"This must be the spot," my brother said. "Look at all the boats."
We were fishing for fluke at Lucas Shoal in Vineyard Sound. It was a meat fishing trip and no fly rods were involved, indeed, no fly rods were allowed as my brother considers them counter-productive and a curse on any fishing expedition -- his personal equivalent of the legendary banana. His observation proves my theory that one should save one’s cash, skip the fancy electronics, and deploy mankind’s best fish finder: one’s fellow man.
A bait shop tip led us to travel 20 miles for "fluke the size of doormats." For anglers who get excited about catching flat fish, fighting doormats must sound like a big deal. Out in Homer, Alaska, where people fish for halibut, they refer to fighting "couches". Doormats. Couches. There’s an indication of how exciting it is to bottom fish for flatties. I like my fish a little more manic -- like a bonito -- but fluke sure do taste good, so I’ll endure a day of sunburning and dunking dead sand eels for a good fluke dinner anytime.
Turned out that Lucas Shoal was less productive than the waters in our own backyard, but you never know unless you try. We limited out and had ourselves a nice fish fry thanks to a turkey fryer loaded with peanut oil, three boxes of Golden Dipt English Fish and Chip Batter, two bottles of tartar sauce and a couple bags of curly fries topped off with a bottle of malt vinegar. We then adjourned to the backyard and timed our personal version of Pyrotechnic Shock and Awe to coincide with the Willowbend Fireworks. My favorite incendiary device was the size of a toilet and bore the name: "Who’s Your Daddy?"
This week’s observation is more of a question. It seems there are all these boats drifting around Nantucket Sound doing nothing. One sees clumps of these boats a mile or two off the beach and they never seem to be doing anything in particular. They aren’t trolling, rods are in the rod holders, no fish ever come aboard. More often than not, no one appears to be aboard. It’s like the Mary Celeste -- the fabled abandoned ship found floating in the Atlantic with no one aboard in the late 19th century -- only on a Bayliner. What are they doing out there? Are they fishing for scup? Fluke? A little afternoon delight?
At least they aren’t moving. This past holiday weekend was exceptional in terms of general boater stupidity (which is like saying people eat a lot of food at Thanksgiving). While I didn’t see any boats perched on top of the jetties and rock piles (a typical drunken occurrence whenever there are fireworks displays, alcohol, and too many horsepower), I did have a close call at Succonnesset when some hard charging meathead in a wide-open sportsfisherman decided to shave my stern on his way to the Black Dog for a bran muffin (my son has figured out a simple defacement of the ubiquitous Black Dog t-shirt with a red Sharpie).
Posters on the Reel-Time forums have been beefing about being buzzed while placidly kayaking the flats. Others have been reporting close calls, near misses, and other aquatic horrors. The jet-ski contingent has truly gone to new levels inside of Cotuit Bay and I expect it to get much worse before it get better as access to moorings and slips are totally unreachable in our lifetimes and the only way to get on the water for your average sedentary joe is on a jet-ski. To beef about these retromingent horrors is one of fishing’s great clichés, but I still have violent fantasies about blowing up one and its mulleted rider with a TOW missile or a Law’s Rocket.
All new boat purchases should come with a mandatory copy of Chapman’s Piloting, but that begs the question of whether or not the operators are literate, which in most cases is highly debatable.
News of the week: commercial season for stripers is upon us. Too early to carp about the summer doldrums. Just about time for the first bonito rumors and sure enough they are in the forums. Bluefish are getting tiresome, but who’s complaining? Offshore seems to be starting but not in any dependable way. Mung is the name of the game on the Backside. And there’s always sight fishing on Monomoy and the western flats of Nantucket. All in all, it beats the heck out of last January.
Postscript: your humble correspondent took it on the chin for making fun of the 14 year-old New Jersey kayaker who scored a 50 pound plus striper two weeks ago. No intention to slag the kid, just trying -- unsuccessfully -- to poke fun at the classic cliché of expressing amazement when the very young, infirm, or stupid catch a big fish.
Which is exemplified by this gem.