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!

Around the Rock: Spearfishing and More

Adam and I made our way down the shoreline, enjoying the beautiful day and warm summer water. It was the middle of July and the ocean was about as nice as it ever gets. The visibility was also around 10 feet, a perfect day to shoot some long range tog with my AB Biller 48 special. Since Adam was diving for his first time and was very positively buoyant because he didn’t have a weight belt, I decided to stay in the shallow end (4-12ft deep). 
We jumped in the water and Adam got cold almost immediately, so he hopped back on the boat and just drove around behind me as I dove. I hadn’t been in the water for 3 minutes when I saw my first tautog. The big ones are extremely spooky in clear, shallow water and this one shot off into the depths. Disappointed but not discouraged, I swam on. 
Another minute or two passed and I was continuously seeing 13-15 inch tog, just under the legal limit of 16 inches. I dove down to the bottom to peek under a beautiful barnacle encrusted rock that was coated with seaweed swaying in the tide like leaves in the wind. Coming around the corner I spied a beautiful white chinned tautog munching muscles off of the rock. I flipped off the safety, aimed and squeezed the trigger. Thunk! The sound shot through the water as the tog slowly drifted to the bottom, spinning along the shaft of my spear. Hurriedly I swam over and put one hand on each side of the tog to insure that it wouldn’t slide off during my short assent. Within a minute, Adam had brought the boat along side me, took the tog off the shaft and I was once again on the hunt. 
I shot two more tautog in rapid succession. My limit reached, I hopped in the boat and we made our way back down the shoreline to the harbor. Ten minutes into the trip I begin to see white dots on the horizon with a gorgeous backdrop of sandy dunes and eel grass. Soon, I could make out the splashes of birds and fish entering the water simultaneously. As Adam picked up a rod and began to cast, I couldn’t help myself and grabbed my Gatku 6ft pole spear and jumped in. As soon as I hit the water I was engulfed in terns, gulls, cormorants and to my dismay, striped bass. Since it is illegal to shoot stripers in MA, I casually swam around admiring the natural beauty. The terns diving around me left bubble trails as they fought their ways back to the surface with beaks full of sand eels. The black backs and bellies of cormorants shooting around alongside me like torpedoes left me in awe. I dove to the bottom (only 6 feet of water!) and lay there as schools of bass parted around me whilst stuffing themselves with sand eels, busting on the surface only a few feet from me. 
Before long it was over and the birds, bass and I went our separate ways, leaving Adam and I the only ones hungry. We hightailed it in to a boat-cooked meal of steak and broccoli before heading to the lights to catch some squid for mahi fishing. 
(Mahi fishing story coming soon!)

In a Rut

  After weeks of no bucks showing themselves, yesterday they lit up. Around 4, I saw one in a field and immediately knew where it was headed. The deer would make a trip around the property across the street and come out the other side, where I have permission. I got settled in my stand and within an hour and a half that deer came walking along, head to the ground, following a doe track. Drawing silently, I gave a quick blatt and he stopped broadside at a mere ten feet. I let the arrow fly and it hit it’s mark with a thud. The buck ran like the wind before falling 30 yards away, but not before blowing right through a metal gate into a pasture.  I guess I owe the farmer a few hours labor to repair the gate, but man was it worth it. What a hunt! I feel very fortunate to have been able to have harvested this animal and look forward to sharing this meat with family and friends. 

Turkeys and Electric Fences

(NOTE: Please excuse the bad photo quality. It was taken with a flip phone.)

The sound of a turkey gobbling isn’t easily forgotten. It’s a sound unlike any other that can get even the most seasoned hunter’s blood rushing. My first solo trip turkey hunting with a bow was about as exciting as it can get. Everything went as planned, until it didn’t. Keep reading to find out why I love turkey season and hate electric fences.

One May morning my alarm went off and I jumped out of bed the way I always do before a hunting or fishing trip. I walked out of my room dressed in camo from head to toe holding my bow. I had shot my first turkey with a bow the weekend before, and I knew I wanted to harvest another the same way. Deciding I wasn’t hungry, I headed out the door, immediately greeted by the wonderful spring air, the smell of daffodils, the sound of the bell-buoy down at the harbor entrance,  and the chirping of crickets. Junebugs whizzed by me, rushing towards the porch lights and bats glided over in the gray light of dawn. I had ten minutes before it was legal to shoot, so I began calling in my prey. The first call out of my bag that morning (and nearly every morning) was my owl call. Turkeys often respond to those calls and loud noises, which is called shock gobbling. No response, only wind moving through the tree branches. I began to walk down the old clay-dirt path that I know so well, pausing every now and then to do a loud yelp call. The turkeys either weren’t around, or weren’t in the mood to respond, so I continued on my way.

Around an hour later, I entered an open field half a mile away from where I began. I took the back path, crossed a leaf-stained stream on a narrow log, nearly missing the far bank. Silently I crept through the briars and brush to the semi-open edge of the field, carefully placing my feet as to not snap any twigs or branches. Looking up, I realized there were twelve turkeys standing thirty yards in front of me in the field, unaware of my presence. I tried to stay calm, but I felt “turkey fever” coming on strong. With a few small trees between the turkeys and I, there was no chance of me sneaking up on them, or making a shot. I chose to stay put and wait for them to move first.  I’d then sneak up to the edge, get behind some brush and call them back towards me.

It turned out that these turkeys would take their sweet time in moving, and after an hour and a half of sitting there, my patience wearing thin, they began to walk away. Another half hour later, they were 50 yards from me, and I decided it was time to move. I set up behind the largest oak tree in the area.  It was covered in grape vines and made for a perfect hiding spot. I pulled out my trusty Kryptonite Custom Call, a beautiful slate call made by Kip DeLisio (check his calls out, http://www.ebay.com/usr/coonanfox01?_trksid=p2047675.l2559)  and began to cluck, immediately getting four eager responses. The show had begun.

We kept up a call and response, and they gingerly worked their way back towards me. At last they were only ten yards away, but blocked by my tree so I couldn’t see them. I drew my bow. First, a hen stepped into view, then another, then six more. The only part missing was the gobbler. My arm was beginning to shake from holding my bow at full draw for so long when the gobbler stepped into view. Unfortunately it was only a small jake, but I decided to take the shot anyway. I slowly moved the pin to the vital area of the bird, feeling confident about my shot. After all, I had nothing between us but one strand of electric fencing at ten yards, how could I not be sure of this shot? I squeezed my release trigger slowly…. PING! The arrow hit the wire, and the turkeys flew off in every direction. I sat there in disbelief. I had made an accurate shot, only to be rejected by a tiny strand of wire. Gathering up my call and bow, I began the long walk home with a new idea in mind.

I jumped up onto my porch, set my bow down and ran inside to grab my Remington 1100 12 gauge and a couple shells and raced right back out the door. Breathing hard, I made it back to the field once again. I saw one big red head poking out of the grass, and we made eye contact before it disappeared. I got down on my belly and army crawled thirty yards to a fallen log where he had recently stood. Two deep breaths later, I popped up over the log to the sight of twelve turkeys sitting in the dust. I flicked off the safety, and squeezed the trigger. This time there was no wire to save the turkey, and a load of #4 shot took him off his feet. Another shell flew into the chamber, and I made a second shot at another now flying jake. POW! He tumbled to the ground with a thud.
I checked my watch, it read 11:59. In the final minute of the day (you are only allowed to turkey hunt until 12 PM in MA) I had bagged two turkeys. They certainly weren’t huge birds, but they would make a delicious dinner. Slinging them over my shoulder, I began the long walk home, but this time with birds in hand.