Turnstiles

I went out to the pond tonight to make a few casts. I've been sidelined from time on the water and on the vise while I deal with some issues in my elbow and forearm. It's been interesting these past few weeks. I've filled the time I would normally spend walking the mud with a nine weight or spinning at the vise with things I used to do or that I had forgotten to do. Part of all that has included going back through these old posts and notebooks tucked away here and there with scribbled notes and obscure thoughts. There's also been time for silent introspection.

But I can only take myself seriously for so long, so after I shut the woodshop down, I grabbed the six weight and made a cast. It didn't hurt as much as I thought it might, but enough that I wrote off the idea of learning to play the guitar or the piano anytime soon. The pond in the setting sun was beautiful and quiet so I stood and stared at it. Some would say I pondered. I wondered for a moment if the arm will ever be the same, if this might well be it. I saw the reflection of my face in the water and two words I had just re-read in one of those battered notebooks answered my question.

I remember the exact moment I wrote them down. It was years ago, on the way into a job meeting at one of the office towers downtown. It was one of those buildings with the fancy marble street level lobby and glass front with multiple revolving doors. The day was much like today: clear, bright and hot. Nobody in Boston wanted to be at work. I checked in at the front desk and was told my contact was still at lunch and running late. I sat in a leather chair and waited. I watched people pass the front windows. Some were obviously taking their time to get wherever they were going. Most were clearly intent on getting to their destination as fast as possible and seemed to be agitated navigating around the slower moving ones. In those few minutes I realized I had become one of those people. I took a deep breath, got up and told the receptionist I was going to have to reschedule. I walked outside, bought a four-dollar coffee in a twelve-ounce cup and sat down on a bench in a postage-stamp sized greenspace. People continued whizzing by while I put on my dark glasses and wrote down two words.

Outside within.

I didn't know what it meant at the time, just one of thousands of fleeting thoughts I've written down over the years. I still don't know exactly what it means, but the idea is still as clear tonight as the day I wrote it down.

Somewhere in my childhood I saw an old lion in a zoo. He was sitting on his haunches in the shade of a bush just staring at all of us staring at him. There was a lioness in the background with two younger lions pacing back and forth. I recall locking eyes with the old lion through the fencing and the glass of the enclosure. It may have been a split second or a full minute, but I wondered at the time if in his mind, through his own memories or in genetic memories passed down, he was somewhere in the grasslands of Africa. Wherever his mind was, it was beyond the confines of the walls around him. I've seen that look a lot in my lifetime, including in the mirror. I always think of that lion.

I've seen it in the face of my best friend as we talk about our lives and our families. I've heard it in his voice when we talk about what we do and what we've done. We have ongoing discussions about not being part of the herd, about taking care of our own the way we were raised to in a world that we were not raised in. Change is inevitable, and in most cases is a good thing, but there's still a lot of good in what got us all to this point in time. Reconciling old with new and vice versa, well that's a discussion I'm not having here. It's a personal thing. Or it should be. And it is for him. He does it far up, or down, one of the many rivers he fishes by himself. Unplugged and disconnected for a few hours, it's his savanna.

I've seen it in the eyes and heard it in the voice of the pride and joy of my life. Six months ago, at the age of twenty-one, she made an audible and changed the course she was on. She came to me and said things were not working for her, presented a plan and asked me what I thought about it. After we talked about everything, I said it was a good plan and I supported her. Then she went out and executed it on her own, in a new place among new people, with a re-lit brightness in her eyes and self-built confidence in her voice. I'm doubly proud because up until now I've held the family record for jumping off the moving bus and figuring things out after I landed, carrying the old and forging the new.

So, in the falling light tonight, I switched the fly rod to my left hand. It's going to take some time.

Hold my beer.

I'm stepping through the turnstile.

Outside within.

Littles Pond

13 July 2022

Please, don't bite your cork

At the start of the 2021 season, I said this year will be great. New job, no more 20 to 30 hour per week commute, work from home...I'm fishing. And it started like that. The problem was the striped bass were few and far between. The fishing Gods on social media posted a plethora of pictures of bountiful stripers on a regular basis, some were obviously of the same fish at different angles and views, I think there were even some wardrobe changes involved. But what I saw on the tube was not what I saw on the water.

 I hit it hard for the first month. Twenty plus years on the same water, more time now to fish, I figured it would be, as the cool kids say, epic. It was not. The movement patterns of inshore stripers here combined with tide, moon, wind, weather and all the things I've watched over the years never materialized. It's been on the decline on for several years but last year left me shaking my head. To the point that by July I just didn't go out. I made a few short excursions just "to see" but I got black and white striped more than I saw silver stripes. By August, I resigned myself to hoping for the fall run. I just didn't fish. I went out in September a few times, picked up a few rats here and there and one fish over 28" but the numbers were not there, and they were not in the places I expected them to be. So I waited.

My birthday is in early October. It usually coincides with a big push of fish through the river eating anything that gets put in front of them. Over the last 15 or so years I've opted to spend that day or one near it by myself on the water. It usually starts about a cup of coffee after sunrise and ends about a warm can of Bud after sundown. This year started with the coffee but was fueled all day by water and Gatorade because I paddled and walked more miles in the backwater and marsh than I ever have. And I found fewer fish than ever.

I started out down The Avenue. First light, start of the incoming, usually a lot of small fish. Nothing. Stopped at the Sure Hole, spent longer than I should have. Nothing. Moved around the corner to the Bathtub, even the cormorants were confused. Shot up the Expressway, no signs of fish. A ton of bait in the breakdown lane, no striped bass. Took the exit to the Escape Hatch, usually good for one or two at the interchange over the Big Flat. Nope. Crickets. Ducked into the Small Bathtub, got out of the kayak and walked the edges and spent way too much time there. Still nothing. Took the Back Road up to the Branch. Years ago it was always a sure thing along the edges of the grass. This time, nada. Made it to the Branch and got out to walk the grass around The Bellagio. I got my steps in, practiced casting into the wind but that was it. Screwed out of Bellagio and parked across the river at the Back Door. I've never not caught at least the smaller striper I've ever seen there. Well, this time I caught one almost bigger than the smallest striper I've ever seen. And for like five minutes I thought this could be the turning point. And then it was ten minutes. And then fifteen. After twenty I bailed and headed into the marsh to the Secret Hole, The Big Hole, The Dirty Hole, and lastly the Branch Hole. Bait everywhere, cormorants freebasing sand eels and silversides, no striped bass.

I paddled out of the Branch about midday, headed for the mouth and picked my way out to the outside. I turned the corner and headed for the Olive Garden. This time of year, slack tide, they used to congregate in the rocks. Even bluefish would be mixed in. Not this year. I fished the Garden, the Outback, Sully's Tavern, the Mudslide, the Rockslide and the entire length of Bluefish Alley. One fish, about 20" came out of the boulder field at the bottom of Rockslide, Almost seven hours in and two fish. Happy Birthday.

I headed back inside and went upriver on The North to The Place That Shall Remain Nameless. Usually this is a low tide spot, but I was grasping for straws. The top of the mud was starting to show as the water dropped so I got out and walked its edge and made a couple hundred casts. About cast number Two Hundred and Six I went tight. A small shad, not what I expected but I was grateful. Grateful enough to get back in the boat and back to the South. 

I peeled into the Bowl got out of the boat and walked the edge of the Back Corner and the Corner Store. It was getting late, I hoped it was all going to start to happen as it has so many times before. About the time I was ready to call it I got lit up just off the Corner Store. One nice fish on, two following it. I thought I was in. I was wrong. No code had been cracked, no pattern had been figured out, I just spent another hour practicing my cast.

The sun was getting low, I paddled across the Bowl to Dog Piss Beach. This is where I planned to make my stand. Drink my Birthday Beer, howl at whoever heard me and catch some fish. When I beached the boat and took stock of my perishables, I realized I didn't have my Birthday Bud and no one would hear me if I did howl. But I threw line anyway. Over and over. And then it was one fish. And a few casts later, another. And another. All cookie cutter 20-22" stripes. Four in about 20 minutes. And then crickets. But I kept casting. Into the dark. And then I headed for home. Paddling in the dark I recalled years past of twenty-five or thirty fish days, sometimes upwards of fifty on my birthday sabbatical. The times they are changing.

I'll fish again this year. But it won't be all go no quit big nuts Harry Stamper (obscure Armageddon reference) fishing. The stock in my view, whether you "catch and release" on your own, meat fish or 6 Pack it all day everyday can't sustain it. 

Striped bass are in decline. It cannot be disputed. We've seen it happening since almost the resurgence after the last crash. We've all played a part in it. We've all kicked the can down the road. So, what can be done? We can stop bitching about it on social media. Stop pointing fingers and get behind a management plan. The people who make these "management decisions" need to hear from those concerned with the state of the striped bass stock. Read my words, not the "fishery", but the actual stock.

The deadline for comments on the Draft Amendment 7 to the Striped Bass Management Plan is today, April 15, 2022. I'm not smart enough to understand all the science, I'm just a fisherman (fisherperson), but the folks at the American Saltwater Guides Association have put a ton of information and avenues for action together at

 American Saltwater Guides Association | Linktree

and

Striped Bass Amendment 7: Public Comment Guide - American Saltwater Guides Association

Today is the last day to make your voice heard.

And please, in this year's posts, don't bite your cork.

 

South River, MA

15 April 2022

    

Traditional Gray

 

The day began in the gray magic between dark and light.  Mornings like this had been the norm for both of us all season but today was different. Everything was different. The light beginning to creep into the sky no longer had the “full speed ahead” energy of summer. Instead it seemed to linger as it spread across the water, softened by the filter of autumn. The air had changed as well, not a lot, but enough to notice.

Seasons were changing.

We met at the boat ramp with the usual handshake and bearhug. Little was said as gear was loaded and the boat was splashed. The breeze met us as we headed out the inlet carrying a bouquet of salt, oil fumes and baitfish. Weighing the time against the tide, we agreed to run in search of bass and blues before heading to “The Spot”. We found a few bass, but no blues. The tide slacked and everything went quiet. Before moving on we changed rods and flies. As he finished, I pulled out bacon and egg sandwiches I had made at 0300 and poured Folgers out of the beat-up Stanley I have had since college. Talk turned to the reason we had planned this day for weeks: albies. His clients the day before had been on them. Hard. We hoped for a repeat performance.

We motored slowly to “The Spot,” watching the horizon for birds and any abrupt splashes in our peripheral vision. They were there. As were three other boats executing the “run and gun” attack plan on them. We joked about the proverbial old bull and young bull and set up on the outside of the circus. I took the bow and began casting, watching the water in front of us for sign. The albies blew up around us and we both got several shots into what we thought was the zone. This happened several times as we moved, reset, and waited. Between the two of us, at least one fish should have made it to the boat. I paused to watch the bait as he continued to cast, curse and retrieve.

Decision time.

I stripped in my sinking line, grabbed my other rod with an intermediate line and opened my fly box. I tied on an off-sized, off-colored fly and began casting. My choice received a chuckle from the stern. I ignored it. A few casts later, as my drag was singing, I heard, “You got any more of those?”

It was a draw for the morning; four albies each. Not a bad day. The action had disappeared and rather than follow the fleet we discussed going back for bass. He pawed through my fly box as he finished the last of the coffee. Holding up a zonker strip Deceiver he had shown me how to tie years ago, he said, “Tie this on, the twelve weight, I know where we’re going.”

I sat in the bow and went to work as he pointed the boat northeast. I finished rigging the rod and returned it to the rod holder. As I took my place beside him, for the first time in all the years of our friendship, I noticed he looked old. His face darkly tanned from another season in the sun and weathered from years on the water. Hair and mustache, once brown, I think, now a multi shade of gray. The kind of gray you only see on the coast in the pilings and wood shingled structures that have withstood the wind and weather and all that the sea can throw at them. Shoulders, still powerful and square despite carrying not only his own freight, but that of others. Eyes, still bright and all-seeing but tired around the edges. Twenty years my senior, I hoped to be half of his sum at his age.

We ran for nearly an hour and then he dropped down to trolling speed. He told me to take the wheel as he stepped up to the bow. “I was here two days ago and found something.” After scanning the water around us he turned to me with that wild and crazy look that only he possessed and said one word.

“Tuna!”

He handed me the twelve weight as we switched places. It took a while, but he found them. It took just as long for me, despite his patient coaching, to get over myself and drop the fly in front of the outside edge of the school. For almost thirty minutes I fought twenty pounds of muscle. I felt like I had just run a marathon and fought ten rounds, all at ten thousand feet. My hands were cramped to the point I could barely hold the fish as he handed it to me. He torpedoed it back into the water and turned to me with that rabid look in his eyes.

“Let’s go get another one!”

“Okay, you cast, I’ll drive.”

“You sure?”

 “Oh, yeah. I’m spent.”

He retied the leader as I motored along looking for the tuna. We caught up to them as bluefin from twenty pounds to a hundred crashed bait on the surface. I tried to get him in for a close shot but kept missing it, apologizing each time as he got ready to cast and then stopped.

“It’s ok, these bastards are smarter than we are, just drive like we do for blues or albies…same thing.”

Eventually I got him on, he hooked up and I tailed the fish for him. A little bigger than mine and proportionately more pissed off. True to his way, he spent the next fifteen minutes explaining his process for approaching bluefin and running me through it at the helm.

And then he pulled two warm cans of Miller Genuine from the cooler and we toasted the ocean, life, and each other. Smiling at me he said, “Buddy,” in that slow, low tone way only he could, “what a fuckin’ day! Let’s get out of here.”

The ride back to the ramp was long. I stood beside my mentor and replayed the events of the day in mind as I fought to stay awake despite the rough ride. I kicked myself for not bringing a camera or thinking to get pictures on his phone. This had been a day for the books, as they say. I wanted some record of it.

We hauled the boat and agreed to meet up for dinner. We sat at the bar at Land Ho’ and ate, laughed and lamented it would be next season before we would see each other again. I brought up the fact we had not taken any pictures during the day, especially of the tuna. He laughed and said something about bringing a camera next time.

“You know, the coolest part of the whole day was that all the fish we caught today were on flies you tied.”

“Yeah, but most of them you showed me how to tie.”

He finished his whiskey, looked me square in the eye and said, “That’s the best part. Family tradition.”

The day ended as it had begun. A handshake and a bearhug in the gray magic between dark and light. At a stoplight I caught my reflection in the rearview as the lights from a passing car lit up the inside of the truck. My face was darkly tanned from another season in the sun and a little more weathered from another year on the water. For the first time, I noticed a gray highlight starting to take root in my temples and in my beard.

 

From the abyss, September 2012

12 August 2020

somethng from nothing

Around this time of year, we see and hear words like happiness and joy tossed around and although I recognize the sentiment in which they’re used, I wonder if we understand the difference anymore. It reminds me of a conversation I had with a co-worker a while back while looking at a photo of a fish that I had caught the previous weekend.

 

A comment was made, more in the form of a question than an assertion, that I “must find happiness in fly fishing.” I began to respond in the affirmative and then paused, revising my response to say that I “receive joy” from the process of fly fishing but that the end result, catch or no catch, really has nothing to do with it. My co-worker seemed perplexed and asked why I would spend so much time doing something if I was not concerned with some form of a” prize” at the end. I dug way back in the memory bank to the psychology and philosophy classes I took in college and the study sessions we had over cheap beer. I explained happiness is corporeal, based on an attachment to an expected reward of doing or receiving something. It usually accompanies a successful completion of whatever is being done.  Joy is ethereal, connected more to the spiritual side or reason for doing something. The joy of doing something, if we’re lucky, is always present regardless of the outcome.



I know, a little deep. And while it is New Year’s Eve, no, I have not opened the tequila. Not yet.      



I went on to explain the events, the process if you will, behind the fish in the photograph. I had spent an hour fishing one section of water along an edge of an oyster bar that dropped off into a deeper channel. There were fish moving up on to the bar from the channel but were being selective. I had a few follows but none would commit and take the fly. I had considered changing the fly but the one I was using is my go-to pattern and I knew eventually it would get taken. I explained it’s like the twenty-dollar Casio that’s been on my wrist for almost as long as I can remember. It’s beat to hell, isn’t fancy and just keeps working. Even when the battery runs out, it’s still correct twice a day.

I kept casting at those fish, watching them follow the fly, relying on the strong sense of confidence that years of the ebb and flow of trial and error impart. It is still life’s greatest teacher, earned and then learned. Eventually one fish followed the fly and turned off it and paused. I water-hauled the fly and put it back out in front of him off to his left. I knew he was going to take it before he did. Two strips into the retrieve he turned on it and ate it. I felt “happy” as the line went tight, but it lasted only for as long as it took it to release him. I have no immediate recollection of that “happiness” today. The joy from the process of working those fish, staying with that one fly, watching the take and then seeing him swim away afterward…I feel that as I write this today as I do the blood in my veins.



So, in the final hours of 2019, I bid all a Happy New Year and hope that in that happiness, whether you fish or not, we all find joy in 2020.



See you on the other side.



South River, MA

31 December 2019

four days from my island

Today began without last night ever ending. Wide awake for most of it, I greeted the orange rumbling of dawn with a second cup of coffee on the front porch. The kitchen thermometer read thirty-seven, a clear sign the season is over but something inside me said, "Wait, not yet." Weighing the idea of beginning the fall clean up against floating the river one last time I walked through the leaves in the backyard and pulled the kayak off the rack. Ten minutes later I was paddling downriver as the sun finally made its way into the sky to my right. The river, empty, quiet and smooth as glass, reflected my thoughts back at me as I went from spot to spot searching for one fish to end the season on. Three hours of wet wading the mud and grass at the lower end of my tolerance of hypothermia. With no sign of any straggling striped bass, I turned and made my way for home making one final stop to throw a Hail Mary at my personal Last Ditch Gulch. There was no gold to be found but after two or three dozen "last cast's" the line went tight and I touched silver stripes one more time.

Cold and wet but feeling alive and happy, I sat on the sand wrapped around my coffee bottle as the sun finally created some warmth. I watched the light on the water and thought about the season, the people who drifted through it and the world on the dry side of the water's edge I sometimes don't see so clearly.  In the here-today-gone-tomorrow, who-am-I-today, swipe left or right instant world, it's easy to overlook the heart of a moment and the soul of those in it. The truth in a personal or shared experience gets edited, filtered and defined by awareness, engagement, conversion and consumer metrics while we get lost in the "climb" with the herd. I find myself retreating from all that more and more, surrounding myself with fewer personae, less "stuff" and replacing screen time with listening to "Peace of Mind" by Boston over and over.  Comfortable with where I am, I just don't care if I get left behind.  I was recently at a cocktail party where an old acquaintance brought this up. After giving me his review of my personal and business social media pages and activity, he favored me with several suggestions to increase my "market presence" based on what other people in the fly tying / fly fishing world do. Turning away to visit the bar, I responded by paraphrasing Thoreau and asserting that fools stand on their own island of opportunity and look toward another land losing sight of their own existence.

I sifted these thoughts as I got back in the boat and paddled upriver, carrying my island with me.

In May I spent a morning in the very spots I fished today with my friend and favorite writer, Matt Smythe. Our friendship is one of those where few words are necessary to share a complex conversation and when it comes to fishing, it's about the act of it, and the place that it occurs. Catch or no catch, it's the passion for the next stretch of water, anticipation of the next cast and the suspense of the retrieve we placidly share. It was a privilege to share that time with him as he got in on some early season striped bass action, the serenity of the day outdone only by his statement to me of, "I see why you're where you're at."

Matt Smythe

Somewhere along the way Jill and I were fishing a piece of grass bank when she walked off on her own and set up on a piece of water I had pointed out earlier in the spring while explaining when and how to fish it. In short order she hooked up and released a striper on her own without saying a word. There has been much written about fishing with your significant other. It may not be for everyone but it works for us. Jill and I both cringe when we introduce the other as "girlfriend" or "boyfriend," at our age it just doesn't sound right so we try to be hip and over-fifty cool by employing the term "life partner" when we can. We've looked at our relationship as a partnership from the beginning so it makes sense. It carries whether we're on the water, chasing an image or building a project on our "island." 

Jill Mason

In August Jill, Abby and I traveled to Vermont for the annual Fly Fishing Festival at the American Museum of Fly Fishing. I had the privilege of tying flies in the Tier's Tent with Scott Biron, Greg Brown, Mark Dysinger, Rhey Plumley, Nick Santolucito and Rich Strolis. These guys donated their time to help introduce people to fly tying, share some fishing stories and pass on a few tips. Behind the table, from years of friendship and respect for each other's work, we shared ideas and opinions with no lane changes, branding, influencing or pirating maneuvers. It was reaffirming to spend the day with friends, old and new, there for a shared love of the sport and respect of its history that is contained within the walls of the museum and understanding that what we do now is built on what was done by those before us.

Left to right: Nick Santolucito, Mud Dog, Rich Strolis, Mark Dysinger

Photo: American Museum of Fly Fishing / Alex Ford

The day got away from me. Lost in thought I had paddled farther upriver and out and back more side creeks than I had planned. I turned around and chased the setting sun and this last day of the season  along the edges of my island.

South River, MA

2 November 2019

Bueller

I walked to the water tonight to start the season. I stood in a light rain being driven into my face and studied the water. I had low expectations. The water temperature was still a little low, the sky had rained more often than not for what seemed like weeks leaving the water in front of me the color of iced tea and I had about an hour left of the incoming tide. Not the most favorable conditions but every season needs a starting point and all day long I had that gnawing feeling that if I didn’t go, I’d be missing something.

I paused at the water’s edge before stepping in and watched the rain drops leave little marks on the surface before being almost instantly absorbed. Like the rain drops, this place has absorbed my history. I smiled in the irony. For twenty years I’ve come to this same spot for the first attempt at “getting on the board.” That first fish of the season, what we all think about during the off-season. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it matters, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s the experience that matters, the knowledge gained each time out, history written by volume of sought experience, not volume of created content.

Out of habit, one which I’m trying to break, I reached to my jacket pocket to make sure my phone was there.  In the back of my mind an argument began with the Id demanding that if a fish were to be caught that it be “photographed and immediately posted”, the Ego proclaiming “it’s just fishing” and the Super-ego chirping something about buying in and selling my soul.

It’s just fishing. I stepped into the water thinking about that as I threw line. In fly fishing we try to entice a fish, in this case a striped bass, to eat a cluster (sometimes a Cluster-F.*#) of natural or synthetic materials tied to a sharp piece of metal that we cast at speeds somewhere around 400 to 600 feet per second into water that can be moving, in this instance, about 4 miles per hour, on a planet that rotates on its axis at 1040 miles per hour while circling the sun at just under 67,000 miles per hour. On top of that, while fishing, we can upload images of our catches to social media from our phones nearly instantly at speeds measured by Mbps. I have no idea what that is but it sounds fast. I’m not smart enough to understand the physics of it all, it just seems clear that the world is already moving fast before we try to influence it.

As I continued to stare out at the water and work the rust out of my already marginal casting, I thought of a notable quote from F. Bueller, the preeminent American philosopher of the 1980’s:

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

More looking around. Less uploading. Copy that, Ferris.

In the interest of full disclosure, I did go tight to the first stripe of the season and I did take a photo of it before I released it.

And I did post (upload) it as a voice in my head chirped something about buying in and selling out.

From the water

28 April 2019

Blitzes

The day was just beginning around me; those few moments that are the best of the day because in the back of your mind, despite what you hope for and what you do to try to advert it, you know it’s probably not going to get any better. I pulled the phone out of my sling and turned it off, a defiant act consciously made in the desire to extend the perfection of the morning just a little longer.

From my perch in a rock garden above a small flat I could see clearly across the Caribbean blue-green sandy bottom in front of me. A bluebird sky above wrapping itself around a rising sun, the water remarkably calm and just enough movement in the air for the smell of the salt and the water to physically brush past my face. In my mind all I could hear was the Piano Exit to Layla. I didn’t just hear it, I felt it.

In the water the bass had pushed one of the largest schools of bait I’d seen in a long time up into the rocks and were gorging themselves on sand eels and silversides. I just stood there, rod in hand, and watched mesmerized in the knowledge that this has been going on far longer than we’ve tried to control the world around us and hoping that it will continue long after we’re gone. I watched as the stripers seemingly worked together to hold the school of bait against the rocks while they all fed. Just back from the flat where the bright blue water turned to a dark green the heads of two seals bobbed along obvious in their attempts to dart in and pick off the bass at the back of the pack. I wondered if farther out behind the seals there were sharks biding their time to take a run at them.

It was a thing of beauty watching the natural order of things play out in front of me. The struggle of each party intrigued me, the bait schooling and moving as one to prevent their demise, the bass doing much the same to both feed and elude the seals behind them. I watched the bass as they corralled and penned the bait and marveled in the idea that they were working together. I remember a time when I thought, perhaps naively, that we, the human race, worked in the same way. I lost myself in that thought for a few minutes. When I looked back in the water, clouds had moved in and just as sudden as it had started, it was over.

I stood there for a few more minutes wondering if I should move on to find more fish or call it a day. I turned to walk back up the beach and stopped to pick up a few remnants of consumerism force fed to us by talking heads, hash tags and influencers; a crushed beer can, a fancy sneaker and a Starbucks mega sized plastic cup. For all that we have gained, I wondered, what have we lost. It’s tragic; something within our grasp yet it’s slipping away.

Don’t let it slip away.

South River, MA

13 February 2019

Home Water

The season is over, at least here in the marsh. Today was one of the few Saturday's I haven't been out there or some other piece of water since late April. Instead of rigging rods I've been making a list of what needs to be done at the house. It's essentially the same list I made at the end of last winter plus about two dozen more tasks I've put off. So, on my way to Lowes I drove out to the point where I could get a look at it one more time before starting on that list.

I've been on this water for nearly two decades. I don't just live on it, it runs through me. I measure time not by the hands of my watch or the calendar on the kitchen wall but by the ebb and flow of the tide running through it, the shift in the seams of its currents and the sound of its waves on the beach. I know it as well as I know myself. I can find my way through it as easily as walking through the house in the dark. It's home.

We all have it. Home water. It might be a series of pools on a stream, a particular rip off a rock pile, miles of water along some tributary or wide open ocean. For some it might be water they grew up on, for others it may be the closest water to where they live. Regardless of where it is or how it came to be known, I'm a firm believer that we don't make it, it makes us. It makes us the angler that we are and that we will become. Flats, backwater, rips, offshore, inshore, structure...we may fish multiple environs but somewhere, in the midst of hours, days and seasons spent there,  we find a connection to a particular piece of water. It becomes a part of us and we become a part of it.

Somewhere in our home water we find those special spots.  The honey hole, the go-to spot, the Location X's; we all have names for a particular place that we've learned over time generally hold fish at a particular stage of tide, hatch or time of year. Some are shared, most are not. They become a very personal place, often for no other reason than they are places we feel completely in our element where we are free to fish for the sake of fishing. Sometimes we don't fish them at all, opting instead to just stand or sit there and observe, study and contemplate. These places remind us that not every day on the water has to be hardcore, badass and epic. It's fishing. That's all it is.

Location X

There is always other water to fish and new stories to find but nothing compares to those found at home.


South River , MA
10 November 2018

7:216

216 x 2 = 432

Four hundred and thirty-two…that’s how many anglers registered for last week’s Cheeky SchoolieTournament. Think of it this way, between 0600hrs and 1430hrs, just from the tournament participants, there was close to three quarters of a mile of fly rods throwing approximately 8.59 miles of fly line on Cape Cod. At the buzzer over 9000 inches of striped bass were caught, recorded by photo, released and entered into the tournament. Who knows how many total fish/inches of fish were actually caught. Based on what The Beast (the other half of Team Dirt Bag) and I saw, the number  blows my mind.

 

Cheeky CEO Ted Upton

The rules are simple. Two anglers per team, fly rod only, wade-fishing on Cape Cod only, the largest four fish are recorded by camera with tape measure and photo puck and all are released. The tourney is billed as “a low barrier to entry, grass roots style event designed to encourage the interest and growth of saltwater fly fishing.” What does that mean? It means anyone with a fly rod can enter and stands a chance to be in the group of top rods at the end of the day. All those who fish regardless of whether they are an industry pro, guide, weekend warrior or newbie all start out from the same place, endure the same wind, weather, water and tide conditions and are all subject to the fish either being here in force or not. Off-season intel development, pre-fishing, and rolling the dice on whether to fish one spot hard or keep moving…that’s up to each team. Home-water status by being a Cape resident – that’s just life, man.

This year was the seventh running of the tournament. I’ve been at all of them. The first year there were about thirty of us standing in the dirt parking lot of a beach bar as the sun rose over the Bass River. It started out really as a group of friends going out to catch as many small fish as possible to raise a few bucks for conservation and charity groups. It has evolved into the world’s largest catch-and-release fly fishing only tournament. At this point in history, based on what science tells us, there may be an argument to be made that it has become the largest event of its kind in the universe.

But seriously, the whole thing was created to be a season opener, to bring fly anglers together for a fun day and generate some enthusiasm for our sport over a few beers while raising money and awareness to benefit our fisheries. Judging by the turnout this year, and the joint $3000.00 donation to Stripers Forever by Cheeky and the American Fly Fishing Trade Association at the end of the day, the mission was accomplished again this year and expectations exceeded.

The size of the tournament may have grown, but from the beginning, at its heart, it was about the fish and about each other.

It still is.

Well done.

Cape Cod, MA

25 May 2018