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

Changes in Latitude

I have the coolest friends. I recently returned from a five day trip to the Florida Keys that three of my friends put together and told me when to show up at the airport. Scott Wessels of The Bears Den, one of the first people in Fly World to get behind my flies and who has supported me more than anyone over the years both on and off the vise. Scott wasn’t making this trip but thought I needed a change of scenery. Fellow Mainer Joe Babino who I met on a shark fishing trip with Cheeky Fly Fishing last year, now an ex-pat living on Grassy Key with his fiancée Lindsay. Joe reps for Cheeky and Diablo Paddlesports when he’s not working on his own business, Wikdfly, and a real job. And Sam Demarco who I met when he worked at The Bears Den. Also a New England ex-pat, Sam now lives in Jupiter and has become one of the most talented fly tiers I know and owns Aqueous Flies.

In the weeks leading up to the trip I had replayed visions of tarpon, reds, lemon sharks, jacks…basically everything…at the end of my fly line. Standing at Logan looking at the Departures sign and watching the rest of the travelers staring into their mobile devices, I put aside expectations, catch lists, grip-and-grin photo ops and blog ideas. I get enough of the “pressure to perform” fifty hours a week. This trip was about fishing, learning new things and being with friends.  

Sam picked me up in Miami and we headed south for Mile Marker 58 on the road to paradise. Since we are both fly nerds, we talked about flies, materials, hooks and techniques basically the entire way.

We met up with Joe at Florida Keys Outfitters in Islamorada, got the latest wind report and headed for Joe’s place on Grassy Key. Joe’s dog Hank greeted me like a long lost friend and I was introduced to Bruce, the newest member of the clan. Bruce wasn’t much into tennis balls.

Joe and Lindsay basically live in Paradise. Their backyard is a beach. My mornings before everyone got up were spent sitting in a chair staring at the water with Hank.

Once the dogs settled down, we rigged rods, loaded the gear and cooler into the boat and splashed it at a ramp just a short way down the road. We headed out as the sun began to drop with the plan of fishing dock lights for snook and jacks. The wind and snook were not overly cooperative but the jacks were.

One late afternoon we decided to head to Key West to fish in the lee provided by the waterfront. We found a group of really angry jacks around the pilings and did battle with them for quite awhile. And then the angels sang. We floated around a pier next to one of the restaurants and as we turned the corner, there they were, tarpon between twenty and a hundred pounds rolling under the dock lights. I was standing on the bow and without stopping to think I dropped a back cast in under the pier and stripped my fly into the light. It happened so quickly I didn’t have time to think, I just went on autopilot. A forty pound poon slammed my fly, I strip set the hook, bowed to the beast as it cleared the water 3 times and just kept telling myself not to think. Joe and Sam scrambled around trying to capture everything on video on their phones. I got the fish boat side and as I stepped off the bow platform to reach for the fish I raised the tip of my rod. The fish jumped again and with the change in angle it spit the fly. I was pissed at myself and disappointed the video did not come out but as I cracked a beer and watched Sam casting at more fish, I was thankful for the time the tarpon gave me and that my friends had been a part of it. We messed with those fish for hours. Sam was relentless and was treated to a lot of follows and several hits as was Joe, but in the end the fish won. They had caught us.

The wind continued to be a factor over the next few days. We covered a lot of water in the backcountry off Cudjoe, in and around Tom’s Harbor, Key Colony and some places that didn't show on the chart...probably because it was dark out and two guys from Maine were navigating. We even set up one afternoon with chum for sharks and had a great slick going drawing all sorts of bait into it. Things were looking good but then the lights went out. Visibility in the water was virtually non-existent so we never saw any shark in the slick but I’m pretty sure something came in and shut it down.

We didn’t go fishless. We managed a few snapper or small ‘cuda each day. That was fine with me; I don’t get to catch them every day.

Our last full day of fishing was spent on the flats off Key West. We saw a lot more life than we had in the previous days. Bonnetheads, a few reds, a few tarpon, rays with jacks in tow. At one point we were pretty sure we had permit close by but couldn’t get close enough for a good shot.

We gave those tarpon under the lights one more try before we left Key West that night. Sam gave a noble effort; they just were not going to eat. I’m pretty sure we needed to have a deep fried fly or some MSG to get them to chew.

It wasn’t all fishing. Lindsay works as a trainer at Dolphin Connection at Hawk’s Cay and invited us to meet the dolphins. Being face to face with these amazing creatures never gets old. Once you look into a dolphin’s eye you are never the same.

And before leaving we had to make a stop at Robbie’s to feed the tarpon. I was supposed to not only get bit but surrender my forearm to the tarpon of Sam’s choosing. Although I will tell you I’m fearless, I am in fact not and I couldn’t do it. I did however get bit by the damn pelicans.

Sam and I headed out after Robbie’s for the airport. On the way we stopped in South Miami to check out some urban fishing behind a mall.

We had been told this was a good place for a shot at some peacock bass. Just as Sam was relentless with the Key West tarpon, so he was with a couple of peacocks we spotted along the bank of the canal. He spent twenty minutes literally face to face with those two fish and finally got one to eat steel, a fitting way to end a great trip with good friends.

As I stared out the window into the darkness on the flight back to Boston I replayed the images of the trip in my mind. I’ve been on fishing trips to a lot of really cool places but this one will always stand out. Conditions were tough, fish were hard to find but we made it up as we went along and had a blast. I thought of a sign I saw at the end of Blimp Road.

Adventure begins where the road ends.

Adventures with these guys will continue. I look forward to every minute.

Thank you Scott, Joe, Lindsay and Sam!

Grassy Key, FL

18 Nov 2013

Euclid and Bluefish

I didn’t get it at first either. You’re asking yourself what the hell do Euclid and bluefish have in common and how does Mike Rice even know who Euclid was? I’ll answer the latter and explain the former.

I was first introduced to Euclid while on a trip with my Latin Club to Italy when I was a junior in high school. My Latin teacher, Mr. Kothe, invited me to have a beer one afternoon while we were in Venice to talk about scholarly things. We sat at a café on the edge of the Grand Canal drinking a Bavarian Spezial talking about life, knowledge and a girl that I thought the world revolved around. Mr. Kothe imparted to me passages from several poets about unrequited love and fools and ended with one of Euclid’s Common Notions:

“Things equal to the same thing are also equal to one another.”

We waited for another beer and he told me, “Someday Mr. Rice…not this day, but someday…Euclid will make sense to you, you will understand and you will find your way.”

He was right but it took me until sometime in my mid twenties to fully understand what it meant and why he said it at that time. Euclid may have been a math geek two thousand plus years ago but he was dialed in. Like so many things that Mr. Kothe taught me that seemed obscure at the time, I carry that concept with me and think of it often as I try to figure out life.

To explain the commonality between Euclid’s aforementioned postulate and bluefish, I have to tell another story before I get to the relevance of bluefish. I grew up on a farm in the hills of western Maine in a family that hunted. We hunted not for the “sport” of it but to put meat on the table. Hunting skills and the ways of the woods were handed from generation to generation. Opening day on the year I turned of legal hunting age was overcast and cold. I was nervous as we stepped over the fence of our field into the woods. I had gone with dad before and walked the woods and observed as he hunted but this time was different. That first day I couldn’t seem to do anything right. I tripped over every stick, log and rock. I made excruciatingly loud noises as I passed through the brush, got stuck in mud and I think I dropped my rifle a time or two. All of these blunders were met with that look, the one that I always tried to avoid getting from him. In the afternoon he sat me on a rock at the top of a bowl as he went below to hopefully push a deer out of the thicket back toward me. It seemed like hours that I sat there. It got colder, it started to rain…I just wanted to go home. Eventually he made his way back and we moved to the edge of a field. After discussing fields of fire and safety issues, he sat at one corner of the field and me at another. I kept looking over at him hoping he would get up and give me the sign to head for home. The dude never moved for the rest of the afternoon. At all. I thought I would lose my mind but there was no way I would show any sign that I was miserable. Years later he would tell me that his favorite part of hunting had nothing to do with hunting at all, it was just being out there away from everything complicated. He said that some of his best days hunting were days he didn’t see any deer.

Fast forward to late summer of 2006. Dad came down to Marshfield to visit and I wanted to take him fishing. We had never fished together much when I was growing up and other than a few head-boat trips he had never really fished on the ocean. At the time I was seven years into my fly fishing addiction, had a boat, all the gear and a ton of time on the water. I had spent countless hours alone on the water, in the sun, the rain, even in the snow pursuing my love of fly fishing. I wanted him to experience some of that. I wanted to show him my boat handling skills, knowledge of the rivers and parts of the ocean I called home and my ability to read the water and find fish. I had engine issues on my boat that hadn’t been fixed yet so my buddy Scott Washburn offered to take us out in his boat.

We met Scott at sunrise at the dock and we headed for the mouth of the river where we hoped to find some bluefish that had been hanging around. On the ride downriver I showed dad how to operate the bail on my spinning rod (yes I own one) and went over casting and what to expect if a bass or blue hit the Deadly Dick I had tied on. We got to a section of boulder fields at the mouth as the tide turned and started dropping. Birds were working over feeding fish and Scott got us right into them. The water was rough and we were getting bounced around but I didn’t think anything of it. I handed dad the spinning rod, put him in the bow and watched him make the first cast as I started casting my fly rod from the stern. I went tight to a blue as dad made another cast that ended with the line in a bird’s nest. I’ll be honest; I said a few four letter words under my breath when I saw that mess of line on the spool. I looked over at him as I put the blue onto the reel and for an instant saw the look upon his face that must have been on my face all those years ago in the woods. At that moment I realized that those looks were not so much directed at me as at himself, a realization that maybe things had not been explained or taught as completely as had been thought. I too had experienced moments like that with my daughter. Now I understood.

I hauled my blue in, released it, put my rod away and attacked the mess of line on the spinning rod. It wasn’t that bad and I had dad back fishing quickly. I stayed with him, talking him through the cast and the retrieve. He went tight to his first bluefish after a few casts and I will never forget the look on his face. One of surprise, joy and confusion all mixed together. He hooked a couple more blues and I noticed the look on his face was turning to one of anxious desperation and green tones. In my excitement to get him on fish I hadn’t even considered the conditions and his lack of experience being in a boat in two to three foot waves. The old man was getting seasick and having inherited his stubbornness and pride I knew he wouldn’t say anything. I released the blue he had on and told Scott I wanted to run inside to look for some bass. Once we got in on flat water dad looked a lot better and came back to life.

Later that day we sat on my stone patio drinking beer in the sun and I told him that my favorite part of fishing has nothing to do with catching fish, that I just love being on the water away from everything and that some of my best days on the water were days I didn’t catch a thing. I watched him with my daughter and thought about the events of that morning. Was this an example of history repeating itself? Had he and I in some way come full circle? In my world on the water had I become the teacher and he the student?  

I was driving home from work a few nights ago when dad called me to say that he had just finished dressing out a six point buck he had shot. He proceeded to tell me the story, how he had sat silently in his field in the cold and the wind waiting and watching for almost two hours for that buck to show. I totally understood the why and the significance.

I sit here on the river as I finish writing this and look out at the mouth where dad caught his first bluefish. Hunting to my father is what fishing is to me. And while we have had differences over the years, in many ways we are the same.

Euclid was right.

North River, MA

10 Nov 2013