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

    

One Day in May

 Miles and separate roads limit shared adventures but not connection

A day here a day there building sacred fraternal kinship

The idea of just one fish binding both together

This day on the water an escape from social ebb and flow

Footprints fill from nowhere as lines straighten in the air

Talk turns to what needs sharing to stabilize each keel

Respite comes in shared silence staring at the liquid edge

Broken conversation in between one catch and the next

Each story different in minutia but familiar in the sum

Sharing disillusionment with life’s veneer but fascinated by its grit

Sorting through lived memories while holding demons at the gate

Not seeking resolution just an understanding of old pain

Alone in silent quicksand of struggle, time and thought

Unaware of feeling lonely or left behind but sometimes not

Floating in the company of ghosts contrived outside the walls  

Or those self-created and held down deep in the mirror fore

Tangled in the battle between the darkness and the light

Finding steadfast refuge in the shadows at the edge

Washed in the wonder of uncertainty between the question and the answer

Somewhere between faith and fate selflessly honest in the quest

Yearning to bleed on the blank page if only for the self

Grounded in the knowledge that achievement is often anonymous

Apathetic of the limelight and its constructs so many seem to seek

Submerged in desperate hunger for the tinder which lights its flame

Grasping fledgling embers while they kindle heart and soul

Finding bits of clear direction in the rising of the smoke

One sits back in counsel as the conversation grows

Until there is reversal as the subject matter shifts

This goes on for hours until both are briefly settled

They turn for home in separate footsteps

Having found that just one fish

South River, MA

16 December 2021

Wild Things

 2020.

It started out great. I had big plans based on the sum of 2019. Long days on old water, road trips to fish with friends on theirs. New stories to get out and make, others to watch and listen to. I had a shelf of empty notebooks and SD cards to fill.

Then the storm hit. For all of us. People got sick, people died, businesses closed, jobs were lost and our world changed hour by hour. Metaphorical drawbridges were raised in the name of practicality and trepidation. Nearly a year later it continues. Even as Covid-19 vaccines begin to make their way to the masses, the idea that we will ever "return to normal" seems inconceivable. Too much has changed.

I've been fortunate. I've worked everyday through the pandemic and remained healthy. It's been a struggle and concessions have been made, but the company I work for is still operating. Next week could be different. Everyday begins and ends with the question of what will tomorrow bring.

I've been lucky. I don't take it for granted. As it was for so many, the economic impact of the pandemic knocked on the door of our home. The company that Jill worked for furloughed most of its employees shortly after the initial lockdown and then soon after closed its doors and was gone. Like most we sat in the kitchen many nights wondering if this might be all that there is. The new normal. The line between hanging on and letting go that was once far out of sight suddenly could be seen outside the window.

But the human spirit is extraordinarily resilient. Outside that same kitchen window is our shed. The base for  Jill Mason Art. Up until now, Jill's business was a part-time labor of love built on the dream of some day making it a full time endeavor. With a dismal forecast for returning to her previous career, she wasted no time in getting out there and changing the dream into a reality. Rather than waiting for something to happen, she's worked ten to twelve hour days everyday making it happen.

Parallel to Jill's story, her friend and former co-worker, Bonnie Frost, chose not to wait for the next career opportunity and started her own business, Frost and Found. In partnership with her landscaper husband, Chad, Bonnie took her passion for design and applied it to plantings, flowers and antiques to offer custom container plantings, sustainable arrangements and unique gifts for the home, patio and office.

The two of them recently collaborated to host an event, "The Jingle Barn," showcasing their work as well as South Shore Candles for holiday shoppers. 

They worked on the planning of this for weeks and filled the barn at Bonnie and Chad's farmhouse with wreaths, floral arrangements, framed nautical images, Christmas ornaments and unique decorations. Despite hurricane-like conditions on the first day and cold temperatures on the second, the turnout was incredible, Not only was their work well received, but so to was the idea behind each of their businesses. 

At the end of the first day, as I poured a glass of wine for everyone, I said to the two of them, "I'm proud of you. It takes b*lls to do what you have done." Pardon my word usage, I write in my own voice and if you know me, well, that's how I speak. My point is, in a chaotic world and a down economy, starting a business is a questionable decision at best. And trust me, a lot of people have questioned their judgement. But they did it. And they're rocking it. Not to make a fortune, but to make a life.

As I've watched Jill and Bonnie leave their previous careers behind and build something new out of drive and determination, I think of those empty notebooks on my shelf. Selfishly I've thought all this time I was missing out on the stories I thought I'd fill them with because of the limitations thrown at us by Covid-19. As I sat down to write this I took a look around at "my people" I thought I'd find stories with and realize that they've been right at it working on and re-writing their own stories through the uncertainty of these times.

A few years back, in the film, "A Deliberate Life," our friend Matt Smythe made a comment about the chase of choice, chance and change. He said, "It's not going to be easy, but you can't go wrong."

He's right. And following his own words, in the midst of big life changes, Matt's gone back to his roots and rediscovered his voice and his focus. He's writing again. The good stuff. And continuing to inspire a lot of us.

My good friend, Rich Strolis, now semi-retired, is going at it full time on the vise at Catching Shadows cranking out flies while he waits for things to get to a point where he can guide full time. His plans got slapped around by the pandemic but he's adjusted and grinds it every day.

Nick Santolucito spent almost a year planning his new venture, M&D Outfitters, only to have Covid-19 hit just before he launched the new shop. Like Rich, he adjusted and made it work. Every day. 

My niece's husband, Max Ritchie, worked through the pandemic on his side project, Carlisle Island Oysters, and brought his first harvest to market just before Christmas.

The human spirit can be extraordinarily resilient.

I look at these people and what I've written and I think of my favorite poem, "Self-Pity,' by D.H. Lawrence:

I never saw a wild thing

sorry for itself.

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough

without ever having felt sorry for itself. 

With the year about to end, I'm thankful for all of you who have read the periodic posts here and all who continue to support whatever this place is. I appreciate it. And I wish us all the best in 2021.

And to the wild things,

You make my heart sing.

South River, MA

26 December 2020

Road Soda

 

I say I don’t go inland. But sometimes I do. I still had twenty minutes to go. My usual stop for gas and facilities in New Hampshire on the way to Maine had been shortened by the closing of the facilities due to Covid-19 guidelines. I soldiered on confident I could make it without stopping.

No dice.

Covid.

Fucking Covid.

The turn off Route 26 to the Poland Spring Campground gave just enough room to get the truck off the road and enough darkness to hide me from anyone passing by. I got out of the truck and picked a tree. I sighed a breath of relief as disaster caused by the extra-large coffee, I had bought leaving Boston was averted.

Standing in the pines I sensed the Maine in my DNA and remarked quietly to myself that I most likely still remember every “emergency pull-off” in Oxford, Androscoggin and Cumberland counties. In the cab of the truck Boz Scaggs was just breaking into “Lido Shuffle.” I finished my business as Boz declared “One for the road…” and thought about that for a second. I’ll be honest, I thought twice about it. Both times it seemed like a good idea so I grabbed an ice cold can out of the cooler in the back of the truck.

Before I get flamed by the comment police, let me state that I do not condone, endorse or encourage drinking while driving. It’s poor judgement and I made a poor choice. But I’m human. And I rationalized with the Universe that my judgement may have atrophied a bit after enduring the cloud of leaf smoke (you know what I mean) generously provided by my fellow rush hour drivers on 93 through Boston and up Route 1.

Choice made, I took a spin around the truck to make sure there were no lights out and got back in as Boz was finishing his set. I replaced him with the boys from Van Halen, turned them up to 28 and got back on the road. I took the first sip of the beer and toasted Eddie and his guitar. Then I toasted the lore of the road soda and settled back in my seat and memories from long ago as I drove into my past.

I was making this trip to help my dad put nine cords of firewood in the basement for the winter. Despite what I might have said and felt about it back then, splitting and stacking firewood on the farm is one of my fond memories of growing up. Mixed in with those memories are times riding in dad’s truck after a day on a jobsite, hauling hay, moving cattle or those trips along the back roads in the woods when I “needed a talking to” or the sacred “attitude adjustment.” Good day or bad day, these were times that I treasured because it was just me and my dad. And there might have been a road soda involved.

“Running with The Devil” flooded the cab as I took another sip. That was one of my “Fight Songs” way back when and my mind returned to one of those back-road drives in the woods. I don’t recall what cataclysmic event triggered the ride into the woods, most likely it had to due with my general lack of ambition when it came to school, work or anything I felt I was being forced to do. I do remember the outcome because it was one of those life changing moments. The lecture, like most, was short. I don’t remember the beginning or the middle, but I remember the finale because dad had tears in his eyes and I rarely saw him cry.

“You’ll never be smarter than everyone else. Your only chance is to work harder and longer than everyone and make up the difference by being stronger.”

And then silence. That was it. My first reaction was to be pissed at him. Then I was pissed at myself because I knew I had let him down. But it didn’t take long, after staring into the passenger side mirror the rest of the way home, for me to understand what he was trying to tell me. It sounded negative when I first heard it, but it was the best piece of advice I’ve ever been given. Because I was his son, and he knew me. It changed me. Not completely and not all at once but things changed. I took those words to heart and they became my foundation. They propelled me through the rest of high school, through college and along my twisted career path.

I took another sip and toasted the old man.

I turned off Route 26 towards Oxford Village and wandered down memory lane again. A few years after that pivotal ride in the woods we were riding in dad’s truck again, this time after pouring concrete all day at a foundation job at Robinson’s Mill. I just happened to be driving past the mill at that moment and stopped for a few minutes to reflect. Dad had given me a lot of responsibility on that job and I had worked my ass off to bring it in right and under schedule. While I finished floating the top of the foundation, he had gone next door to Steve & Deb’s General Store and had come back holding a paper bag. When I got in the truck, he handed me a beer and said, “You earned this.” We headed for home and he commended me on the job I had done laying the job out, setting panels and coordinating all the work with the excavator. And then he gave me a $2.00 per hour raise.

I drank that beer and stared at myself in the passenger side mirror again. And then I thanked him, not so much for the raise but for those words years earlier.

I cranked the boys singing “Humans Being” back up to 28 and drove the few remaining miles of my journey to my sister’s house. I sat in the driveway and replayed it while I finished (for those keeping score) the last half of my beer, grateful for the lore of the road soda and all that goes with it.

Yeah, this isn’t about fishing or being on the water. It isn’t about drinking and driving, loud music or the relationship between me and my dad. It’s about us. It’s about humans being. It’s about working hard and being strong to live a little better. For each other.

And Covid.

Fucking Covid.  

I’ll have another Corona, please.

 

Thompson Lake, ME

30 October 2020

 

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

oscillation

I only see him when I’m on the water. Sometimes standing motionless at the water’s edge or walking deep into the mist that covers the marsh. Sometimes he is just an outline shrouded in the blazing sun, other times a blurry halftone image in the water just out of reach in front of me. I have no idea where he came from, but I have an innate feeling I have been there. I’ve watched him in the distance for a long time now. But as seasons pass, he draws closer and I sense a growing familiarity. Long periods of stillness. An indistinguishable face but with eyes clearly defined. A blank gaze visibly focused on the distance. Periodic moments of slow, efficient movements. A slight limp to the left. He often speaks in quiet conversation but to who I can not say. The sound of his voice becomes more recognizable as these encounters continue, but I have yet to understand his words. He stares at me with a look that is both confident and lost as if awaiting my response. I hurl questions across the silence between us uncertain if they are spoken or just thought.  Unable to answer one another we stand in the struggle somewhere between faithful and fateful listening for some far-off bell yet to be rung. I turn away for a moment thinking I hear the echo. When I turn back he is gone. Until the next time.   

From the water.

8 May 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