Soul Music

A couple of weeks ago my daughter told me that she wanted to audition for a solo or duet for her last chorus concert of the school year. As we talked about it, one of her comments was something akin to “I want to make some noise going out of the eighth grade.” I smiled to myself because although I was a “band geek” up until the tenth grade, I have never been musically endowed. I smiled again to myself thinking of all the years she and I have sung Jimmy Buffet, Lynrd Skynrd, Kenny Chesney and Eagles songs at the top of our lungs in the truck and on the boat. She may not have received musical talent from me but she has a pretty extensive working knowledge of classic rock and country music.

Abby made it happen. She and a classmate were given a duet solo in the classic “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” On the drive to Maine yesterday for the concert I was as nervous for her as I had been for myself in any ski race I was ever in. But as the chorus took the stage I could see in her eyes the confidence she had in herself and the fire to get up there and put it all out there in front of the audience. She rocked it. I was proud beyond words, not just of her performance but maybe more so of her doing it for herself.

I have seen huge advances, particularly this year, in her self-confidence as she has become more involved with chorus so I was not surprised. As a parent you want your kids to find something that is their “thing.” As much as you want at times to steer them toward something, all you can really do is sit back and let it happen. I was a little surprised last week when she was down for the weekend and told me she wanted to catch a striped bass…on the fly. She has fished with me a lot over the years but I think more to appease me than because she really wanted to. So I always offer but never push.

This time was different. As we got geared up to go down to the river, she commented about how much she missed going to the fly shows this past year and seeing all my fishing friends and that she wants to fish more so she understands what it is that I do and how all the flies that I tie work for different fish.  She has been the one person who has never questioned the fishing or the fly tying business. In fact one night shortly after her mother and I split up we were sitting on the couch watching a movie and she looked over at the tying bench and asked me why I wasn’t tying. I told her that I wasn’t sure I was going to do it anymore. She just looked at me and said, “Dad, it’s not something you do, it’s who you are. It’s your thing.” From an eight year old. That’ll choke you up.

So Abby and I put on the rubber boots and went to the river. We had talked about working on casting a bit but there was pretty good breeze in our faces so I told her I would do the casting and the rest was up to her. I would make the cast and hand her the rod and she would strip the line. It was slow but she kept at it and asked all the right questions about retrieves and line management.

As we stood there I thought about how fast she is growing up and how much of a young lady she has become. The last year has been tough with her living in Maine, not being there every night to hear about what she learned that day or to help her figure something out. And I again thought about how I’ve seen her come into her own this year and how singing and chorus have been a part of that. Having a knack for remembering obscure things I thought of a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote I saw somewhere:

 

“Music takes us out of the actual and whispers to us dim secrets that startle our wonder as to who we are, and for what, whence and whereto.”

I stood there in the sun, on the bank of the river, in my favorite place in the world, with my daughter, fishing and started contemplating the commonalities between the art of music and the art of fly fishing. This was interrupted by a strike on the fly. Abby missed the fish but she now knew what the take felt like. We talked about what do when she felt it again and I made another cast.

She stripped the line and I Googled the definition of music on my iPhone. I know, web browsing while fishing – not cool – but the idea for writing this happened at that exact moment and I needed to keep it rolling.

One definition I read was “an art of sound in time that expresses ideas and emotions in significant forms through elements of rhythm, melody, harmony and color.” I was on to something. The expression of ideas and emotions…yup, nailed it there. The act of casting is all about rhythm. Reading the water, accounting for wind and light, making the cast, presenting the fly…it becomes a melody. For it all to work, it has to all happen in harmony. And color…well everyone knows its chartreuse. Except here in Dog Town it’s a number 2 orange Charlie.

So I stood there trying to save all this garbage in my mind to write down as soon as we got back to the Jeep. I made another cast and as I handed Ab the rod she felt that tug, surprised me with a little unrehearsed strip strike and was tight to her first stripe!

We made a few more casts but it was not to be. We walked back to the Jeep and cranked some Kid Rock on the way up the hill.

I hope that in music and singing Abigail finds what I have found in fly fishing. The gift of both is in finding yourself.

North River, MA

4 June 2014

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