Eyeballs and Space Fridges

I had barely gotten the fifth lure in the water when the long line went tight, line screaming off the reel as a solid bigeye charged away from the boat. I turned around just in time to watch three spreader bars have “space refrigerators** dropped on them” as bigeye tuna wolf packed our spread. It was 8 hours later that we would realize how truly epic a trip we’d had.

2am the night before I had been laying wide awake in bed, hopes of sleeping proving as fruitless as usual when leaving for the canyons in the morning. An eternity later, 3am rolled around and I hopped out of bed to make my ritualistic pre-tuna trip eggs. 

 

. . .

 

A mix of emotions surged through me as 1050 horsepower of outboard engines rocketed us south of Martha’s Vineyard. An average canyons run for us is around 100 miles, but the night before I had made the call to shoot the extra 50 miles, even further from home, in pursuit of what a buddy had called one of the most incredible bites he had ever seen. Now more than 2.5 hours into the trip there, I stepped out from behind the center console to feel the breeze and wake myself up. Running 55 miles an hour, the breeze was more like a brick wall and I lunged for a hand hold while being thrown off balance. There is a reason we joke that the 39 Invincible is a spaceship, not a boat. I was definitely awake after that. 

With 2 hours left in the run I was wondering if there would be any life. With an hour left in the run I was hoping we would see something. As I readied the spread with 30 minutes left I was praying I’d made the right call. 1 mile to go and I was nervous to sip my coffee, hands shaking incessantly. I’d been waiting two weeks to sit where I was. 3+ hours of running, over a thousand dollars in gas and a sleepless night had gone into planning this trip and we were finally there. Pulling back on the throttles, I threw in the first lure of the day with only one other boat in sight. Little did I know it would be the most action-packed day of tuna fishing I’d ever experienced.

 

** “Space refrigerators” references the appearance of a bigeye tuna attacking the baits. The splashes are so huge it looks as if refrigerators were dropped from outer space.

“Guide”

Over the years I have been incredibly fortunate to make some of my best friendships on the water and spend time with the guys I consider my brothers while chasing fish. A day that will forever stand out in my memory unfolded in July of 2018. On the ride out of the harbor I had pronounced myself the “guide” that day, not that this friend needs a guide by any means. As we rolled up to an expansive feed of stripers chasing sandeels, Quinn stripped line off his 8 weight flyrod and readied himself on the bow. Before I knew what had happened he was strip setting on a solid 30” fish. He soon claimed his arm was tired (of which I was skeptical) and that I needed to take a few casts, for which I was more than excited. It would surprise me if he remembered this day but it was one I could never forget. 

 

A year earlier, I was slapped awake at 6am after a long night of fishing. Reluctant to leave the comfort of my covers, Graham coaxed me onto my feet and out the door. An hour later we were covered up by 30 to 40 pound stripers, none of which we would end up catching. The ones that get away seem to be implanted in our minds even more firmly than those we catch. 

 

Although seemingly unconnected, these brief anecdotes of two of my favorite days on the water hold one thing in common – the immense gratitude I have for the friends/family that constantly push me on the water, wake me up to chase fish, keep me on my feet at the end of a long school day with a simple text, motivate me and make me smile when everything else fails. There is nothing better than friends like these.

Canyon Chorus

I woke to an unfamiliar tumult disrupting the familiar night chorus of the canyons. Groggily lifting myself off the rocking boats stern to peer into the underwater lights, my eyes sought the source. Alone on deck for the night shift, the reels slept silently alongside me waiting to be jolted awake by a hungry pelagic. The noise came again, this time more discernible. Between the feeble light of a waning moon and deck lights, the vague shadow of a sperm whales back loomed ominously in the still night air. Squinting through the darkness, I was distraught to think that just over a century ago our lights would have been burning it’s ancestors spermaceti oil. As quickly as it had risen the graceful leviathan took its fresh breath of air back down to the depths, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the comforting night chorus of the canyons.

Deep Blue and Bright Orange

Our 20’ Seacraft took a while to get up on a plane, but that is expected when loaded down with ice, tuna, a mako and three kids. I glanced longingly at the massive school of bluefin tuna off to port as I pointed the bow to 10 degrees on the compass and pushed the throttle gently. I heard the familiar humming of the outboard engine as it reached 3000 or so RPM’s, a comfortable cruising speed of 22 knots for a 30 nautical mile ride home. I smiled contently, lips covered in sunscreen on the bow smiling back at me as my sister and friend Bennett seemed to share my happiness. It had been a good day full of fishing the bluewater, catching 9 bluefin on spinning gear and countless other species. I was proud to have put my buddies on fish and was even more excited to be bringing back sushi for our family. 7pm on the dot, a little late for an offshore trip normally, but I had told my parents we would be back late if we found fish. The sound of the chopper interrupted my thoughts 2 Chainz mid chorus of “I’m Different”.

The orange chopper was off the starboard side before I could process what was happening. They kept up with us, a jumper ready in the hatch. Clearly shocked, my sister and Bennett sat open mouthed. We questioned whether or not they were there for us briefly but turning on the radio confirmed our fears. According to the bird, there were people on land worried sick about us. With the chopper escorting us, the Environmental Police rolled up at 50 knots, nearly hitting us. Soon the 40’ Coast Guard cutters came into view, joining the small army ensuring we got home safe. We all knew it was going to be a long night.

Pulling up to the dock, my parents and Bennett’s parents were waiting with the Coast Guard chief, tears streaming down their faces full of disbelief and joy. They explained the search process to us, the dozens of boats getting ready to shove off and join the rescue mission and even the online fishing message boards started that were designated to the topic. I was beyond amazed. The whole day, we had been fishing with the radio off to avoid listening to the obnoxious, incessant chatter of other fisherman. We had therefore missed the radio calls from the Coasties asking if we were okay. It was a learning experience for sure and we had plenty of time to reflect while they searched our boat for the required safety gear and sent us on our way.

On that day, I learned about the importance of a flight plan and leaving the radio on. I was beyond grateful and moved to know how many boats were ready to go out and look for us on their own dime, springing into action without hesitation in the way one can only hope to see from family members. Reading the online forums later, I was also pumped to learn we had been one of only three boats to catch tuna that day, landing 9 of the 14 caught by the fleet. I fell in love even more deeply with offshore fishing after witnessing such a perfect day in the blue water. Even a year later, Bennett’s parents won’t let him fish offshore with me.

In The Trough

I was half asleep when Graham clapped me on the back, waking me up from my trance behind the wheel as we rounded the tip of the jetties. We had just woken up from two hours of sleep after surf casting all night, eyes still heavy despite the coffee that warmed our stomachs. The 6AM sunrise greeted us like a reliable friend as I nudged the throttle forward, starting our 9 mile trek to the south west point of the island. Old and nearly reliable as the sunrise, the bow of the Seacraft parted the ripples of the surface as I huddled behind the center console, escaping the crisp fall air.

The ride was uneventful, silent and sleepy. Graham slept mouth open on the bean bag in the bow, drooling as his head bobbed to the rhythm of the waves. If I hadn’t been so tired I probably would’ve videoed it. We rounded the south west corner of the island and the swells picked up. I pulled the throttle back, idling towards my GPS marks of the best spot in the area for false albacore and bonito. Approaching the ridge we would be trolling along, the rollers were so tall we couldn’t see the land on either side of us when in the trough. The salty spray that brought goose bumps with each drop soaked my jacket and coated my glasses, power of the ocean tangible around us. We nosedived when each swell passed under our feet. Grabbing the first rod and setting a line out, I called Graham to take the wheel as I set up our spread. The conditions were sketchy at best but we had already shelled a hundred dollars into the trip for ice, food and fuel so it was decided that we’d tough it out. I leaned against the console to avoid being tossed as I reached for the second rod, undoing the bungee cord that held it in place. Carefully removing the treble hook from the guide, my stomach churned with excitement and a bit of nausea as another swell passed under us. As the second deep diver left my hand, we sat atop a mountain of water. To my right was the biggest fin I’ve ever seen.

The gray shape next to us appeared out of the murk like a submarine, nearly the length of the boat and easily as wide. With a tail as long as me and an eye so beady it would turn a hawk hot with jealousy, the image is forever burned into my mind. My stomach dropped, hair standing on end as the wave rolled past us and we were once again in the trough, water the only sight once again. I yelled out for Graham but as we came up on the next wave, there was no beady eye staring back at me. Vanishing like an apparition as quickly as it had appeared, the 18 foot creature was out of sight and we were once again alone at sea.

November Albies

I rushed out of the house, screen door slamming behind me and jumped in the car. Micheal sat next to me as we sped down the bumpy dirt road. I hopped out of the car as it came to a stop and banged down the metal ramp to our 13′ Whaler filled with leaves from its short stay under an oak tree in the driveway the day before. Bow line, stern and spring undone I hit reverse hard and sped out of the slip away to the Texaco to gas up before heading out for the morning.

It was early November and nearing the end of the false albacore season. 45 degrees and rainy, the conditions were as close to perfect as they were going to get that day for a duck hunt. Perfect for us, because that’s just what we planned to do, with a cast or two for fish on the side. The wind increasing from 10 to 20 knots cancelled our albie hunting plans, or so we thought.
Micheal, seeing my obvious impatience, jogged down the dock and tossed me the Remingtons and our rods. We topped off the tank and pushed off the splintering wood dock. Halfway out of the harbor, I turned around to see white water and green footballs coming out of the water. Albies! We hadn’t even organized the gear and I was lunging for the rods, nearly slipping on the slick, wet surface of the boat and the fall leaves. Rigged with Hogy Epoxy jigs, an albie classic that is known to catch in the toughest conditions, we sped toward the busting fish. Forty yards away, our spirits sank when the fish suddenly disappeared as if they were never even there, like ghosts.
It was late in the season there wasn’t a single boat in the harbor, which allowed us to grab the plastic piping that was attached to the drive on dock. With a hand on the piping to keep us steady, I turned around and there they were again! Huge albies jumping clear out of the water down by the red can. We let go of the piping and the ripping current spun us around like a leaf in the wind. I started the engine and we were off, racing towards them a second time. Once again, the albies went down, just out of casting range.
Even more dejected but encouraged by their fast reappearance, we idled slowly up to the piping again. Micheal called out to me as I was tying up a rope, “They’re up!” I dropped the dock line onto the piping and sped off once again. They were staying up. I was punching it. Salt spray sung our faces as we squinted to see the fish through the rain and whipping wind. Forty yards, still up. Twenty yards, still up. “NOW!” We both launched our lures into them, close enough to see the sandeels being busted all around the school. Both hunched over in what I call the “in the albies” pose, we watched two giants simultaneously launch themselves out of the water in pursuit of our skipping epoxy jigs. Micheal’s rod doubled over, tight! The whirring sound of the clickerless Cabo 40’s drag filled the air. With a final jump, one of the albies following my jig landed on it, engulfing it in its hard mouth. Doubled up!
The fish took off, ripping line from my Penn Spinfisher 3500. Our reels harmonizing and with us seemingly in heaven, I looked over at Micheal who was clearly getting nervous. His Cabo’s spool was dangerously low and his drag was getting very, very sticky even at the light pressure he was forced to keep it at. Our boat and the fish stayed in the (approximately) 4 knot current. It was apparent we soon needed to maneuver out of it into calm water and away from the wooden pilings.
Thankfully, the old Mercury 40 started up quickly and we putted into the calm water of the harbor and safety. Somehow, Micheal had managed to get his fish within 20 feet and we saw deep color. It was definitely not a 5 pounder. This was a big fish. The powerful tail of the fish propelled it on one last run into the current and his drag locked up. POP! The sound of defeat filled the air.
Micheal’s jaw dropped as the fish sped off, free. However, he quickly picked up the camera to video the end of my fight. Thankfully in the calm water, the circling fish below us slowly made its way to the surface. Twenty feet. Ten feet. I thought it was close enough and lunged… Just too far. I stood back up and pumped the rod twice more, reaching into the seemingly frigid water a final time. I felt the bumpy tail between my fingers and palm and gripped with all my strength, swinging the toad into the boat right next to the duck decoys.
We were right. These fish certainly weren’t 5 pounders! I lifted the green bolt up, its swirls dripping wet in the crisp November air. I took the epoxy jig out of its mouth. With one last glance, I looked at what I thought might be my last speedster of the season as Micheal snapped some pictures. With one push, the fish shot back into the water. High fives between us, we looked for the school once again. With no “ghosts” in sight, we turned around and headed to the duck spot. Cast and blast!

How To: Inshore Mahi Fishing the North East

Late in the summer, usually August but sometimes as early as late July, mahi mahi arrive close to shore off the coast of New York, Massachusetts and other New England states. These fish are usually left alone as anglers don’t even realize they have delicious sandwiches within reach of their bay boats. Personally, I have caught mahi out of boats as small as a 13′ whaler. South of Martha’s Vineyard, where I am typically fishing, we get them as close as 5 miles from shore. Now hold on, before you grab your buddies and hop in the boat you have to understand that inshore mahi fishing isn’t as easy as mahi fishing in the canyons. These fish can be picky, annoying and downright frustrating. Before I had “the mahi game” cracked, I spent frustrating hours targeting the green streaks I could see 20 feet from the boat.
Location– First and most importantly, you have to know where to fish. You can typically find mahi in waters upwards of 65 degrees. For your best bet at a thing these fish, target areas that you know hold bait. Mahi are structure oriented fish, so find the structure and you typically find the fish. We almost always find fish under anything a couple square feet or bigger. High flyers are your best bet. We have never found them under balloons before. If they aren’t at the first flyer you pull up to, don’t worry. Sometimes it takes 10 buoys before we find one loaded with them. Usually, we target waters 6-10 miles off land.

 

Lures– I have had days where we throw absolutely everything at mahi. Ballyhoo, eels, herring, bluefish chunks, you name it, without a bite. Before I let you in on the best lures in my opinion, I have to talk about bait fish. Usually, these mahi are targeting halfbeaks and sand eels. I have had the most success with natural colors and have found that the most effective lures (for me) have been…

Pictured above: Hogy Epoxy Jig in olive next to a large sand eel. (Source: http://www.fishingreportsnow.com/images/product.reviews.2014/Hogy.Epoxy.Jigs.Sand.Eel.jpg)

The Hogy Epoxy Jig in 7/8oz in blue (to mimic a halfbeak), olive (to mimic a sand eel) and nuclear chicken. On the clearest, most flat days I have had very good luck with the nuclear chicken, a crazy color, for whatever reason.

Pictured above: Bimini Bay Glass Minnow Jigs. (Source: http://www.biminibayoutfitters.com/images/buccaneer/glass_minnow.jpg)

Bimini Bay Glass Minnow Jigs in the blue color. This was my most productive lure in all 2016.

Pictured above: Spro Mini Bucktail Jigs in white, pink and black/white.  (Source: http://thumbs.ebaystatic.com/images/g/StoAAOSwOdpX1yFV/s-l225.jpg)

Spro Mini Bucktail Jig (1/16oz) in pink and white. This lure is incredibly light and I found the best success with this lure when the mahi were extremely picky.

 

Gear: You really don’t need more than two (possibly 3) setups for mahi. As far as rods go, keep it light and you will have far more fun. Don’t underestimate freshwater rods, many of which can catch mahi up to twenty pounds! My first rod is what I am holding when we pull up to a flyer. It is a St Croix 7ft, 6-12lb test, 1/4-5/8 oz. rod paired with a Shimano Stradic 2500 loaded with 15lb braid. For leader I use 15lb Seaguar Blue Label Fluorocarbon. I have found that light leader is, at times, the key to success on tough days.
My second rod is a heavier rod for flyers holding bigger fish. It is also my rod for casting to white marlin that we frequently come across in the same area. On this rod, I use a Fin Nor Lethal 40, a fantastic reel for a very low price with a sweet, smooth drag system, loaded with 40lb braid mainline and 30lb Seaguar Blue Label Fluorocarbon. This reel is on a custom Dick’s Bait and Tackle rod.
The third (optional) rod is a fly rod. I prefer an intermediate line on a 6 to 8 weight rod. For flys, most little clousers are very effective.
Remember, these fish can be very spooky, so if you notice that you’re spooking fish, try to use any wind or current to drift within casting range of them. Good luck this coming summer and enjoy the mahi tacos!

Inshore Mahi Fishing

We pulled up to the flyer, letting the slow current carry us down through the blue-green inshore water, which suddenly lit up with the bright colors of an easily recognizable fish, the mahi mahi. After searching leagues of lines of flyers, we had found them thirteen miles offshore. I whipped my Hogy Epoxy Jig twenty yards, closed the bail and ripped it across the surface with an albie speed retrieve, my hand whirring in circles on my Shimano 2500.
A “meehee” (baby mahi) sped after it, shimmering with electric colors of blue and green. “Eat it! Eat it!” said Bob, my fishing partner for the trip, as he watched the green dart swing and miss the lure. The mahi shot back to the safety of the flyer. We both took a deep breath and laughed before he took a cast with his 8 weight fly rod. Bob let the 3″ blue surf candy sink down 10 or so feet before beginning his speedy-stripped retrieve. I watched the fly disappear as another green streak shot over. Tight! He set the hook and a beautiful aerial show began.
The mahi took off with surprising power for such a small fish. Launching itself into the air, the fish thrashed its head as it sacked back down to the waters surface, fly landing next to it. It was gone! We both looked up at one another, smiling ear to ear. He stripped up his line to cast again. It was going to be a good day!

Salty Cape Reader Report: Bluefin South of Martha’s Vineyard

http://saltycape.com/reader-report-trolling-for-bluefin-at-the-dump/
A brief write up/report I did on a trip south of the Vineyard to the Dump and Claw. Fun trip and glad I had the chance to captain a good friend and his dad. We got on the fish!

The King: A Grouse Hunting Story

My alarm blares, it’s 4:00 AM. I sit up and groggily rub the sleepy crust out of my eyes. Boy, is that alarm clock bright. Swinging my legs off the side of my bed, I throw on my sweats and a cotton t-shirt, struggling in my daze to pull it over my head. My eyes widen as I remember what I am doing up at this ungodly hour and a smile breaks out on my face: time for the grouse woods. I hop down the stairs cautiously as to not wake up my mom and sister. My dad is standing in front of his prized possession, the espresso machine. I make fun of him for getting up early just to make a couple caffeinated drinks before I slip out into the car. Sprawling across the back seat and snuggling into my sleeping bag I feel my eyelids getting heavy and my vision goes dark.

What feels like a minute later I wake to the delicious smell of pastries and coffee. I glance up, the scenery and mountains around me are exquisite. Vermont is quite a beautiful place, especially with a view like this from a warm sleeping bag. “Good second morning,” says my dad. I smile and stretch. Boy, do I feel rested now. After gobbling up two of the chocolate croissants, I eagerly anticipate the sight of our exit. Suddenly, we veer to the right, horns blaring behind us, and get off the highway. We make our way down the crumbling paved roads of upstate Vermont. I crack a window and our two dogs in the back begin to whine – they can smell the sweet air of the countryside even better than I can. Miles and miles of road ahead of us, I lean back and get comfortable. After all, we have been driving for two hours, what’s another hour to me now?

I look up from under my hat brim when I am nearly thrown from my seat as the car comes to a sudden halt. Standing in front of us is a giant moose, close enough to see the flies pestering it, buzzing around it’s eyes. With a huff he trots off into the woods. My dad’s knuckles are white and clinging to the steering wheel even as we make eye contact in disbelief. The next time our car comes to a halt I look up, half expecting a bear this time, and I see that we have arrived at our destination.

I open my door and the scent of the grouse woods in the fall permeates my nostrils. The soft, muddy ground sinks an inch underneath me. My breath is visible as the sun illuminates it in the crisp fall air. I close my eyes for the third time this day, not to fall asleep but to reminisce on past times and to take it all in. My trance is broken by the sound of the car door slamming and the dogs whimpering in eager anticipation. I open up the back door and kennel, allowing the dogs to rocket out past me. With a quick bark of their names they come right to my ankles and sit, shaking. They seem even more excited than me, something I thought impossible prior to this moment. Clink! The sound of metal on metal resonates through the small valley as my dad closes his now loaded 12 Gauge Francotte shotgun. He hands me mine as I keep the dogs in close. With one word, OK, the dogs are off to the races. To my right I hear a tiny red squirrel chattering as it sits on it’s favorite stump, surrounded by torn apart pine cones. It shoots back to it’s hole as the dogs breeze past, following their noses.

In front of me lays one of our favorite places to hunt, dubbed a “cover”. It has food aplenty with the wild apple tree’s branches hanging low with apples, worth their weight in gold to many grouse hunters. To my right we have the beautiful high bush cranberry, the few clusters of red berries left are deep in the brush, barely reachable. My now dew-soaked Lowa boots crush the fermenting apples that have fallen to the ground as I duck beneath the laden boughs of apple trees. Suddenly what sounds like a rocket explodes in front of me. The roaring, thunder like beats of the ruffed grouses wings fill the air as I look around without a glance of our quarry. The grouse was concealed by the thick brush but I have confidence in the cover and our dogs, a combo with which you cannot go wrong.

We come to a stream, dividing the thick underbrush of apples and thorns like a border as it meanders through. Elaborately colored brook trout dart out from the deep pools where they are spawning, fleeing from me as I step onto the shallow rocks in the middle of the brook. In what feels like close to a full split, I hear the sound I have been awaiting all along once again. The sputter of wings and a glimpse of the bullet shaped bird moving through the branches with the agility only grouse have. Instinct takes over and I raise my gun stock to my cheek and fire as the grouse passes over the opening of the stream. The smell of gunpowder quickly mingles with the sweet scent of decaying leaves and apples. This is known to many as “aromatherapy”. Calling a dog over, we inspect the area around where I shot. After a minute it becomes clear that once again the bird got the better of me.

I reach up to pick an apple as I hear the shout by my dad, “BIRD UP!” The clap of his shotgun makes my ears ring, but the unmistakable thud of a grouse hitting the ground distracts me from it. I walk over to the trunk of a magnificent old apple tree stand in the ferns. Sooke, one of my dogs, comes trotting over with the bird held gingerly in her mouth. Reaching down for what we came all this way for, a three pound bird, I am once again in awe of it’s beauty. She drops it into my palm. Thanking and congratulating Sooke, I turn it over in my hands with nothing but utter appreciation and thankfulness in my mind. The smell of apples and earth once again is present, this bird surely has been in the cover for a while. I smooth out it’s golden copper feathers and look at the wonderful patterns nature has produced. The chocolate bands on it’s tail contrast wonderfully with the rest of the bird.

We begin our trek back, over the stream, under the apple trees, through the thorns. The shining of the car between the trees marks our destination. I sling my gun over my shoulder and check my watch, it’s only 9:00 AM. There’s a lot more daylight left and a lot more ground to cover. I lay the bird in the cooler, throw my shotgun in the back seat, let the dogs into the kennel and hop in. I’m already fantasizing about the next cover, the next flush. With many more covers to hit, we’re off to the next spot, weaving through the beautiful countryside.