It's Memorial Day weekend when the crazy season officially kicks off down here on Cape Cod. Driving to Hyannis for some new ammo from Sportsport -- Ballistic Missiles (my favorite name for a lure name other than the Swedish Pimple), wire, and poppers -- is an experience of near-misses, middle fingers, and vows never to return until Halloween. Or at least until fluke season when I need some fluke rigs and bank sinkers.
Here's last weekend's personal non-fishing report: Saturday was blowing like stink out of the east -- when the fish bite least, right? -- so it was time to break out the ladder and disc sander and attack the peeling porch and earn a yard pass for another day. Saw an awful lot of loaded rod racks roll by on Main Street and of course the reports came in that they were numbing them down at Oregon Beach. So Sunday -- with a wind out of the south and bluebird skies -- was the day to catch the first bluefish of the season. The wife went off to Hyannis to do her thing, but my kids had invited two friends over; the kind of kids that would burn the house down and torture the pets if I left them alone to go fishing by myself. There was no choice but to rig up a few spinning rods with the cheap tackle and bring everyone along for the ride.
Take a kid fishing? I rather take six tick-covered raccoons from the rabid side of the Canal.
But the first bluefish was calling so we went anyway, lifejackets granny-knotted around the not-so-little devils, with a bag of bar-b-que potato chips and a six pack of warm ginger ale to keep them quiet. Ten feet from the dock and immediately the complaints started flowing.
"I want the blue and white Ranger, not the orange one."
"Go faster. Floor it! There's no boat cops this time of year!"
"You're sitting in seagull poop."
There are a few rules when kids fish on my boat.
One: if you keep a fish you have to eat it. No bluefish fertilizer allowed. And yes, I'm sure your mom and dad don't want to eat one tonight.
Two: when casting, the hooks can't come into the boat. Keep the lure over the side, in the water and don't swing it back into your sister's face to cast it.
Three: only two people can fish at the same time and only from opposite ends of the boat.
Four: No one but me can take the fish off the hook, and when bluefishing, there's sometimes a lot of fish to take off the hook.
I get to the best early season bluefish spot off of Sub Rock and stop the boat and start casting. Twelve casts, around the clock, and not a swirl, not a follow. So we move to Oregon Beach. The jetties are lined with fishermen. Nine casts and a pair of skinny fish race up to the boat and peel off. What a great sight. The kids, without polarized sunglasses, don't see them and are too busy arguing about the merits of Clay versus Reuben, but I do and that's enough. A few more casts and I see the first smash and swirl. The kids are really squabbling now and don't see the hit, but they shut up for a second and watch for the next one. Two casts. Three casts. The fish are sure picky in May, kids. ... for a while at least, give them a week then they'll eat anything (including the amazing Ken Doll lure we once made with a 4/0 treble hook wired through Ken's crotch to a swivel that came out of his skull. Bluefish sure do a number on doll legs!). The kids lose interest and start playing scissors-paper-rock to see who fishes after I catch the first one. This is not going to be a big thing for them. This isn't a special father-child experience, like one's first sunfish on the old Zebco, this is bluefish, and they've caught plenty of them before.
Then I hook one. The first bluefish of 2003. Yeah baby. The rod bends. The drag rasps. The kids get psyched and temporarily the boat is properly focused on the act of fishing.
The fish spits after three solid seconds of bent rod. It's gone like air hissing out of a flat.
That was the closest the Churbucks came to a fish on Sunday. After ten minutes of further futile casting the bickering got to the point that there was nothing to do but admit defeat and dump the crew off at the Town Dock or go insane. The kids went home, had a hose fight, soaked the dog, and nearly had a disc sander accident while I put the boat on the mooring. My wife passed me coming up the hill, pulled into the driveway 30 seconds before me, and was waiting for me: "Why didn't you take them with you?"
I've said it before and I'll say it again, like the bowtie guy on Channel 2: buy something from the Reel-Time store! It's viewers like you who help keep Sesame Street and the Cape & Islands FishWire on the air ....A full winter's worth of debate over a new logo, repeated requests from the fanatical fringe (the guys with more than 500 posts in the forums) for anything, something to wear with Reel-Time printed on it, and only forty of you can get off your butts to order something? Come on people! These are quality t-shirts we're talking about. I can't be the only jackass driving around with a Reel-Time bumper sticker. Driving a car with a R-T bumpersticker while wearing a R-T t-shirt makes you look really cool. Trust me. Chicks notice this stuff. And they love the smell of man who's been handling squid. Honk if you're wearing a Reel-Time thong.
Remember those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom this weekend and be safe while wading.