For the most part, it was a pretty normal
day. Matt Koenig and I had been searching for false
albacore off Martha's Vineyard for the better part of six
hours, and had nothing to show for our efforts. We had
hit most of the hot spots: the Gut, Wasque, Hedge Fence,
even Menemsha, but there was not a fish to be seen. Like
I said, it was a pretty normal day -- until we ducked
into Edgartown Harbor to fuel up. That was when things
got surreal in a hurry.
As we entered the harbor, we saw people fishing, and I recognized the boats of Steve Moore, Jamie Boyle and Mark Budreski. Boyle and a friend were relaxing on the "Boylermaker," while Steve and Ted Moore were casting away on the "Slam Dance." The "Red Sled," however, was tied off to a mooring buoy, its owner mysteriously absent.
"Hey, where's Mark" I shouted to the marvelous Moore brothers.
"Oh,
he's diving for albacore," Steve replied.
Just then Mark's head popped from the water next to the buoy. This was late September, mind you, so the water was none too toasty. In his hand he gripped a tangled ball of red fly line, which had evidently been wrapped around the mooring line by an uncooperative albie. He shouted a quick greeting, then disappeared below the surface, pausing to flash us a friendly moon on the way down. Good old funny Mark!
He was submerged quite a long time, and we imagined a Tarzan-like death-struggle with a killer tunny unfolding below the surface. If only we could do something, but the water was too deep, too cold.
After what seemed an eternity, Mark reappeared, sputtering water and gasping for breath. A victorious smile spread across his face as he raised his right fist, which was clenched around the peduncle of his slaughtered foe: a 3-pound albacore!
It was a rather bizarre scene, but there would be more unusual sights. As Matt and I tied off to the fuel dock, we noticed that some nut had scrambled to the top of a piling and was fly-casting away, a good 15 feet above the water. The loops were expertly thrown, and his line arced out gracefully a good 70 feet over the waters of Edgartown Harbor. Yet we couldn't help
wondering
what the lad would do if he hooked a fish. Later, we
learned that the acrobatic angler had indeed landed a
bonito from his precarious perch, but not until after a
few tense moments.
As we stood admiring the casting performance of the lofty angler, the unmistakable sound of bagpipes came warbling and honking through the evening air. Matt and I stared at each other, then turned to watch as a bride, groom and a procession of formally attired wedding guests ambled down the dock and piled into a large, gleaming-white Clorox bottle. Bringing up the rear was the kilt-clad piper, his cheeks rosy and distended.
Matt and I quickly paid the bill, untied the lines, and idled out of the harbor, eager to return to some state of normalcy. Will we ever return to Edgartown and its strange denizens? I still don't know."
Tom Richardson