribal and evolutionary thing.   The week before he had been standing in the shallows of the salt pond, not far from the bridge, absent-mindedly reeling in a live mullet on a hook, catching snapper bluefish happily.  From shore, I watched him while sharing dinner of fried chicken and beer with friends as the Labor Day weekend closed in soft yellow-orange sunlight on the marsh.  Our peace was shattered as he screamed for help and, as I turned, a huge whitewater plume erupted from the water not 10 yards from him. 

“What IS THIS!!??” He screamed, terrified. 

I ran quickly to him and took the rod from his hands, realizing that a big striper had taken the mullet.  The fisherman in me overtook the good father as I landed the keeper about 8 minutes later.  We killed it with a rock in front of our horrified, non-fishing guests and he beamed with pride and excitement at being the center of such a great catch.  In his words, it was the best day of his life. 

As the excitement of that hour waned, I began to realize that I should have done it differently.  Yes, he might have lost the fish, but I should have coached him through the catch rather than pull it from him.  I told him so.  The next time, I said, he would make the catch himself. 

In my mind, I wondered if and when that time would come again.  I considered that I might have taken the golden moment forever. 

The next weekend, we rushed back down to the area, as soon as school let out.   We had never fished the bridge.  We went with the intent to crab in the spot where the blue crabs were thick most Septembers.  As the tide hit its peak, we saw telltale signs that things at the bridge were about to get strange.  Great schools of silver mullet were being rushed out of the water by big fish as they entered the small basin next to the bridge.  We could track the movement of the big fish as the mullet schools approached.  Grabbing a castnet, we quickly gathered a dozen good mullet and rigged our rods with heavy leader, big hooks and bobbers.  As the stripers passed near the little bridge we began to cast from the sidewalk into the center with immediate results.  Great rushes and swirls chased our mullet to and fro.  One big fish cartwheeled in an unsuccessful effort to capture a bait.  Another snapped off a rig from the bobber down in an instantaneous hit.    I reminded him that this time, it was his job to do the reeling and to be ready.  He said he was.  

After several misses, his bobber went down and didn’t come up.  He struck at it and the rod doubled over.  A good fish.  The drag was well set and he started his battle.  His younger brother gathered with several other neighbors to watch as a small crowd of passersby stopped to wonder and look on.  After what seemed like an hour (but was only about 10 minutes), the fish came within 5 yards of the small rock wall abutting the sidewalk.  I extended the net and coached him to lead the fish headfirst slowly into it.  Finally, the front half of the keeper in the net, I scooped.  

We brought the fish and laid it on the sidewalk and measured it out.  Twenty-nine inches! High fives and claps on the back, shouts of joy of the capture that only 5 and 7 year olds can make, and pictures taken for the unbelievers.  I asked if he wanted to throw it back, adding that it might be good fishing karma for the future.

“Maybe the next one, I kind of want to eat this first one.”  Spoken like a true fisherman.

I’ve been back to the spot several times since.  Once, later that season on a cool October night, I left a dinner party we were hosting to the dismay of my spouse.  I knew the tide was perfect and couldn’t shake the visions of big stripers chasing the mullet under the moonlight and the glory of that day.  When I arrived, the conditions were perfect, still high tide in the basin, mullet schools tucking under the bridge and a quarter moon lighting a mackerel clouded sky brilliantly.  My breath formed light puffs in the night air as I stood on that cracked piece of sidewalk waiting and listening.  The stripers never came.  As I stood there, the memory of the warmth and joy of that day in my mind, I felt like I was at an altar of some universal chapel.  The depth of my appreciation for what I had been given flowed deeply and part of me never wanted to leave.  Its funny what a broken piece of sidewalk can be sometimes.  

A Day Like You Dream About

Why is it that some of the best fisherman I know are also some of the hardest working people I know?  There is a saying that with hard work, you make your own luck and fishing is sometimes a lot about luck.  My brother used to tell me that fishing luck was dependent on how much “time on water” you put in.  Sooner or later, if you are out there, your investment of time pays off. 

            A few weeks ago, a friend of my father called me.  Hal is one of a small group of men who consider my dad a close friend and a mentor of sorts.  Hal and my dad spent their careers working outdoors with their hands.  They appreciate the value of hard work. They like getting things done.  They also both love fishing.  Hal asked if I’d join him during a small neighborhood fishing tournament in September. The tournament is a friendly one but I know Hal was looking to defend his “title” from last year.  I said yes gladly, knowing that my 14-foot Whaler would be a rough ride in Block Island Sound chasing Stripers most days in September.  He said I could bring my 10 year-old son who was looking forward to the trip. 

            We met Hal at the small marina in the back of the salt pond.   I hadn’t been on this pond since my earliest days of fishing saltwater, more than 30 years ago. The day was expected to be clear and windy but we were met at the dock by a ribbon of thick fog holding back the sun’s first rays.  Hal’s 17-foot Key West moved quickly through the calm of the pond.  As we travelled, duckblinds and small marsh islands I remembered from boyhood appeared out of the mist.  We made our way up the snake-like breachway channel.  It was the same channel I remember rowing up as a boy with my brothers.  Looking into the clear water brought back a flood of memories about my first summers in Rhode Island.  As we approached the end of the breachway, Hal gave two blasts on the horn to give the shore fisherman on the end a heads up that we were coming through. 

            Block Island Sound was calm but not still.  Several bigger swells greeted the bow as we moved with the outgoing tide.  In the low morning light, we saw signs of fish immediately.  Terns and gulls were easy to spot moving back and forth and hitting the water after baitfish.  We rigged to troll an umbrella rig right away.  My son had never seen one and was full of questions.  As Hal guided the wire out of the spool we saw the first fish break water in front of the boat. 

            Its hard to describe to non-fishing people what it feels like in the minutes between when you realize that you are in “fishy” water and when you can get your first line in the water.  It feels a little like a mix between Christmas morning and a first date:  You don’t want to screw it up but you want to get things going so fast that your hands sometimes begin to shake. 

            That’s the situation we were in.  Once the line got down and my son was assigned to watch the pole for action, it took about 2 minutes before it doubled over and Hal began cranking back, showing the boy how to spool the reel correctly.  The fish was heavy.  When the rig got close to the boat, we all realized we had a keeper.  I pulled the net up and we slapped high fives immediately.  The 35-incher was a great way to start our day.  We had no idea how good it would get. 

            For the next hour, we picked up short stripers every few minutes.  My son had his turn cranking the wire and testing his “fish muscles” on a 9-pound “chopper” bluefish.   As we moved East following birds, the nature of the surface splashes changed.  The swirls and small splashes turned to loud “pops” and higher white plumes.  It seemed like fish of a different class were moving in. 

As we trolled into the next group of fish, I saw a big splash to port and threw a casting plug. As the plug gained momentum with the combined trolling and reeling speed, a good fish smashed it, nearly ripping the rod from my hands.  Line peeled off the reel and the rod tripled.  The fight was a good one and we landed a 37-incher.  For the next hour, we picked up several more keeper-sized fish.  My son landed the last one as big fish smashed the surface around the boat. 

            We were tired and due back for “weigh in” at the contest.  For the first time in my life, I broke my dad’s old fishing rule:  “Never leave biting fish”.  For us, on this day, enough was enough. 

“This is the kind of day you dream about”, Hal said as we headed in to port. 

We would regale my dad with the full story later.  I could envision him, sitting in his living room chair, with a fire burning, listening carefully to every piece of the story my son gave him.  It was good to have things come together like that.  Fishing with my son, in a tournament, on the boat of my dad’s good friend, the day was the kind you dream about. 

Chasing the Giant

Chasing the Giant

Most people don’t like killing things.  As a fisherman, you usually get used to it.  Then you get good at it.  I’d been at peace killing fish for thirty years before I ran into one that gave me trouble.

My brother Brendan dreams of tuna fishing.  He gets a chance to go a few times a year with a salty captain out of Snug Harbor, RI.  When he returns to his work climbing and cutting trees in New Jersey, he mixes focus on not falling and dying with daydreaming of the blue waters of the Atlantic and the thrill of the chase. 

He called one day with an offer to join him and the Captain for a trip to Stellwagon Bank out of Green Harbor, MA.  I jumped at it.  After a too-late night in Providence sharing Thai food and beer, we started out at 2AM for the trip to the boat.  By 430, we were heading out of the harbor in the Captain’s 35-foot boat through calm seas and toward the growing dawn.

The Bank is a hill on the floor of Cape Cod Sound where life abounds.  Smaller fish and squid move to the shallower warmer water of “the hump” while bigger predators roam the edges to feed on them.  It isn’t unusual for visitors to see porpoise, whales and sharks in the area.  In June, the Giant Bluefin come up from the south to chase schools of butterfish and squid in the waters of New England. 

We anchored on the southern edge of the Bank, in a long line of boats.   My job was made clear to me.  Once a fish was hooked, I was to run up the narrow edge of the starboard side and release the float attached to our anchor from the boat so that we could chase the fish without wasting time pulling anchor. 

The fishing seemed simple.  Hooks baited with dead butterfish were dropped behind the stern, the bait sewn up with Styrofoam chunks to present the appearance of hovering alive 60 feet down.  The giants circle the Bank in packs, picking off small fish as they roam.  The first hour was uneventful and the gently rolling seas had a lazy feel to them. 

Having spent 5 years in the Navy, I was not unfamiliar with the swell of the sea.  For that reason, the feeling of nausea that overcame me in the second hour was a surprise.  Maybe it was the diesel, maybe the smell of the bait or the late Thai dinner the night before.  Whatever the reason, I was quickly in the grips of “the hurl” and the morning’s donut and the previous night’s Thai dinner were the first things (after the baited hooks) into the water.   I wrongly assumed that my first bout would be my last.   For the next three hours, I was gripped by the “dry heaves” so badly that I eventually surrendered to the rack below, embarrassed by my unavoidable new label as “useless landlubber”. 

Sleep brought temporary relief.  My brother’s shout of “Johnny! Fish On!!!” ended it and brought me running up the ladder to the starboard side to release the buoy.  Later, I would learn that my brother (frustrated all morning by pesky dogfish) was in the process of rebaiting the hook after a tide shift.  The rod was temporarily free from the locking cable when he felt a “bump” that he assumed was another dogfish.  He angrily jerked the rod back expecting to deal with more sharks.  His force was met with a dead weight that could only mean one thing.  In the seconds that followed, when the giant felt the sting of the hook and accelerated away from the boat, my brother shouted and worked to get the rod secured as line smoked from the reel.

The chase began.  The Captain and my brother worked to follow the fish away from the lineup of boats.  My brother strapped into the fighting chair and started what would be more than an hour trying to gain a foot at a time.  In mid-fight the fish veered toward the bow and then back, catching the thick line in a piece of fairing.  I leaned over the side and worked it free.  My brother insisted that I have a few minutes in the chair and I reluctantly agreed, worried that I would lose the monster.  As soon as I was seated and took the reel, the line went slack.  I reeled furiously to more slack.

“#$#@!” I yelled, thinking for sure that I had caused the fish to free itself. As I continued to reel (and curse), the slack line approached the port side.  Just as I thought all hope was lost, the line suddenly started to move away from the boat until becoming taut again.  I was more than relieved to feel the fish take line again and quickly turned the fight back over to the qualified. 

As we continued to fight the fish, my dry heaves returned.  It must have been a comical sight for the captain from the helm, one man fighting the monster from the chair while his older brother wretched unproductively next to him. 

Eventually, the fish began to come toward the boat and the captain readied the harpoon for boating.  Knowing my inexperience with boating, he directed me to the helm.  I took the wheel and followed his orders as the fish went into a death spiral, slowly circling from below.  My wretching continued at the helm.  Finally, he called for neutral and for me to come over.  I looked into the water over the side and saw, at least 20 feet below, the monster’s silver blue side.  The size of it shocked me.  As it neared the stern, only a few feet down now, the thought hit me that we were about to kill a big animal and for a moment, even the bait fisherman in me had a momentary moral pause.  The captain stuck the giant just behind the gill plate and held while the fish took a few more tail shakes and began to bleed.  We worked to tie the tail off and attempted to bring it through the back door (without success) after it had stopped moving.  The captain directed my brother to get a line through the mouth and gills to try it headfirst.  A few anxious moments passed as he quickly strung the line through the mouth and, after much heaving and grunting, we got the massive thing into the boat.  I gazed as the colors quickly drained from the body. I’d never seen such a mix of yellow, blue, greens and purples and I don’t think I ever will. 

We were exhausted and joyful.  The trip back was quickened by a cold beer and picture taking.  We sold the fish pier-side to what I am still convinced was a seller who was part of a syndicate.  The price was 3.50$ per pound from the only of 3 traders who would offer anything more than consignment.  The fish weighed 650 pounds.  It seemed a pittance for the monster. 

I didn’t care at that point.  I had never been happier to be back on a dock and I had a story of a lifetime.

The Pier

It was good to watch that God-damned pier crash into the sea.

Hurricane Sandy was racing up the East Coast toward New Jersey.  As it did, CNN was showing footage of the fishing pier at Moorhead City, NC as it took the force of a last few massive waves before collapsing into the ocean.  I had forgotten that pier (maybe intentionally) for about 35 years.  Now, seeing it break down and lean into the Atlantic brought back once painful memories that seem both trivial and funny. 

I was about 10 at the time.  My family had chosen the April break to drive to the Outer Banks of North Carolina to visit with our Grand Aunt and Uncle.  The beaches of North Carolina were foreign to us, but they weren’t that different from the beaches of Charlestown and New Jersey.  The waves rolled in like they do at Narragansett and Misquamicut but the water seemed a lighter green with more sand mixed in.  It was warmer and people we met on the beach suggested we shuffle our feet as we walked to kick up any skates that might be straying in for feeding.  An added attraction that we stumbled on the first day was a long wooden pier that jutted out hundreds of yards into the Atlantic.  Fisherman lined the edges of it and bought frozen shrimp to fish off its high planks for flounder, spot, skate and the occasional shark. 

My brothers (9 and 7) and I were allowed the freedom of walking the ½ mile down the beach from the condominium our relatives were in to fish.  More importantly, I was given the privilege and responsibility of using my dad’s favorite Abu-Garcia spinning reel and the dull yellow rod connected to it.  We had a few 1.5 oz. sinkers and some hooks and after visiting the pier with us, my dad showed us how to rig and walked back home.  He was leaving my brothers and, more importantly, his beloved spinning rod in my care.  I felt good.  For a 10 year-old, a father’s confidence is strong magic. 

The first two days of fishing were great.  My brothers and I rotated through using the rod with good effect.  The small spot and occasional “windowpane” flounder were sport for us.  The energy on the pier in the early evening was full of laughter and hope.  I can still smell the tar from the pilings.  Families came up to watch the fisherman (including us) and older, wiser anglers would move toward the end of the pier for bigger fish as the tide rose and the light lowered.  The second night, we watched in amazement as a man two spotlights down the pier battled a 6-foot shark before snapping the fish off as it thrashed 20 feet below.  As it slowly swam away, we glanced nervously at each other considering the next day’s beach swim. 

The third night started much the same as the first two.  We had eased into a familiar routine and the fishing became more playful and casual.  We began “talking” to the fish nibbling at our bait.  Our comfort was about to become my grief.  When it came to be my turn to cast again, I went through the second nature routine of the cast.  When I shifted my weight to fire the sinker as far out from the pier as I could, the bail clicked back with my movement.  In a fraction of a second, physics and gravity took charge.  The momentum of my cast and the weight of the sinker lifted the rod from my relaxed grip.  As the several seconds passed, my disbelieving eyes watched as the rod fell through space toward the green Atlantic below.  As the rod splashed and slowly sank, I instantly considered jumping off of the pier after it.   Common sense and fear ruled the day and I stayed, head in hands against the rail.  My brothers were wide-eyed behind me, mouths agape.  “Big Brother” had messed up, big-time.  Tears began to well up as I imagined my father’s disappointment, shock and anger.  A neighboring fisherman tried to cast for a while to dredge it up, temporarily boosting my feeble hopes.  Finally I resigned to defeat and reality.  I had messed up, big-time, and it was time to walk back and face the music.  My brothers walked beside me trying to console me as the tears rolled down on the long walk back.  Strangers walking by surely wondered what terrible thing had befallen me.

In the distance, I saw my father and mother walking toward us down the beach and my sorrow and fear deepened.  I could feel my throat dry and tighten.  As they came closer I could see the concern for me on their faces. 

“What’s wrong?” my father asked.

“I lost your rod.” I choked out, starting to cry again.

“Where?” he wondered.

“I dropped it off the pier by accident” I managed, breathless.

“Is that all?” he laughed.

His laughter caught me off guard. Is that all?  I’d just dumped what I assumed was the man’s most prized possession on Earth into the depths of the shark-infested Atlantic and all he had to say was “Is that all?”. 

He grabbed my by the shoulders, pulled me in and tussled my hair. 

“It’s just a piece of plastic and fiberglass that we can replace tomorrow.” he chuckled. “I thought you guys had been hurt or something.”

A feeling of relief flooded my soul.  We turned back toward the hotel.  Someone suggested ice cream and mini-golf.  I wondered if I could try swimming out to retrieve the rod tomorrow.  I remembered that shark and mini-golf sounded good. 

I hope that I’m able to treat my sons with the same degree of understanding when they “screw up” in their formative years.  I’m grateful he had the perspective that he did about the rod.  I’m also sort of happy that pier has disappeared into the Atlantic.