Goombata

Joe Cordeiro. I first met him 16 or 17 years ago. I was a newcomer to the world of fly fishing and was stumbling around the aisles of The Fly Fishing Show in Marlborough, MA captivated by the rows of fly rods and shiny reels and mesmerized by the images of anglers in far-away places holding fish I had never seen before. With little knowledge of basically anything to do with fly fishing I kept to myself and moved quickly to avoid any conversation that might reveal my ignorance. I loaded my backpack with catalogs, magazines, brochures, pamphlets, business cards…the beginning of my library to educate myself about this new addiction.

Eventually I made my way to the rows of fly tiers. This was before I had any thought of tying flies, much less becoming a commercial tier. I walked down an aisle and watched trout flies being tied, deceivers and bonefish flies being twisted and then I saw this guy with a dozen people crowded around his table whipping around all kinds of crazy looking feathers and tying them on a hook. I had never seen anything like these flies. I must have stood there for thirty minutes watching him, taking a step closer to the table every time someone moved along. Eventually I was standing right there in front of him. As he finished a fly he looked up at me and started asking me where I fished and what I fished for. It turned out he was also from the south shore and he talked to me about places to try, when to go and what to throw for flies. I asked him questions about the flies he was tying, materials and where to take tying lessons. At the end of this first meeting he asked me my name and shook my hand. I learned later that Joe is known as "the guy" when it comes to the flat wing style of fly tying. The next year at the show I walked up to his table and the first thing he said was, “Hey Mike, how was your season?”  

We’ve been friends ever since.

Over the years as I became more involved with fly tying we would run into each other at shows and events and talk about flies, fishing and the politics of both.  At the end of each meeting we talked about life and our kids and for the last decade we’ve talked about fishing together but have never actually done it. We had the same conversation at the last show we did this spring but this year it was more serious because he recently moved across the river from where I live. We agreed there were no excuses.

So today I had the opportunity and privilege of fishing with one of my fly tying mentors, a true master of the flat-wing style and one of my great friends. I’ve been fishing for the last couple of weeks and have been on the stripes a fair amount. The hot color has been orange. We agreed to meet at a spot and fish the outgoing tide over some mud. When I parked the Jeep the thermometer said forty-seven degrees and the wind was howling. I had hoped for no wind so there would be the chance to sight-cast as the fish moved over the flat. That clearly was not going to happen so we made a plan and stepped into the water. It was brisk to say the least. And with gusts up to about twenty knots in our face casting was a challenge. I was starting to feel that black and white varmint creeping up on us. I was getting nervous because I was fishing with one of my idols, someone I have learned so much from about building flies and fishing them. And I had told him that we would find fish and that they would eat orange flies.

I moved us with the tide and we threw our orange flies as best we could into the wind and we waited for the fish. About the time my body started shivering to maintain ninety-eight degrees they showed up. 

I tapped the first one.

Joe found some love on a sweet long cast that the wind shortened to thirty feet.

For just shy of an hour we had fish. 

And they ate orange flies.

The fish moved on, the wind picked up and we walked back to the vehicles. As is the custom, we spent the last twenty minutes talking about restaurants, jobs and kids.

Until next time, old friend.

North River, MA

23 May 2015

For My Grandfather

Teaching us to tell time by the ring of the church bells

Milk shakes at Minnie’s and ice cream cups at the VFW

Road Runner, Wild Kingdom, Wheel of Fortune and peanuts in the glass dish

The smell of K-1 in the shed and tires in the warehouse

Rainy afternoons on the porch and the Red Sox on the radio

Weekends at Camp and red hot dogs over wood fires

Hours and hours teaching me to tie my own shoes

Telling me swimming lessons would help later in life

Teaching us to row the tin boat and paddle a canoe

Those rocket sleds you gave Georgia and I at Christmas and the rides we had

Showing me where the perch were and how to handle a pickerel

Sharing Dairy-Joy with Pepper in the backseat of that old green car

Discussing who was most underrated; Remy or Burleson

Being there for concerts, races and collecting coins

Paddling the canoe beside me on training swims and saying

“Aren’t you glad you took those swimming lessons now?”

High school and college graduations saying you knew I could do it

Asking to see my badge and gun and putting on my shoulder rig

All quickly done when my mother left the room

Listening to your stories of service at sea and what war really means

Your silent worrying while I was on the street and in the shadows

Late night calls to Mom to make sure I got off the mountain or the water

Explaining to you why baitfish flies don’t look like “flies”

Your words after my first article was published

Watching you hold my daughter for the very first time

Seeing you with her when we visit

Listening to you tell her things you told me

And this past Christmas with the whole family there

Making jokes like you always have and the joy in your eyes

Of having your life in one room, all together…one last time

Much of my life has been spent far away

And though I’ve been gone in my own way I’m still there

For what you gave made me strong and guides me well 

Your words and wisdom from where I began

Shall not be forgotten as I continue on toward the sun

Rest now Grampa and watch from above until that day

I’ll see you on the other side

13 April 2015
North River, MA

Blind Casts

I’ve come to these places dozens of times since the last fish headed south in November.

On clear bright days to feel the sun reflect off the water.

In advance of storms to breath in that haunting silence that occurs just before the first snowflake falls. 

In the bitter cold when nothing moves.

In the midst of blizzards to listen to the rage and fury of wind and water and be reminded that as much as we try to push her back, Mother Nature will always be more powerful.     

To watch the sun rise and paint the fresh canvas that She always leaves behind.

I come to these places because even in the off season they are part of my day, of most of what I do, of nearly every thought. Thoughts of sweet long casts to the skinny water in the back corner, schoolies racing out from behind pilings to crush a topwater, happy fish sipping on a shrimp hatch at the edge of the grass…the possibility of the next cast.

Winter has passed. Spring begins.

Bring it.

North River, MA

30 March 2015

Whiskey

Whiskey. It’s one of his handles, no pun intended. His true name given to him at birth is Richard.

We became friends not long after I started my fly business and he started guiding on Boston Harbor. We met through our involvement in a now defunct conservation group; he at the state level and I from a local chapter. The first email I received from him began with “Dude, …” I knew we would get along just fine.

We were the youngsters in the group and structured meetings to include time for fried food, beer and long discussions of pointless matters deemed more relevant to mankind as the beer count increased. Things like fly color versus profile, the Kobayashi Maru test, dollar values of a hitter’s slugging percentage and of course the question of Ginger or Mary Ann.

And there was the time he and his brother and I sat behind Gov. Bill Richardson at Fenway. A side note for those playing at home, the governor pitched a season in the Cape League in the 60’s. We spent most of the game trying to talk him into going fishing with us. Relentlessly. It was before I Phones and a year before YouTube came on the scene which is unfortunate because it was one of our finer performances.

Richard is one of those guys I only see once in a while but know if I ever need something, he will have my back. Ours is a friendship born from fishing and forged on the search for another story. Because of schedules it’s been a couple of years since we’ve been on the water together but we stay up to date through electronic devices. I look forward to the next quest.

2006 was one of the years that blue fin tuna were everywhere and one of the last years that “footballs”  and “schoolies” were mixed in thick. I had built some flies for these smaller fish based on the bait and conditions that Richard had been running into while chasing them. I kept waiting for the call that he or one of his clients had hooked up to one using my flies but getting a fly into the face of a fish moving so fast through acres of bait, well, it’s not as easy as one might think. He invited me to find out for myself on Labor Day that year.

We left the dock just before sunrise and made the run offshore in near perfect conditions. We got to the numbers Richard had been fishing the previous few days and powered down to look for birds. It didn’t take long. We found the fish and eased up to the edge of the school. I had never seen anything like it. Tuna were breaking the surface everywhere from thirty pounds to three hundred. I reached for the fly rod and watched these fish as I stripped line out. This is where, in fishing vernacular, I lost my shit. Very much like tarpon or albie fishing, I lost all motor skills and ability to process thoughts. I managed a feeble twenty foot cast and Richard suggested I use a spinning rod for the first one. I quickly secured the fly rod and grabbed a spinning rod. It was set up for a left hand retrieve. I retrieve with my right hand. In the chaos of the moment I didn’t see this as insurmountable. I was wrong.

I made my first cast and watched the SPRO popper snap off and disappear. Richard handed me another rod. Next cast same thing. Richard shut the power down and quietly went about setting up a rod for a right hand retrieve with a Deadly Dick attached to it. The mood was tense. He handed me the rod and in a mix of four letter words and something about twenty dollars told me not to lose anymore gear.

We caught up to the fish and Richard got the boat in close. I made several casts without losing metal and started to regain control of my body. A few more casts and I was on. It felt like I had hooked a car on the Red Line between North Quincy and JFK. The first run the fish made reminded me that I used to be an athlete and that I might want to get back on the fitness program. The whole time I was bringing the fish in we were surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands of blue fin porpoising and crashing bait. It was surreal. It took about twenty-five minutes to get the fish boat side. Richard tailed it, brought it in and guessed it to be about forty pounds. It had felt at least twice that size in the water. I’m a catch and release guy but when Richard asked me if I wanted to keep it I said I had to keep this fish.

With a fish in the box we caught up with the tuna again and fished the school for the next couple of hours. I knew there was no way I was going to be successful with the fly rod so I stayed on the spinning gear. At one point Richard made a few casts and we doubled up. The stress of losing the tackle and my mind earlier now diminished, we ran around the boat passing rods back and forth singing 80’s hair band songs and giggling like school girls. I don’t normally keep score but on that day I did. Five tuna hooked, three boated.

We ran back to Wollaston Beach to pick up Richard’s son, Justin, and spent a couple of hours trying to get him on some striped bass. I made a few casts but spent most of that time sipping a beer and replaying images of those tuna ripping through the water.

By three o’clock we were toast and pulled the boat and went back to Richard’s house. Our friend, Eric Kulin, arrived to cut up my fish while I washed down the boat. The work done, we all sat in the late afternoon sun eating sashimi and drinking beer as I told Eric about catching that first one. Later, a glass of whiskey in my hand, I sat there listening to Richard tell the story of the day and thought of those fish and of my friends. I realized that over time the memory of those fish will fade and perhaps be forgotten. These friendships will not.

It’s the people that make the memory.

 

Photo from Boston Fishstix Facebook page.

 For bass, blues, albies, tuna and recommendations for a proper whiskey, check out:

 Capt. Richard Armstrong and Boston Fishstix

 Capt. Eric Kulin and Snap Shot Charters

From the snowbank

16 Feb 2015