Derby 2013

A few weeks ago I posted about the Martha’s Vineyard Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby. I had the privilege of being on the island this past weekend for the final day of fishing and this year’s awards ceremony. For the last three years Derby Committee member Wilson Kerr has graciously invited my friends Pete Crommett from Cheeky Fly Fishing, Mark Seymour from High Hook Wines and I to stay at his house for the end of the Derby. He refers to us as “those fly rod dirt-bags,” a moniker we wholeheartedly embrace.

While sitting at the ferry dock in Woods Hole Friday night waiting for Pete to arrive I watched other Derby anglers milling about and eavesdropped on their conversations. I thought about what draws all of us to a piece of rock in the ocean. Words I had written in the previous post kept replaying in mind…

“As I said, it’s not the fishing that draws me to the Derby, it’s the people of The Rock, the sense of community and the true Americana that still exists on Martha’s Vineyard on the back roads, the harbors and in the hearts and homes of the islanders.”

Mark met us at the dock in Vineyard Haven. The three of us stood in the street beside Mark’s truck and talked about the day’s fishing report, the Red Sox and life for twenty minutes as if we happened to run into each other on the way home from work. I mention this because as we stood there under the street lights amidst the chaos of ferry arrivals and departures it reminded me of Friday nights long ago in a small town in Maine that I grew up in and an even smaller one in Vermont where I went to college. They were times and places in life where it seemed that possibilities were limited only by your own efforts. Those times are long gone and the places have changed, but every year I’m reminded of them when I visit The Rock.

As the sun rose on Saturday morning Pete and Wilson headed out to chase albies in Wilson’s boat while Mark (hereinafter referred to as “Beast”) and I decided to pound the shoreline. We chose the basin at Lobsterville as a starting point. We got there early and chatted up some people already fishing, hoping for some indication that albies were in close, or at the least, had been seen. It had been a quiet morning and nobody had any fish to report. So we each found a spot up the beach from the jetty and started throwing hope on a hook into the waves. We were there for hours. Periodically I would stop and watch the others along the jetty. Spin guys, fly guys, a father, mother and daughter team who had parked next to us...everyone patiently yet urgently casting into empty water. Somber faces scoured the water but would light up as another angler passed by and words were exchanged.

Beast and I finally decided to make a move but were not sure where to go. We drove for a bit and then ended up going back to Lobsterville and walking up to Dogfish Bar. This is one spot I have almost always run into fish. I felt renewed optimism as we saw birds working with fish under them as we walked up the beach. Beast was able to hook into a few rat bass which kept us going into the middle of the afternoon but there were no fish to weigh in. Finally we decided to move on and walked back to the truck. The sun had come out, the air was still and a cold beer was in order so we sat on the tailgate and cracked one.

A few minutes into Happy Hour,  Mark Wilde and Thomas Dalsgaard parked near us and asked how things were going. After introductions were exchanged and Beast set them up with beers, I realized these guys were from the same part of Vermont I had spent half of my adult life in. Conversation revealed that they had come down to the Vineyard with a group  from Vermont Trout Waters and that Mark owns Uncle Jammer’s  Guide Service and guides a lot of the same water I used to fish on a spinning rod. We talked for quite a while about all the places we have fished, people we know, life stories and Derby history. Turns out we all knew a lot of the same people, have fished a lot of the same faraway places and have followed similar roads. One of the things I love about fishing, the fly fishing world in particular, are the really cool people that you meet and the friendships that are created just by asking “…any luck?” I’ll be fishing with these guys in the 802 very soon.

Mark and Tom - photo by Matt Cain of VT Trout Waters

Saturday night was one of the nights I look forward to ever year. The Committee hosts a reception for sponsors at the Derby Headquarters before the final weigh-in. It’s just a really fun time filled with great food and drink and really awesome people. Later in the evening we wandered up the street to The Port Hunter to meet up with some island friends. Good times were had by all and The Port Hunter has become one of my favorite places on the planet.

The Port Hunter

The awards ceremony took place on Sunday. It’s become somewhat of a tradition to hang at the back of the tent with a bunch of other fly fishing people. Every year as we stand and watch the ceremony, I look around at the people surrounding me and I am always a bit awestruck. When I first started fly fishing fourteen years ago I knew some of these people only as faces in magazines and names in articles and books, now they’re my friends. And looking out at the crowd are faces of some of the best in fishing today, some well known, some only known here within the ranks of Derby anglers. The gathering of all this talent, young and old, in one place is astounding. One of the highlights for me this year was meeting Craig Keefe and his son Quinn. Quinn is 12 and has already racked up Derby awards including placing in two Junior All Tackle divisions this year. Quinn and his dad talked to Eric Reed from Beulah Fly Rods and I about fly fishing being the next evolution in Quinn’s fishing career. Quinn was full of questions and excitement. It was nice to see. Craig told me later that Quinn has been fishing since he could walk and could care less about video games or other things kids his age are into. He just wants to fish.  Ironically Quinn won a Beulah rod in the raffle. The kid is on his way.

Quinn Keefe - photo from Amy Coffey

The Grand Prize winners this year were both island residents, Sam Bell winning the Boat Division and Jena-Lynn Beauregard winning the Shore Division. The fact that they are both islanders made it very special and the reactions and gratitude of both choked up even the saltiest of those present. Watching them reminded me of what I said earlier about possibilities only being limited by your own efforts. An example not only for fishing but one for living as well.

The day ended with a get together of Committee members, sponsors and friends. A final opportunity to hang out with really cool people drawn together by this event and a passion for fishing and the life that it brings before catching the last boat back to the World.

I get asked why I sometimes get emotional talking about the Derby. I have no answer because if you have to ask, then you won’t get it. You need to live the Derby to understand. But I will offer an excerpt from Derby President Ed Jerome's message to anglers this year:

“It’s a tournament with no $5000 entry fee for your boat team, no professional sponsored fishing teams, no ridiculous amount of money for first place prizes, just good, old fashion fishing fun among friends, family and new and old acquaintances. After you participate in a Derby, it becomes clear, why something so fundamental has successfully lasted for the past 68 years. The Derby is still run by the year round efforts of a couple of dozen Island volunteers and through the sponsorship of lots of businesses and individuals. Our goals are simple. Give back to the community, preserve and protect our natural resources and help young people in their efforts to further their education. We are very proud of this simplistic approach and it is the foundation by which we measure all things Derby. We thank you for your commitment to our tournament, so please come to the Weigh Station, “hangout” a bit, swap stories, make friends and be a part of the 68th Martha’s Vineyard Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby.”

Enough said.

Fare-thee-well Derby and Martha’s Vineyard until next we meet. I love you both.


Vineyard Haven Harbor
20 October 2013

Four Eight

It’s that time of year. Some people do this in the midst of the holiday madness at the end of the year. I seem to fall into the abyss of self-analysis as the calendar adds another year of experience to my resume. I’m just over a handful of tide cycles away from turning forty-eight. Not a major milestone like forty or the age of fifty that men seem to have their “crisis” at. But it is significant for me. I vividly recall sitting in a bar on my twenty-eighth birthday thinking and believing that the probability of making it to forty-eight was less than fifty percent. Those odds were based on the career path I was on and my extra-curricular activities in the mountains and at sea. But here I am twenty years later. What a long strange trip it’s been.

I sit here on the bank of my beloved North River in the cold dark of the middle of the night and write this by headlamp. This is the fifth rewrite of this piece. I was going to wax poetic about something introspective discovered while fly fishing and make references to the work of Robert W. Service, Hemingway and Thoreau, maybe some Gierach, and weave in the turning a year older thing. But something happened when I got here tonight.

There were a couple of boys my daughter’s age skate boarding under the street lights where I parked. I listened to them talking trash to each other as I pulled my gear out of the Jeep. Some of it I understood, some I did not. I snapped on my stripping basket, grabbed my rods (one for top water and one for everything else) and walked past the boys toward the river. This is what I heard one of them say as I walked out into the darkness:

“Hey man, that old dude is bad ass, he fishes with two fly rods…in the dark!”

I started down the rocks of the jetty and nearly fell when I heard this coming from one of them:

“I’ll wear your grand dad’s clothes

I look incredible….”

Up until this point I kind of liked that song. Now…not so much.

Old dude? Really? Do I look that old? I guess I do, I just don’t feel that old in my mind. Is the gray in my beard really that noticeable in this light or do I walk like an old guy? Mmmh, I have been eating soup a lot lately.

Bad ass? Little brother, I wish I was a bad ass fly fisherman (Ladies, hereto forthwith this means fly fisher-person!). I want to be one. I have friends who are. In fact, in a few hours I’m driving to the Cape to chase albies with my buddy Henry who is one of them. Granted, he is retired but he fishes hard. A lot. In my book H is about as bad ass as it gets. More about H in future posts.

 

H

Through my fly business, I have met and become friends with bad ass fly fisherman from all over Fly World. Some I have fished with, some I have met at shows and in shops, some from social media and some from just telephone and email conversations. Some are in the industry, some just live to fish. They are guides, manufacturer’s reps, shop owners and workers, fly tiers, writers, bloggers, photographers…people from all aspects of the fishing world. There are others who have compiled long resumes of transient and part-time jobs as they follow the fish and the seasons, earning what they need and living without what they don’t.  They are my fellow New Englanders, steel headers from BC and the northwest, trout fisherman from Idaho and Montana, the hardcore’s from Michigan, the Keys crowd and the Glades and Gulf Coast crew in Florida, the ones who chase reds in the marshes of the Carolina lowlands and Louisiana, there are Aussies, Kiwi’s, Bahamians…my point is they are everywhere.  

Some of these folks have abandoned the traditional jobs, obsessions with retirement planning, the white picket fences, relationships and social climbing to follow their hearts and passions and figured out how to make a living doing it. Not a fortune…a living. If you talk with them for a while you find out that is exactly what they are doing…living. They have figured out the equation. Living on the fly.

That’s my destination. Running with the tide and following the sun.

I’ll get there. And I secretly hope that when I do, someone will refer to me as a bad ass fly fisherman. In the meantime I’ve got to go home and get a couple of hours of sleep before I head to the Cape. Maybe I’ll have some soup. I hope I can get that stupid song out of my head…

“I’m gonna pop some tags

Only got twenty dollars in my pocket…”

North River, MA

27 September 2013

Montauk

Montauk. One of my favorite words because it just sounds cool.

For those who fish the salt just hearing it, saying it or thinking about it conjures the iconic image of acres of striped bass, bluefish and false albacore waging all out surface warfare on baitfish underneath Montauk Point Light House. Getting there for the fall madness has been on my list since the first time I saw a picture of it.

Late Thursday night I got a text message from my buddy Mark Seymour at High Hook Wines saying that Bryan Goulart had an opening on Sunday and was I interested in going. Calculating costs and available resources in my mind my first thought was that I should pass it up. And I had fly orders to get out and a project due at work on Monday. But I really wanted to go. I went downstairs and hit the heavy bag for twenty minutes while Reckless Mike beat the crap out of Responsible Mike. Montauk, false albacore, one of the best guides in the business and I had an available weekend. Guess who won?

So I met Mark in New London on Saturday afternoon, jumped the ferry to Orient Point and we drove to Bryan’s house in East Hampton. We met up with Bryan after dinner, had a few beers, watched some football and talked fishing, flies and life before turning in. One of the topics covered was the proverbial “buck fever” that happens during a blitz and the “albie dance” that follows. I’m not sure I really slept. I fell back to the technique of mental imagery I used when I was a ski racer in college and ran through every albie situation I could think of. I wanted to be prepared.

We were on the water shortly after 7:00am and made the run out of Star Island to Montauk Point. I went to Italy in high school and remember the feeling of pure awe standing in the Sistine Chapel. Floating in front of the light house felt no different.

 

Montauk Point Light House

Bryan checked a few spots and finally albies started to show in small pods. We ran around playing the game of “run and gun” as is generally the case with albies. Mark took the bow and I took the stern. After about an hour of making casts to these speedsters I realized something was wrong. I could not make a long cast if my life depended on it. Bryan and I had agreed on one of my larger flies, a 4-1/2” sand eel imitation on a 3/0 hook to start with in the event that there were bass around. A big fly but my Bluewater 8/9 can throw it just fine. Forty feet this morning was a struggle. It was obvious that something was wrong with me. That’s when the inner dialogue started.

“You’re out here with one of the best guides in fly fishing and you F-ing suck. You look like an idiot. You should have stayed home, WTF dude? If Beulah hears about this they’re not going to let you fish their rods and Cheeky will ask you to fish a different reel.”

About this time, just as I had line wrapped all around me, I went tight to a fish. Line started screaming through the guides and I broke into the Albie Dance. Now I had the idiot thing going full speed both in ability and appearance. In the chaos of clearing line and getting the fish on the spool, my line wrapped around the reel frame and I couldn’t clear it. I’m still not sure what happened but there was no way I was going to lose my first Montauk albie. So I struggled with it and didn’t horse the fish. Slowly I was getting backing and line back. Bryan came over and asked me if I was alright. I mumbled some gibberish about my line and Bryan looked at the mess on my reel and started laughing.

“Oh, I feel better now, I thought you have a disability or something and needed help but you just suck!”

We all had a laugh at that and the stress was relieved once I got that fish in and released despite myself.

 

The Captain and the Idiot

Then I got about clearing the mess on my reel and re-rigging my rod. It was at this time that I realized in my haste to pack Saturday morning I had mistakenly grabbed my Bluewater 7/8. That explained a lot. Yes, I was still an idiot but after changing to a smaller fly I was back in the game and feeling a lot better about my casting.

We chased albies all morning to slack tide. Each time one of us would hook up, all three of us hoped for a double just to revel in the chaos and mayhem that such things generate.

 

Mark getting it done

The double almost happened a few times but we couldn’t get it together. After slack tide the attitude of the fish seemed to change. They were still there and feeding but spread out and very selective. We tried several different flies but could not get an eat. But we stayed at it for a few more hours before calling it a day. Mark and I were exhausted on the run back to Star Island. We had a great day with a great guide and left it all, as they say, on the field.

I’ve fished with a lot of guides. Some are really good, some are just good and others…not so much. I know when a guide takes the time to explain how he (or she) fishes the boat, what he’s planning and what he wants the angler to do in a “what if” situation, he’s on his game. More importantly when the guide asks me what I’m looking to get out of the trip and then makes efforts to make that happen while working around my ability to cast and skill level, then I know he is a great guide. Bryan and I had that conversation and I told him I obviously wanted to get tight to some albies but I also wanted to experience the stress of making a shot as many times as possible to overcome the “buck fever” phenomenon. As it is in life, the best way to get better at anything is repetition. I don’t get a chance to fish for albies a lot so I viewed this day as a training session. Bryan made that happen and I came away from the day a better fly fisherman.

If you want to experience the glory that is Montauk, check out Capt. Bryan Goulart and Point to Point Charters at http://www.nysaltfly.com/home.htm  . He books up in advance but you might get lucky with a cancellation.

From the ferry, Long Island Sound

15 September 2013

Chains

Labor Day weekend for all intents and purposes marks the end of summer. This long weekend, once an eagerly anticipated way point in my year now serves as an annual reminder that once again I spent more time over the summer in the office furthering someone else’s agenda than I did out of the office living my own. Sadly, I realize that I have created the situation, enabled it, chained myself to it and continually allow it to drag me off course. It’s affecting my health but worse it’s affecting my fishing life. The cinder worm hatch, Nantucket, Montauk, Flamingo, Jupiter, a couple of new fly patterns…just a few of the things on the short list I made in May.  None have been checked off. Sometimes I really piss myself off. But I digress. I just want to go fishing.

So on Friday afternoon I bid farewell to the office, emails and conference calls. I put the top down on the Jeep, cranked the “oldies” station on the radio and headed north to Maine to see my daughter and hang out on the lake with my sister and family for a few days. Sitting in traffic on 93 I looked in the rear view and thought of the south side of Cape Cod and wondered if the albies would show up this weekend.  As I pondered the question and my schedule for next weekend, Sheryl Crow’s voice came across the radio;

“It’s not about having what you want

It’s wanting what you’ve got”

This sent me down another avenue of contemplation. Last winter at the Bears Den Fly Fishing Show I was set up tying flies beside my friends Pat Cohen and Rich Strolis, two of the best fly tiers out there. At one point during the day we were talking with a gentleman who was jammed up about not being able to fish in some of the popular “adventure fishing destination locations’ because of finances and logistics. Collectively we assured him that he could find “adventure” on his local water for less than a dollar just by changing things up a bit. Targeting a different species, a different type of water, a different time of day, trying a new spot close to home …the possibilities are only limited by one’s own creativity. At some point in the conversation I am pretty sure that something along the lines of “fishing where you can and forgetting about where you can’t” was said. I thought about this, and Sheryl, for the next hundred miles. I put the albies out of my mind and made a plan.

First light on Saturday morning found me paddling in search of adventure. During my last visit to the lake I had found a shallow cove full of (chain) pickerel while hunting for largemouth from the kayak. Some of them were good sized and in shallow water when they realize they’re hooked and can’t dive, they run and explode out of the water. They are aggressive and will eat almost anything but what draws me to this spot is that it is very similar to fishing mangroves for snook. Long casts over the weed beds, floating plant life, stumps, dropping the fly into a space the size of a shoe box underneath overhanging branches and bushes. It’s long ball and short game all wrapped into one. Fast strips, vicious hits, boiling water. I couldn’t stop.

Saturday morning was all sub-surface fishing using a multi-colored fly I call April’s Reign. Simple, beautiful and catches everything.

Sunday morning I was back at it but arrived in the dark. It was top water with orange and yellow poppers. Throwing ‘Glades style right at the overhanging canopy so the popper would hit the branches and drop to the water, one or two strips and the pickerel would inhale the popper. Or follow it and envelop it like the sea creature did to Kevin Costner in “Waterworld.” At least that’s what it looked like from my seat.

I sit and write this on Labor Day morning looking out on the lake as rain falls in torrential downpours. My Beulah Bluewater 8/9 weight loaded with a Cheeky Mojo 425 leans against the picnic table rigged and ready, faithfully staring back at me through the window like my dogs used to waiting for a tennis ball to be thrown. In the distance thunder rolls and the wind drives waves onto the beach. I sit back with my coffee and close my eyes. There will be no fishing this morning. I gladly embrace the peace of this moment. I have the images of the last two mornings playing a slide show in my mind, set to proverbial lyrics;

“I’m gonna soak up the sun

Got my 45 on

So I can rock on.”

 

At a lake in Maine

2 September 2013