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!

Stripers in the Lights

The night started off like every other night in June and July. A call from my friend Lincoln asking if I wanted to go night fishing, a hurried dinner and biking down the hill as fast as possible to catch the sunset squid bite. We met at the Menemsha Fish Market, a store known for the giant lobsters they sell, and headed on down to the Menemsha Texaco. We both filled our buckets with squid (about 20lbs total that we would later sell) and made our way over to my favorite spot. Everyone fishes there, but nearly nobody knows how to do it correctly. 
 

I put a single small squid on my 6/0 circle hook by hooking it through the tip of the squid opposite the eyes. I always drop the squid in the crack between one dock and another, where the bass always hang out. Putting my Calcutta 251 into free spool, I let the squid float slowly toward the bottom. A jet black shadow darted out and slowly circled the squid, eating it and spitting it out over and over as if tasting its quality. Finally it ate it and slowly swam back to where it came from. I let it swim for four seconds before taking it out of free spool and letting the circle hook do it’s job. Fish on! A largemouth rod, very little drag, light line and lots of pilings and boats don’t go well together. The fish took off and after a blistering run (for a bass) it slowed down enough for me to get a little bit of line back. It had gone directly under the dock I was standing on, and my rod was halfway in the water so that the line didn’t fray and break on the barnacle encrusted pier. I yelled for Lincoln and he rushed over to help land the fish, which we both could see wouldn’t be happening for quite some time. He changed directions and went in between two pilings about 20 yards from us. We ran down the pier passing the rod to each other under the dock lines before hopping onto a friends boat. Passing the rod around the piling was easy enough. We made the same trip back down the dock, threading the rod through the web of lines. Upon reaching the end of the pier, the fish made a short run underneath the dock and I dove into an inflatable dingy and put the rod tip in the water once again. Pulling a big bass up from twenty feet isn’t easy with fifteen pound test, but after some struggling and a lot more drag being pulled, we had the fish at the surface. Lincoln reached out and grabbed the fish by the lip and hauled it over the side of the dingy.

 

Both amazed with what had just happened, we high fived before removing the hook and slowly revived the fish. With a whip of the tail it splashed my face and swam back into the depth. 

 

A week later that rod snapped in three places and there is no question in my mind as to why.

  

   

Monster 3X Slimshad Review

I have come to believe that the Monster 3X Slimshad is the most versatile lure in my tackle box. So far I have caught striped bass, scup, smallmouth and largemouth bass, flounder, pickerel, sea bass, false albacore/bonito (depending on what part of the country you are from), houndfish, jacks, grouper, pargo, snapper and bluefish. Almost all of those fish were caught on the same Slimshad. The only fish that truly did damage to the Slimshad were the bluefish and houndfish. I have come to believe that there is not a predatory fish that won’t eat the Slimshad. I really came to appreciate the durability of this soft plastic when fishing for smallmouth bass in Skaneateles Lake in New York. While bouncing the lure I felt a good hit and set the hook. When I got the smallmouth within view I noticed something strange. The tail of the Slimshad had gotten caught on the rear spine of the fish’s dorsal fin. When I got the fish next to me, I reached for him and ended up with only the tail of the Slimshad in my hand. I swung the approximately 2-2.5lb bass onto the dock by the soft plastic. Keep in mind since this wasn’t that small a smallie, the plastic had been stretched around 8 inches. I have been told they can hold much, much more, such as a large tarpon while the hook was being removed. These lures can be reeled straight, twitched on the retrieve, used as a trailer on a jig,  “bounced” up and down and much more that I have yet to try. They have a better action when fished on a heavier jig head. In freshwater I use 1/4 or 3/8 ounce jig heads and in saltwater 1/2-1 ounce depending on the depth I’m fishing and current. I also like to use the weighted belly hooks from http://www.treasurecoasttackle.com/.The 4/0 hooks they use are very strong and have gotten the job done for me over and over, however in the future I would use their bullhead collarless jig head. I recommend fishing these lures on a collarless jig head initially because they are very challenging to slide over a collar. If they get ripped, (fat chance of that happening) you can switch them over to a collared jig head. I stored my white Slimshads with some other dark green soft plastics in 90+ degree heat and was amazed to learn that their coloring doesn’t “bleed”. In that heat they do stick together, but can be pulled apart with no damage done to them. To purchase Monster 3X products go to http://www.treasurecoasttackle.com/ or http://www.monster3xusa.com/. 

Largemouth Fishing With Cast and Blast

Bass On Hogy Lures

Today was an awesome largemouth bass day. In four hours I caught 53 fish all on the Hogy Skinny 6 inch softbait in bone color!  They wouldn’t stop eating it! I have used these lures for years and recently started using them in freshwater and I have nothing but amazing things to say about them. I had two with me (bluefish ruined the others) and they lasted for all 53 fish!  Unfortunately I didn’t nail any monsters. The only fish above 2lbs (around 4 or 5lbs) I hooked jumped and spat the hook with a head shake worthy of a tarpon.

   

 

Cape Cod: Spring Creek Brook Trout Old Fashion Style

This post isn’t about sophisticated match the hatch size 22 fishing. This is about old style, blue jeans and a bucket of worms spring creek trout fishing on Cape Cod. 

When the daffodils begin to appear out of the ground, the sun is shining, the turkeys are gobbling, the brook trout find sunny spots in their streams to bask in the spring sun’s warmth. It’s April and the snow only melted two weeks ago, but summer is fast approaching. There are a few secret little trout streams that wind through brushy valleys that are rich with “brookies”. The stream I am fishing is six feet wide, and a deep hole in it is two feet deep. It’s ice cold all year long, just the way the trout like it. There are springs feeding this creek every hundred yards or so, and it never gets low. 

There is never any room to cast through the viburnum tangles, so I have to poke my rod through and swing a worm into the hole. Nine times out of ten, the worm doesn’t hit the bottom before a brookie attacks it. A monster in this stream might be 14 inches, and you only catch a couple that size per year. Most of them are in the six to eight inch category. They are so beautiful, I can never bring myself to keep one, despite their beautiful orange meat that goes so well with eggs and potatoes in the morning. 

I try to get out at least five times a year. There are few more pleasant ways to spend a spring or summer day than in the cool, shady glades on The Cape. 

   

A Cape Cod Brook Trout

   

Who Said There Is No Wildlife In Boston, MA?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YjnzYr9WDZs&feature=youtu.be

This video is of me on my back porch mouth calling (using a diaphragm call) to turkeys. I was trying out my new WoodHaven Custom Call, the Stinger Pro Series. It works very well and is easy to use. Anyone looking for a cheap, easy and incredible sounding mouth call, this is the one for you! 

On Becoming a Hunter

Over the past few months I have gotten increasingly more questions from people regarding getting into hunting. I was fortunate enough to grow up in an outdoors family and was taught about and how to hunt when I was very young. This, however, isn’t the case for many people. If you don’t have any family members who hunt, you can still be introduced to it with a little work. 

To be a successful hunter it is key to have someone to learn from. Sure, the internet is stockpiled with information, but it is simply not the same. The internet can’t help you track a deer in person, or show you where to hunt on the property you have permission on. Finding that person may be quite simple, or it may be very challenging. Ask your friends and family if they know anyone who hunts, and try to contact them. If they don’t know anyone, you can contact your state Fish and Game Department or local shooting/hunting club. There are mentorship programs at clubs, and many states provide outdoor camps to teach hunting, fishing and trapping. 

The next step is locating a place to hunt. It can be public land or private property. Just make sure to go through the proper channels, and be sure of your permissions. Obtaining a bow or gun can be tricky, especially if you are under 18. Be absolutely sure that you comply with all State, Federal and local regulations. 

Good luck, happy hunting. Hopefully our paths will cross in the woods some day.



A buck taken by me when I was 12.