View Articles
A Tale of Two Fish
Article posted on: Sep/26/01
author: John Skinner
(howto@noreast.com)
|
"There’s the bar," I thought to myself, as my bucktail swept seaward with periodic sharp bumps on the structure. I pictured the hidden waves of sand to be much like the 3-foot standing chop that attracted me to this part of the inlet. In the troughs of the submerged sand waves would be stripers, taking shelter from the current as they watched for their next meals.
Accurate or not, it was what was in my mind as I set the hook on a bump that felt slightly different from the others.
I knew immediately that this was a good fish. A strong rush uptide driven by long tail pumps further validated my suspicion that this could be a special fish. The startled bass quickly found the deeper water that it felt more secure in, but paid a steep price since much energy was expended to make headway into the fast current. Line was soon gained easily as I pulled the fish toward me with the help of the tide.
The gaff would come with me this time as I maneuvered the fish to an adequate landing platform at the base of the jetty. The dim moonlight would provide all of the illumination needed to complete the battle. Within seconds of my first glimpse of the fish, a small, but well-timed swell, put it at my feet. No gaff would be necessary. I quickly got a firm hold on the fish and struggled to the top of the jetty.
Upon first inspection with my light, I was certain the fish would break 40 pounds. The 3-ounce bucktail looked like a small fly lodged in its huge mouth. It was only as I lifted it with the scale that I noticed that its girth was somewhat lacking. I cursed out loud as the needle stopped near the 39-pound mark. I considered taking a couple of quick pictures, but didn’t want to advertise my success to anyone who might see the camera flash. The ocean side of the jetty pocket served as a safe release point, and the fish was soon on its way.
I resumed casting, feeling a touch of disappointment that the fish didn’t break the mark on my scale that lately seemed to indicate my total satisfaction. Having seen the scale’s needle slip beyond the 40-pound mark several times earlier that season, I tried to convince myself that the extra pound didn’t matter. But it did matter. Frustrated that previous catches were causing me to set my bar of success unreasonably high, my thoughts turned to a past trip. It was a trip that produced a fish far beyond my expectations, and one I would never forget.
The southeasterly wind on that mild October afternoon brought the cloud cover that I hoped would give potential to the calm waters on the lee side of the island. A stronger than usual ebb tide pulled by a moon that was full the previous night would help to tilt the odds of success in my favor. A bucktail would have been a good choice, but a tin fitted with a sturdy deer hair-adorned hook promised the distance needed to reach a far rip, and so it was first out of the bag.
The first twenty minutes passed quietly as my mind debated whether or not the erratic ripples on the water were wind or bait.
Then came the cast that would forever be burned into my memory. Despite the presence of ample submerged structure to get snagged on, I decided to let the tin settle to the bottom before beginning the retrieve. Four or five turns of the handle later, my hooksetting reflex kicked in as my cranking hand was stopped dead in its track.
"I’m hung," I thought to myself, as my eyes met the sharply arched rod. The thought was interrupted by a tremendous pull that forced me to step forward while loosening an over-tightened drag.
My reel screamed in protest as line melted from the spool. This was surely the largest fish I had ever hooked.
The run did not last long, and my immediate attention turned to a cluster of rocks downtide of my position. I applied as much pressure as I dared and was relieved to gain back enough line to slip the fish on the inside of the rocks. I knew the beach well, and realized that I would be in the clear for the rest of the fight. Subsequent runs grew ever shorter as the fish weakened.
"Slow and steady wins the race," I told myself, as I eased back on the drag and carefully worked the fish toward shore through the unobstructed waters.
I strained my eyes for signs of movement just beyond where my line disappeared in the water, but I could only imagine what was on the end.
Then, just as I was sure I had glimpsed its great shadow, my rod tip was pulled down and I was once again watching line depart from my spool. But this was a short run, and I very quickly regained the lost ground. One more attempt at a run left the drag silent as the angle at which the line met the water slowly decreased. There was no mistaking the shadow that arose and soon my white-bellied prize rolled on the surface.
Totally spent, the fish was now dragged easily to the water’s edge until its weight rested on the stones and it could be pulled no farther. I felt my knees shake as I grabbed the fish and dragged it unnecessarily far from the water so that there was no way it could escape.
A friend who had headed in my direction upon seeing me hooked up arrived as I dropped to one knee to catch my breath.
"You did it this time," he said. "I never knew there were fish that big around here."
I knew, but I’d never thought I would actually catch one. I had only seen one fish like this in my life, and that one had been caught from a boat. There wasn’t even a thought of making another cast. I headed immediately for home.
I didn’t have far to go, but, since I walked to my favorite fishing spot, I knew this return trip would take awhile. The tough part would be the 183 steps on the staircase that traversed the high bluff that stood between the beach and the rest of my world. I would rest many times, and alternate which arm carried the fish. I was sweating by the time I got to the top, but excited that my home was now only a few minutes walk over level ground.
"I’ll get the scale," was my father’s only response as he saw me dragging the fish across the front yard. I was too tired to answer as I sat down on the driveway to watch him weigh the fish.
With the full weight of the fish pushing the needle as far as it would go, he read off the much-awaited result. "Eight pounds," he called out. "Nice bluefish, son." I was as proud and excited as could be. A roll of film would be spent on this great fish which would later become the main course of a family feast.
It was a day, and a fish, that the ten year-old surfcaster would never forget.
|
|
 |
|
| Some of these articles have been gathered from the archives of Nor'east Saltwater and all references to size and bag limits may be out of date. Be sure to check the regulations section of our website for the latest regulations in your area. |
|
