An Independence Day to Remember

"It has always been my private conviction that any man who puts his intelligence up against a fish and loses had it coming." John Steinbeck

Left in our wake from the slip were charter captains readying their boats and rigging rods. Leaving Indian River Inlet before 7:00, we were three on the Bird Dog, a 37 foot deep vee sportfisher. I was excited to go out with Jaime and Stacy, as I had been regaled with their tales from the deep for many years on the beach. Knowing them since I was a boy, it was great to go out fishing with them. We had been fishing many decades before, albeit in the surf. We joked over coffee as we motored toward the sun drenched seas.
A clear day, with a ten to fifteen mile per hour winds and seas of ~ three feet, we chugged under the Indian Inlet Bridge among the small center consoles holding position against the outgoing tide, with their rods awaiting a strike. Settling in, we increased speed to roughly seventeen miles per hour bearing due East for 45 minutes. The Bird Dog powered smoothly through larger rolling swells to the location where we would start our first drift. We passed rows of sea bass pots strung in lines, where the bass congregate on the bottom and the unlucky enter the pots for their last meal. Cutting our engines, we were readying 6' medium action rods with Shimano Calcuttas and braided line. The rig of choice was a hi-lo rig with 2/0 Octupus hooks and a surgeon's knot loop at the bottom to run through a 6 oz bank sinker eyelet. The lower hook was baited with a squid strip and the upper with live minnows lipped. Letting the rigs free fall, it seemed to take forever to hit the bottom eighty feet below. My anticipation for a bite slowed the reel, as I watched the plated reel spin out, then slacken.
Earlier I asked Jaime if I should let the bass gulp the bait, then set the hook, as when a striper strikes. He commented, "This isn't rocket science; you'll know". It was the older brother voice which I am so familiar with; the "ok greenhorn, no more questions, just fish" response. I leaned into the gunnels and waited. Within thirty seconds, there was a sharp tug on the line. Fishing with braided line, there is no stretch, and feeling every twitch of the line I knew this wasn't a crab nibbling on the bait. Reeling up quick, which at eighty feet takes a while, I pulled a nine inch sea bass on board. Stout with a spiny dorsal, you have to handle deftly to avoid the spines, as I did not. He was not at the twelve and a half inch limit and I threw him back, not before he left me a present. "Look", I heard from behind, "you scared the crap of him". We laughed as I washed up. I guess I did, poor fish.
This action continued on two more drift passes: checking bait; dropping the rig in the green-blue deep; catching, measuring, and releasing. The next reel brought in an oddity, which I thought was only in the imagination of Fred Schneider of the B-52's: a sea robin. Wiggling defiantly, with googly eyes and six bright orange feelers under its pectoral fins/spikes, it was a pretty hideous beast. Avoiding the pectoral spikes we got him (or it) back in the water and continued our hunt for a keeper. Always hoping our ruler was not going to be long enough, we also hit into summer flounder. While these do not fight terribly, they put a bend in the rod and you would think you had a monster on the line. A keeper had to be over 19 inches, and Stacy did manage to get one just a hair over the limit.
By this time, I was parched and wish I had taken the Bonine. My partners noticed this and jibed me as the "Silent Killer"…quiet, but reeling them in. After we repositioned for another drift, I fed the fish and rebaited. I felt better. They did their best to brighten my spirits. We finally hit legal tender on the sea bass and I was happy to not hook my hand as my head was swimming. The ride back was jovial and the wheelhouse was filled with the macho banter spoken during such times. The same rivulets of wisdom that flow in duck blinds, dove fields, and bait and tackle shops.
It was a fine day and while I must pay the price of a bruised ego sans Bonine, I did land a legal sea bass, which lightly seasoned and grilled was superb.
On that day, I tip my cap to my partners whose camaraderie made for a great trip. I also recognize and have a solemn respect for those men who risked their lives so that I could enjoy that day in a country that honors the sporting traditions.
And to George Read, a signer from Delaware, who defied a king to better the country he loved.

Cast N' Blast

It is a quick shot. The clay is released from the hi, then the low house and comes almost straight at you, as you instinctively blot the bird and yank the trigger. Done right, there is a fine powder in the air. Station 8 is a fun station in skeet. This was midday through my birthday and I decided to go to Talbot Rod and Gun Club and shoot a few rounds of skeet. It is a nice club; close to home; and the members there seem friendly and helpful. I shot pretty well at about 18/25 and my swing, lead and pre-shot concentration came back quickly. The day started with sleeping late, (always nice) and taking out the Whaler to see the 324th running of the ferryboat races on the Tred Avon River off Oxford. It was the Oxford ferry versus two paddle wheel boats from up the Choptaknk, near Suicide Bridge and the crowd was large and lively. When the starting gun when off and the small craft procession followed the racing vessels, it was if a flock of ducklings were trying to stay close to their parents but not swim past them, angering their leaders. No one wanted to get alongside the ferry and riverboats, as it seemed to be their day in the Sun. And it was. As these large 100 foot plus ships turned the corner on a triangular course, it seemed a David and Goliath moment, as the smaller ferry pulled up to the larger sister riverboats. Her gain quickly diminished as the riverboats gained steam and their paddles churned the water with determined aggression. The flotilla was also racing, but more out of desperation, as not to collide with other sail boats, center consoles and larger cabin cruisers. We took the open port side and sped ahead to catch up to the riverboat Dorothy & Megan. We looked to starboard beam, down the finish line to see her cross to a cacophony of air horns and steam whistles. It was great fun on the Tred Avon, and even those not on the three racing felt just as much a part of the festive race. Peeling off the main group of boats, we charted a course out into the Choptank. Heading toward Chlora Point, I slowed to five mph and let out a a nine inch umbrella rig with chartreuse shads. On a zig-zag course , we trolled for twenty minutes. I had a feeling it would be slow, so let my number one pirate captain the boat and i worked on an anchor line. We pulled in our line and meandered back to the dock under a nice breeze, sun overhead. With my number two pirate sleeping on the First Mates lap, I motored past our beach and back to our slip. After getting back from skeet and grilling a spectacular rib eye, I was truly grateful for my birthday, which was actually Tuesday. My family suggested we celebrate on Saturday. There is nothing like a good old fashioned Cast N' Blast!

Captain and First Mate

"Get gas yesterday?", the carver asked, as he heaped pit barbecue on my plate. Small world, I thought, as I commented that I had to run down to Mears Point Marina in Oxford to take on fuel. I ran into this guy the day before at Easton Point as the pump ran dry and the gas trickling in my tank amounted to 52 cents. With another full tank onboard, I ran south to Oxford. The water was the color of tea, infused with fall leaves, and I had to swerve to avoid prop bending logs. It was three on a Friday and a late lunch for me. Earlier, I decided it was time to take a break from the grind, and take James out to wet a line. I gave him my best sell, describing fish actually jumping in the boat. He stopped me in mid sentence. "Can we go tomorrow? There is a dog jumping show I want to see. Do you want to come with us?", he exclaimed. My feeble salesmanship was pointless. Trying to sell the ride to this one would be like offering him tickets to pee wee football when he is sitting on the 50 yard line at the Super Bowl. With a large popcorn. As I grabbed my gear and walked out the door, I gave him a look of mock disappointment, but he did not bite. He did have one last hook for me. "Hey Dada?! I hope you have fun on the boat", he offered. The fall azure skies reflected in the mirror smooth water, as I broke a wide grin. At that moment, there was no place on Earth that I would rather be than at the helm of the MariJames. Captain and First Mate that day, I wore both titles with pride and joy.

Friendly Competition

The cottony clouds hung suspended in the azure background sky. A light wind breezed by as I started the Merc 90. That bubbling sound and a purr of the warm engine denotes the beginning of a time of pure pleasure. Not out to catch your dinner or provide passage, recreational boating is just that: recreation. Even if things do not go as planned, at the very least you are out exploring. We were out on our 170 Montauk and other family members were on their Pursuit 2470. It was to be a friendly competition: the biggest fish got the prize. As with most friendly competition, the prize is ancillary to the goal of being with each other having fun. The first weekend in October, the air and the water temperature were within five degrees, at 75 and 70 degrees, respectively. Fishing for stripers and bluefish, we decided to drift between buoy 12A and 13 in the Choptank River. We were using hi-lo rigs, which is a heavy leader with two hooks 10" from another, each on 8" of line and a 3 ounce sinker on the bottom. In close to 35' of water, we lower the rigs to 20-25' and methodically dip and lower the rod tip in a 5' arc. This dance, known as jigging, provides action for the rig. You have a heightened sense of touch as you dip the rod knowing these fish love to hit when the rig drops. As bait we were using peelers. Crabs that have not molted are generally called peelers. They are a delicacy of choice for striped bass and, of course bluefish, who eat anything. On a side note, the oily surface slicks can often be attributed to the appetite of the blues. Eating the equivalent of their body weight in a day, they will often purge the oily baitfish excess, as they do not know when to stop. For this, they are known as the Lindsay Lohan of fish. With no luck between the buoys we darted off to Chlora Point, trailing the faster boat, but having fun surfing their wake in our Whaler. With two other serious fishing boats near Chlora, we figured there was some action. We could tell they were serious as their rods bristled like antennae from the "rocket launcher" rod holders on the T-Tops of these twin engine sportfishers. We drifted and caught nothing in the 70' channel water. Our luck changes as we went back into Tred Avon. Fishing off of small points, where grass stretched out from backyards, my rod tip bent every five seconds after landing the peeler in the water. It was amazing! This was going on for ten minutes straight. I hoped to catch a keeper, but reeled in a 15" inch striper that threw the hook of the overly excited amateur (me) "Work the lock, don't look at the dogs", or concentrate on the task at hand and do not worry about what might happen. Better to be with family and friends and catch nothing then be alone with a cooler of fish. You tell me?