Two Cents

It’s been a while.

Winter is finally over and spring is beginning to grace New England. The last couple of months have been jamb-packed with lining up work for the summer at the real job, seeing my daughter as much as I can and tackling the spring fly shop orders at the vise. There never seems to be enough time to do what needs to be done, what should be done and what I’d like to do. Managing that chess game of life weighs heavy on my mind as I work each night and watch today become tomorrow. Somewhere in the fog of it all are memories of lessons learned along the way about making choices, about often times having to give up one thing to be able to do another. And about responsibility.

I grew up in a family owned construction company and started by scrapping jobs out. I remember staring at a seemingly endless pile of everything that needed to be cleaned out of a kitchen so the finish guys could start cabinets the next morning and my dad telling me that my job was as important as the carpenters job because if I didn’t do mine, they couldn’t do theirs. And then before he went back to being my boss he imparted on me this concept that but for a few lapses I have carried with me in everything I have ever done. It went something like this: No matter what you’re doing, in every part of your life, think about what you’re doing now and how it will affect what you have to do next. And then think about how all that will affect what other people around you are doing now and what they have to do next. And then plan accordingly.

I spend a lot of time reading about fisheries conservation, particularly that of the striped bass. It’s a subject I was once very involved with and vocal about but admittedly I became frustrated with the constant arguments and publicly shied away from it resigning myself to quietly supporting individuals and groups more adept and equipped to explain and progress the issue in public forums. But knowing that in a few weeks social media will be loaded with pictures of dead striped bass, I thought I'd freestyle a bit. The bottom line is that the population of wild striped bass is on the edge of collapse just as it was thirty years ago. I can’t back it up with scientific data and fancy equations…I’m just not that smart. But I’ve seen it. Inshore and offshore, I’ve watched it over the last decade. Everyone I fish with has observed the same thing. And anyone who spends time on the water every week during the New England season, if they’re honest with themselves, has seen it as well.

Discussions (arguments) regarding the who, what and why for the blame of the current state of stripes usually leads to the various state and federal “agencies” tasked with “managing” various fisheries. And then it spreads out among 3 groups; commercial fishermen, recreational fishermen and those who believe the striped bass should be a game fish. The bottom line is we are all to blame - for the population crash and for the wasted time in doing too little to protect what is left of striped bass stocks and to allow for re-population while the blame-game is played. I go back to my dad’s words about “think about what you’re doing right now…”

I have no issue with commercial fishermen harvesting striped bass if the stock supports it but I do have issues with some of the ways it’s done. And I think common sense dictates that if the total number of catchable fish is dwindling than harvest quotas need to be reduced accordingly. I do have issue with the number of people who have commercial licenses and call themselves “commercial fishermen.” I’m sorry but if you don’t make a significant portion of your annual income as a fisherman, than you’re not a commercial fisherman. Going to a baseball fantasy camp every summer for two weeks does not make one a major leaguer.

Recreational fishermen are as much on the proverbial hook as anyone. And I’m one of them. I’ve changed the way I fish and handle fish for release. I fish strictly catch and release now but I have in the past kept legal sized stripers. And I cringe at the thought of how I used to handle fish, the old photos of holding a fish up by the jaw or grabbing one by the gills...now I put as much or more effort into safely and quickly releasing a stripe as I do in catching one. I’ve stopped fishing with some people because of the “Bassmasters hook-and-haul” technique they employ and I’ve come close to all out fist-fights with people dragging a fish over rocks and through sand and mud and then actually throwing the fish back into the water.

Here in Massachusetts we have a recreational “bag limit” of two fish over 28”. This should be changed to one fish and the length increased to at least 32”, maybe 36”. This makes clear sense to protect brood stock and in all fairness, if commercial quotas are cut, so should the recreational bag limit. The commercial quota here in the Commonwealth is set at 1.15 million pounds. According to NOAA there are an estimated 897,000 (really?) annual recreational saltwater anglers who fish in Massachusetts – at a daily limit of two fish at an average of 10.3 pounds each, well do the math.

Guides and charter boat captains have an opportunity here as well to promote catch-and-release or at the least encourage the reduction in the number of fish taken. Not to mention ending the numbers game that is played using each of the potential “fish holders” on a trip. You know what I’m saying.

Poaching. We’ve all seen it. We all know it goes on. To each his own but do it around me and I’ll drop a dime, take a photo and then introduce myself.

Striped bass as a game fish. I would hate to see the way of life of a commercial striped bass fisherman end, but I do support the initiative.

The bottom line is that the fate of the striped bass (and I acknowledge there are other fisheries that need to be addressed) is not solely in the hands of regulatory commissions and bureaucrats, it’s in the hands of all of us who fish for them.

There are some sources and programs to note here for solid information and progressive action.

John McMurray, read his blogs at Reel-Time under Fisheries Conservation

One Anglers Voyage

Facebook group 1@32 Pledge

Release A BreederClub: Stripers Forever

Like so many things in this world now we each have to make decisions to ensure that there is something left for our kids and future generations.

No matter what you’re doing, in every part of your life, think about what you’re doing now and how it will affect what you have to do next. And then think about how all that will affect what other people around you are doing now and what they have to do next. And then plan accordingly.

What we do right now doesn’t just affect our own lives in the moment, it determines the future.

North River, MA

29 April 2014

My Desiderata

It’s been a long winter. The lack of exposure to direct natural light has left my mind as blank as the white frozen landscape I’ve been staring at during the daily commute. I’ve sat down a hundred times since the last blog post with ideas and words close to pen but haven’t been able to translate them into anything intelligible, much less interesting. This got me to thinking a while back as to why am I writing a blog anyway?

This thought crept into my mind driving back from the Somerset Fly Fishing Show at the end of January. I found it so relevant that I drove most of the way home in silence thinking about it. I’m no stranger to long periods of silence, ask anyone who has known me longer than an hour. All I can say is I was born that way, been that way all my life and have stopped feeling self-conscious about it. Now I find it amusing in a Louis CK kind of way. At the show my friend Steve made a comment to me about my signature fashion statement…the two of you reading this who know me know where this is going…the work boots and the scruffy unshaven face. He was totally complimentary in commenting on it and added that it takes confidence to rock that look. It’s most likely psychologically rooted in the opposite but after twenty five years it’s become comfortable and more or less permanent. Over beers with other friends that night, again being complimentary, he said that my presence in social media and the blog-o-sphere is interesting because it's contradictory to his perception of me. I think the word enigma was used. I’m cool with it.

During the fly shows this off season many people commented to me in person about this blog. Some said they really liked it and my “style of writing” and some wanted to know why I don’t blog about fly tying and more “how to” topics instead of, and I quote, “Hallmark Channel stuff.” My reason for starting the blog was to make observations about the people I’ve met on the water, the places I’ve been and the things I’ve seen. The things that at the end, just before the lights go out, I hope I remember. There are a million people posting fly tying tutorials and videos. I do periodically post pictures of flies over on Facebook and yes it’s in part to promote my business but I try to slide in some obscure humor and 70’s and 80’s music reference with them just to break up the monotony of the day. As far as the “how to” stuff, it’s not going to happen. I’m no expert at fly tying or fly fishing; I’m pretty much making this shit up as I go.

At the last show I did a bunch of us got together at the pub afterward and drank the night away talking about all things related and unrelated to fly fishing. Fly tiers, guides, industry people…friends that I see only a few times a year but people I know would be there with just a phone call if I needed something. My friend D.W. and I had a conversation about the whole social media thing, its impact on certain fisheries, continuous posting of flies on the vice, blitzes in real time, grip and grins, Freudian parallels, the amount of time messaging, posting and emailing necessary to keep up with its intoxication - pretty much everything. At last call, after consideration of all that had been discussed, D.W. coined a phrase for the upcoming fishing season:”Less correspondence, more fishing.” Indeed, sir.

But I do like to write. It’s a challenge to me. Somewhere in college I thought of pursuing journalism but turned away for fear of failure. At this point in my life and a number of failures under the bow, I realize fear of failure isn’t fear it’s an excuse not to do something. I may never conquer self-conceived fears in some aspects of my life, but in this arena, in observing the people, places and events that are part of my life on the backwaters I shall press on. But with more fishing I hope. So to those that have found some entertainment in reading my ramblings to date, I leave you with some 70’s Van Morrison…

And when that fog horn whistle blows you know I will be coming home

And when that fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it

I don’t have to fear it

I want to rock your gypsy soul

Just like way back in the days of old

And together we will float into the mystic…

The coast of somewhere beautiful

11 March 2014

H

Henry Godin.

You won’t find his name in some record list or “how-to” book. There haven’t been any articles written about him in the magazines or videos of him on YouTube. His is not one of those prolific names known at every boat ramp up and down the east coast. But within the ranks of the silent hardcore fly rodders on Boston’s South Shore and the Cape and Islands he is somewhat of a legend, sought out for up to date fishing reports, how to fish a certain area and tide and what fly he thinks is working the best. An argument could be made that his cell phone number is the equivalent of currency on Cape Cod Bay. The last time I fished with him he was on his phone as much as he was fishing.

I met Henry nine years ago. One mid-winter Sunday morning I received an email from him inquiring about flies on my website. I called him and learned he lived three miles up the road. Ten minutes later I was in his living room showing him flies and talking about fishing. He took me into the garage to show me his boat, a retirement gift to himself, a first generation Rothbuilt Fly Fishing Edition. He told me stories of fishing bait, spin gear, dragging wire…he’s done it all…and how he gave all that up when he found the fly rod. I spent two hours with Henry that day and we became fast friends.  

In their younger days he and his wife Jean were single engine pilots. They flew a lot in the Bahamas and the islands. Back in the hey-day of smugglers, lawyers, guns and money.  Their stories of those days are amazing and hilarious. They were not part of that scene, but Henry did learn a thing or two about bonefish which has paid off in spades.

In the years we have been friends I have fished with Henry every chance I get. Suffice it to say a great deal of what I know, I learned from him. There are three trips that stand out from all the others. Seven years ago we trailered his boat to Morehead City, NC to fish the fall false albacore run for a week. On the trip down, somewhere around Delaware I just started calling him “H”.  I think it was awkward for both of us at first but now I think he likes it. I told him it would keep him young.

Knowing my experience on the North and South Rivers, H spent a lot of time fishing me outside in the rock piles off North Scituate and Cohasset so I could learn those areas. We spent many days drifting the whitewater in between the ledges but there was one morning I will never forget. We had fished hard all morning with not much to show for it but H was positive there were fish in one particular hole in the rock. We must have drifted it a dozen times and I was losing interest so I started casting behind us on my back cast to another ledge. I should disclose that I’m pretty quiet. I don’t talk a lot, even less when I’m fishing. H is kind of the same way so we go long periods of time on the boat without saying a word. So…H just kept pounding away at that hole and I kept randomly blind casting. After about twenty minutes I heard H talking to himself. I turned and watched him haul a pig out of that hole in the rock. I was humbled as I watched another striper of similar size follow H’s fish to the boat and then swim away. Lesson learned.

Of all our days on the water, August 14, 2010 is my favorite. It was a near perfect day and we ran across Cape Cod Bay to Race Point off Provincetown. As was expected, the “fleet” was there dragging wire back and forth. We found an empty piece of water and started casting. We both hooked up on our first casts and both fish popped off after a few seconds. Second cast, same thing for both of us. I had tied the flies…not good. I checked both flies. Hook points were sharp, neither had been straightened, no visible problems. H hooked up on the next cast and me shortly thereafter. Both were keepers, a good way to start the day.

We fished that spot for a few more minutes but having seen us with a double hookup in the boat, the fleet moved in on us. We moved out of there around the corner to Peaked Hill Bar. There were no boats in view but no sign of birds, bait or fish either. We motored down the Bar for a while and decided to stop for coffee. As we sat there watching the water I could smell bluefish. H smelled it too. As I drained my cup of coffee I dropped some line off the bow and just as I picked the fly up to cast again the water exploded as a blue short hit the fly. The water around us was suddenly filled with five inch sand eels and bluefish. For the next hour we boated blues on nearly every cast. We put the first one to the boat on the Boga. Twelve pounds and the largest blue I had ever caught. They got bigger. It was epic. In fishing vernacular, it was a total shit show. H and I were running around the boat trying to avoid crossing lines, passing rods back and forth and changing out sixty pound mono bite tippet. The bluefish just kept coming in waves, each one more pissed off and fighting harder than the previous. The action slowed up a bit and H said he had to take a break. He had just turned sixty-eight and made some comment about these fish kicking his ass. I laughed and told him to eat a Snickers bar. A few minutes later he was back at it and putting the hurt on the yellow eyed devils. I watched him for a few minutes dropping hundred foot casts; battling those blues and made a wish that when I’m sixty-eight I have as much game as H does.

H called me at work the afternoon of July 13, 2012 from the boat. He had just caught his largest striped bass ever on the fly, forty-six inches in length and thirty-eight pounds, on a 9 weight. Listening to him tell me the story I wished I had been there. But he had caught it on one of my flies so in a way I was there.

It hasn’t all been fishing. H and his wife Jean have become part of my family. During my divorce they made weekly calls to check on me and my daughter, Jean would have me for dinner to “make sure you’re eating” and when I moved into the carriage house H was the one who helped me move. And every year at my birthday and Christmas there is something from them in the mail. They moved to the Cape a few years ago and I don’t get to see them as much but I think of them every day. And I look forward to the next day on the water.

The etymology of the Godin name goes back to the combination of “God” and “wine” meaning good friend and protector.

H.

Mentor, fishing partner, friend.

North River, MA

14 Jan 2014

The Gift

I wrote about this experience in my journal the day that it happened in the parking lot of Dunkin Donuts on my way home so I would not lose the feeling that it left me with. It was a year and a half ago but I think about the experience almost every day. I drove home from Maine this past weekend in the midst of everyone in New England out Christmas shopping and could not help but think that this day was one of the greatest gifts I’ve received.

I was introduced to Casting For Recovery a few years ago through my friendship with the then Massachusetts/Rhode Island Program Coordinator, Brenda Sears. In the time since I have donated product to CFR and supported different fundraising events but this year I decided to also volunteer as a “River Helper” at the MA/RI retreat at the St. George School in Newport, RI.

CFR was founded in 1996 by Dr. Benita Walton, a breast cancer reconstructive surgeon, and Gwenn Perkins, a professional casting instructor. The program started in Vermont and since has branched to chapters in nearly all fifty states with sister organizations in other countries. CFR offers two and a half day retreats at no cost to breast cancer patients and survivors. The primary goal of the program is to combine the physical and mental benefits of fly fishing with counseling and medical information. At the same time it provides these women a chance to create friendships with others like themselves, to hear about others journeys through treatment, the impact on their lives and to take on the challenge of learning something new together. For detailed information check out the CFR website.

The morning of the retreat I left my house just as the sun was beginning to rise in a crystal clear sky. On my way to throw fly lines all day, top down on the Jeep, Pat Green on the CD, a large coffee…I was feeling pretty good about everything. Just over the Rhode Island border it occurred to me that I was on my way to teach someone else how to cast a fly rod. Panic set in. I’ve never had a casting lesson. I’ve just watched other people and tried to mimic what they do. The bottom line is technically I suck at casting. I can get line out with a certain degree of accuracy and distance but it does not look pretty. Not at all. I spent the rest of the drive trying to recall every casting demonstration I’ve ever seen. It was hopeless. As I parked at the school I decided the best course of action was to just make it up as I went.

I met up with Brenda and the other River Helpers and while the ladies got their gear together I sat off to the side and listened to them joking with one another and telling stories. These women had been together for just a couple of days but already I could see that these friendships and bonds with one another would last a lifetime. In their voices and in their eyes I could see excitement. Excitement about learning how to fly fish but I think more so the excitement of moving on, not only personally but together, away from the demons each had endured battling this disease. Sitting there it became pretty apparent that the demons crawling around inside my head paled in comparison.

We drove a short distance to a fishable section of water and were introduced to our partners. I was paired with Lisa. As we walked down the beach to an open section of water I talked with Lisa about what she had learned so far about fly fishing and what her experience with fishing was. She told me she had no experience and no idea what to do. I laughed and told her that I was in the same position because I had never taught anyone to cast a fly rod but we would figure it out together and have her throwing line by the end of the morning.

Looking at the water I was not optimistic that there were any fish around. I explained to Lisa what I was looking for and not seeing in the water and we agreed that the morning should be about learning to cast and not so much about catching. I took the five weight and made a few casts breaking the cast down into basic components and terminology. I made a few more false casts, shot some line out on the forward cast and handed her the rod. She looked at me with a “I’m not sure I can do this” look. I told her that it’s kind of like learning to ride a bike, it seems awkward and impossible at first but once you figure out the balance part it just all works out and suddenly you’re doing it.

Lisa took the rod and started making casts. It took some time but she became comfortable with moving line in the air and was getting the basic mechanics down. In between my making suggestions, explaining the concept of loading the rod and how to manage line we talked about her life, her husband, family and friends and the support she had been given during her treatment. She told me how excited she had been to participate in the retreat to meet other survivors and to challenge herself to learn something new not just for her own sake but so that she could share it with her husband and son. The recurring comment was how grateful she was for all the support she had been given and how now, more than ever in her life she appreciated every minute of every day.

After a while she asked to take a break and handed me the rod. I made some casts, talking through the different phases of the casts and showing her how the rod loads. As I was doing this Lisa asked me about my life and why I love to fly fish. I talked about my daughter and fly fishing being the passions of my life and that without fly fishing to fill the time that I’m not with my daughter I would be truly lost. I explained that my time on the water and at the vise are not only physical acts but that the structure required by each gives format to my thoughts as I try to figure my life out. I described fly fishing as quite cerebral and compared it to chess. This is where I usually lose people and their eyes glaze over. Not Lisa, she reached for the rod and said, “So when you’re fishing or tying flies, you find balance.”  I could not have said it better.

As Lisa started casting again I saw something change. I noticed it first in her expression, more aware of the cast, more confident as line started to move through the guides. And then I saw it happen, she felt the rod load and line shot out on her last forward cast. I kept quiet and watched while she continued, as a smile came across her face with each cast. After a little more time she was shooting more and more line with each cast and to my amazement was throwing a pretty tight loop.

And then it was time to head back to the school for lunch and for the ladies to receive their certificates. Lisa made a final cast, dropped thirty feet of line on her forward cast and handed me the rod. As we walked back up the beach I congratulated her on what she had done and told her that I had learned more about casting a fly rod in a few hours with her than I had in all my years of fly fishing. She smiled at me and said, “It’s like anything in life that seems difficult, you just have to take it step by step and keep at it.”

A moment later she grabbed my arm and added, “It’s all about finding balance, like riding a bike.”

As we sat in the dining hall at lunch and through the awards ceremony I thought of those words and I thought of what these women had gone through physically and mentally and emotionally. Life had thrown them something that knocked them down. But they got back on the proverbial bike and are riding the hell out of it.

Balance.

2012 CFR MA/RI Retreat

Strong lessons from strong women.

Thank you, Lisa.

From The Isle of Rhode

10 June 2012