Caramel Nut Blast

First off, the title of the story has to do with a candy bar. But to be honest and consistent it also might refer to Joel’s enthusiasm when it comes to planning a tuna trip with Jeff Smith. Chip Cornell, Joel, and I planned this trip back in February. Joel got a taste of hooking some feisty 130-pounders last summer with me and Jeff and immediately began a regimen of core strengthening exercises in anticipation of the 2009 season. On Tuesday we were hoping to see his strength tested. This is what happened:

On Monday Chip, already out in Wellfleet, eagerly awaited our arrival. At 4:30 Joel sped up my driveway while I feverishly worked to wrap up my oyster deliveries. I was stressed for time and hadn’t showered in a couple of days, which always makes matters worse. So I finished up the oysters, showered off, and soon we were driving down Routes 3 and 6. And finally I was able to relax and suddenly realized that I was on a fishing trip (an out of town one). The first omen Joel identified was the Jeep Cherokee in front of us in Harwich that had a rubber squid placed on the rear wiper blade. “Oh dude, this is a good sign. We’re going to hook into some massive bluefin tomorrow.” His foot pressed further on the accelerator as he continued to describe his pescatorous visions of screaming reels and bloody bibs.

We arrived in Wellfleet (at Chip’s family house) and Chip immediately poured a few vodka tonics before putting the steaks on the grill. My sister, Priscilla, made garden-grown beats, salad, and a killer summer tomato salad (with mozzarella, basil, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar). At dinner, over red wine, we discussed the tuna, how it lives, where it lives, and why we fish for it. Despite our knowledge of the pressures imposed by international fishing fleets, we agreed that we were a mere fraction that might eventually over harvest this amazing fish. “Just one more year,” we mutually agreed, knowing well that as long as there was a season and a slot, we’d give it a try….as long as our backs held out.

Jeff Smith is an excellent tuna guide. The forty-something native Arizonan is based in Wellfleet though he’ll launch anywhere between Truro and Chatham to find the shortest cut to the fish. He has an amazing center console boat that is absolutely perfect for chasing schools of tuna, bass, blues, or anything. Jeff instructed us to meet him at 6:00 on Tuesday morning. On the way to the boat we stopped at a convenience store and added to our cooler of sandwiches that Chip prepared the night before (wrapped in wax paper and cellophane – wax paper?). Some coffee, waters, and energy bars were thrown into the heavy cooler and off we were to the boat. The boat ramp was busy – commercial bass season was upon us and this added to the daily traffic of recreational and guided fishing. A few handshakes and mischievous verbal jabs were exchanged as we boarded the Carla Noelle and made our way out to what would be a twelve-hour trip.

The weather was misty, then foggy, then really foggy. The GPS and radar provided the guidance we needed to make it out to our destinations. Despite the fog, Joel spasmodically applied sunscreen and this provided some laughter (see photos). Then I showed Joel the wrapper from the energy bar that had for breakfast: Caramel Nut Blast. This crippled Joel and puzzled the others. “Dude, we need to order a t-shirt from this company,” he blurted out between snorts of giggles. It was actually funny.


Oh yeah, the fishing. Well, it went like this: first location, no fish. The second spot (crowded…um, the SW corner) was more productive. Joel decided to warm up his day with about 10 wily dogfish which brought upon a wrath of deprecating jokes which did not bounce well off his skin (his humility lasted longer than mine would have). Chip landed a dogfish too. The skunk was almost gone. Then I, the lucky one I suppose, landed a couple of fat stripers that would have been great to keep, but being out on the bank, a sanctuary for striped bass, they had to be released. But I swear, my first strike, which didn’t hook, felt like a tuna.

As slack tide approached Jeff decided to move onto another area several miles away. The trip took a while and when we arrived it was hot, calm, and sunny. No fish to be seen. But this was the plan: wait until the tide would move again which would likely turn the fishing on. In the meantime, on a hint, we took a short trip to a nearshore area to seek some breaking bass. By the time we arrived the bass had been replaced by blues – big ones. But this was fun. We wasted a shitload of Jeff’s expensive plastics before we realized that the schools were all blues, however we managed to hook and land several, kept one for Chip’s grill, and then moved back to tuna waters.

We were into our tenth hour on the water and hadn’t yet found any tuna on the surface. Plenty of food and water was at hand and this was consumed while we searched and searched. Moods were good, but it is typical that after so much time on a small vessel, one gets dazed and confused, and retreats into inner thoughts. I thought about how much I loved being on the water, especially with this group. I also thought about the sun and how glad I was to have ample sunscreen (applied hourly). I also realized that the summer was waning and that I’d better get my act together and fish as much as possible over the next couple of months. Finally, I thought about the piece of clamshell that was likely embedded deeply into one of my fingers – from about three weeks ago; it hadn’t surfaced yet, but I knew it was there.

The boredom was finally interrupted when I spotted a break on the surface. “Yo! There’s a fish – on the top at three o’clock!” The others slowly realized what I said and looked into the sun’s glare for more corroborating evidence. Nothing else happened. So, feeling that I might be hallucinating, I began to discount my sighting and brush it off as wake or whitecap. I continued to scan the water and of course, in five minutes Joel and I simultaneously spotted a school of tuna just inches below the surface. Their tails were in the air and they were calmly swimming in unison in circles. Chip put his phone away and Jeff honed into the sighting and carefully guided Carla Noelle into position. In a few minutes we had our shot. Joel fired off a pencil popper and I delivered a large jumping bait. Chip, in midship, also got his pencil popper out to the school. But nothing happened and eventually they dove. “Fuck!” Exclaimed Joel, as his energy level rapidly increased. We were now recharged and ready to go.

The school came back and as Jeff closed us in on them I noticed another larger school just a hundred meters away. I also noticed that some other fishermen in the area were catching on to our sudden series of sneaky maneuvers (that’s the problem with good weather/visibility). We honed in on the school. Joel and I tossed out two perfect casts and retrieved the undeniably most attractive lures around in front of their noses. I tensed up, “Get ready, here we go..” Then, oddly, the lures arrived at the side of Carla Noelle without a notice. They weren’t biting.

This went on for at least an hour. We’d spot a school of daisy-chaining tuna, creep up to them, cast in front of them, then skunk. They were nice fish too. Probably 150 to 200 pounds each. They wouldn’t hit.

Good for them.

The sun, after baking us all day, was sinking fast to the west. It was time to throw in the towel.

Tired and bleached, we managed to swig down a couple of Red Stripes at the Wellfleet house. I wanted to stay the night but there was too much work to do at home. Somewhat dejected, we departed by sunset to Routes 6 and 3 where more stories were told and future fishing plans made. We all decided, on the boat, that Columbus Day weekend would be our next trip with Jeff (last year was amazing!). On that trip I hope to hear Joel yell out “Holy nutblast!” as a 200-pounder nearly spools his reel in the fall air.

PS: more (better) photos coming soon.

Fishing Again

Wednesday, August 19

I love fishing with Chip. He’s my brother-in-law, married to my sister Priscilla. He is hardcore fly only. So when he comes up here I guide us around and fish the stern with my spinning gear and give him the bow for casting flies. He loves it.

Chip arrived on Monday afternoon. We took stock of the next couple of days – the tides, my work schedule and such. And then we went fishing. The evening’s tide was poor – a neap incoming. But we hit all the spots and tried and tried…and couldn’t find a fish. But we didn’t skunk because Chip used a pattern that apparently attracts young herring gulls. His first Duxbury landing of 2009 was a juvvy gull who caught the fly mid-air and then proceeded to freak out. I mean really freak out. But we were gentle and in a matter of seconds we had freed the poor bird and watched it fly away quite happily. This was just after another gull grabbed my jumping minnow and moved it 20 meters south for me. So we figured out, as the sun sank to the tree line, that is was time for a drink at the Winsor. So we did, and actually ate dinner there too. Susan’s scarves were still on sale and Chip took advantage of this.

Tuesday morning: up and out pre-dawn. Chip took a medium black with a plain stick and I went with a medium with cream and a plain croissant. Plain. But on the water we did better. Still slim pickings but we managed to find a few. Chip prevailed with three or four nice ones on the fly (deceiver) and maxed out at 27 inches. I was on the road to Skunkville until I finally landed a beach channel schoolie. This was fun and it made us hungry. Chip provided omelettes for all of us at the house. Cool.

Lunch was devoted to making some Joel-style sluggos. This involves surgery and since I was with one of the best surgeons around, I decided to make a few double hook sluggos for the ensuing day and a half of fishing. Chip and I sat under the umbrella out on the porch, he marveled at my insistence on calling Joel and asking for tips on the design. But it was kind of like fly tying really. There is an art to sluggo tying and the results are pretty much worth your effort. I stopped at three because my Krazy Glue ran out, but I had enough to do some damage, even if there weren’t any fish in the bay this week (month).

By 1:00 we were back out on the rips. The tide was fucking perfect and the rips were looking good. On the way out I spotted a small school of fish in skinny water. I got us there and we began casting and getting hits right away. It was getting exciting. Then some moron decided to check out what was going on. He motored his boat at medium speed from about a mile away, clearly focused on us as a way to find his fish. As he closed in on us I muttered something like, “Christ, is this a friend of yours Chip?” And as I expressed some curses to Chip the young man did the unbelievable: he motored right over the very small school of fish that we had been working on for the past ten minutes. Out of nowhere this imbecile thought it was fine to gab on his cell phone and motor at 6 kts up to us to take a fucking peek. My lead head FinS narrowly missed his face as I uncharacteristically snapped. That was a warning shot. Then he continued over the fish (which by now were spooked and gone) with a shrug – “what?”. I told him what and he left.

So that put a small damper on our afternoon. But not for long because soon, after exhausting the best rips of the bay, we found a bunch of small schools and Chip, the avid fly fisherman that he is, continued to prevail and land a couple of nice ones. Too short to keep for dinner, but nice. We then ran out of time and tide and had to join Alex on the grant for some oyster bag shaking. Sounds bizarre, but that’s what it is. We worked oysters for a couple of hours in the water and it allowed us to cool off and tell jokes.

We hadn’t had enough of the Winsor so we stopped there on the way home for some refreshments. Alex, Chip, and I were joined by a bunch of Skip’s crew (Maggie, Katie, A1, A2, and Murray) as the most distinguished mud-covered patrons. That was fun and short-lived. At home we grilled steaks and made the most of what I had grown so far in my garden and it was great – the oysters on ice were perfect and the wines that Chip selected made the evening.

Wednesday morning: woke up late. But not too late. There were some clouds and fog so the morning lasted a while. Chip and I searched some of the good rips on this incoming but couldn’t find much. Then some sporadic schools here and there. My sluggos were, however, doing well. I got a couple of fish on one drift (to about 26 inches) and this made Chip work harder and harder. But he couldn’t manage a hit. We moved on to a few more spots and finally hit one where I did pretty well on my squid-patterned sluggo – a 30 incher finally arrived. This moved our attitudes into positive territory and all was well. But in the end Chip didn’t find any.

The fishing this past week was difficult. I picked up a number of small blues last week but only five stripers over four sorties this week. Not too many people out there because of the poor conditions. I can’t explain why the fishing is so poor. But one indicator might be in the guts of today’s keeper. The kids were huddled around me as I cleaned the fish and, of course, they were interested in the gut contents. I reached in there and found a large stomach, I opened it and out spilled out only one specific food group: crabs. Sand crabs and, sit down, a spider crab. I’ve never seen a spider crab in a striper before. This was interesting. I wonder if the baitfish are sparse and that, therefore, the fish are sparse, and therefore, the fish are feeding on spider crabs. Hmm. No pogies, not many blitzes, so it might make sense.


After the autopsy Chip hopped into his speedy car and sped home to CT. I went to work oysters and continued throughout the rest of the day. Tonight we ate one filet of the striper (Chip took the other one home). I prepared it in a tomato sauce fresh leeks from my garden over bowtie pasta (all we had) and crusty French bread and salad. I am still in heaven.


Tuna next week and hopefully more stripers.

Summer Blues

The small ones are in now. They taste great.

Bluefish rule.

(no photos)

East Winds

At 1:56 my eyes opened and then, through my ears, heard the wind in the trees above. I knew the forecasts were all mixed up and that it was possible that a tropical wave coming up from the Bahamas could intensify and give us a little bump. So when I came to (at 1:56) I realized that if I could see the trees moving here then the wind was coming from the east or south, or in between. This wasn't good news.

The drive down Washington Street went from bad to worse: leaves littered the road and I could see the rain blowing horizontally from right to left (east wind). I said "Crap!" several times...maybe worse words too. And then, the arrival at Mattakeessett Court confirmed my fears. The boats were facing away from land and bouncing around and the east wind was fairly strong and consistent.

4:42 -- the wind, which was responsible for waking me every fifteen minutes, was now picking up and the trees were showing it. I jumped out of bed, forced on my wet jeans and made my way back down to the waterfront. This time the rain was heavy and the wind was ENE at about 30 or so. Crap. Larger limbs now scattered Washington St. and sheets of rain were blowing in from the east.

Billy Bennett was parked in the lot, I couldn't see him through the rain but knew he was in his truck. Alex was down on the dock checking things out. It was amazing. The whole dock was rolling and the boats were just about coming up over the finger floats. It was freaky. A few boats had broken free and one large sailboat, Barney's, was wedged into the guzzle, partially against the rocks. Alex, Bill and I worked to secure a couple of DBMS boats and then, like magic, the whole thing kind of stopped. The dropping tide and the coincident shift in wind direction caused a cessation of the waves. The rain even died down a little. The worse was just about over.

But the damage was real. Several motor boats turned over or swamped, Barney's sailboat went aground and a few of the DBMS boats were damaged against the bulkhead.

Here are some photos.

Hitchhikers

Lately I've been noticing more of these guys attached to some of my oysters (see photo above). They are oysters, but a different species: European oysters. The latin name is Ostrea edulis and are known as "flat oysters." They are native to western European coasts, particularly France where they are called "Huître plate" or simply "Plate." Other names include "Gravette" and "Pied de cheval" ("horse hoof") which is in reference to a particularly large European oyster.

So what are they doing attached to my American oysters (Crassostrea virginica)? They were introduced in Maine in the 1950s and by the 1980s they had established themselves as far south as Salem, Massachusetts. I don't know when the first sign of them arrived here in Duxbury. We find them, usually in the summer months, here in the bay and some of them are quite large. However this year a few of us are finding more of them, nickel-sized, attached to our virginica oysters.

So how do they taste? Hmmmn, well, the Europeans absolutely love these flat oysters. Most Americans don't like them at all. I've tried them a few times and although I didn't really like them at first, I can see how one can acquire a taste for them. They are similar yet different; the usual discriminatory attribute described by the general populace is a distinct metallic taste. But I've found them to have similar sweet and salty flavors that our virginica oysters possess. The metallic essence is sharp at first but then it dissolves over a few minutes and the other properties become more pronounced.

What else...well, they are pretty flat (even when large) and are easy to skim across a relatively calm sea toward unsuspecting friends working on nearby floats.

"Hey Graham, how about another Pied de cheval?"

The Swimmer

Well, we found an opossum on a mooring ball yesterday. We did. I had just picked up Hunter at the town dock and on the way back to the float he said, "There is a possum right there....on the mooring." I followed the trajectory of his index finger and sure enough, there was the poor creature clinging onto one of Long Point's square blue-foam mooring markers next to Can 21. It was funny. So I decided to report this thing to Don Beers, the Harbormaster. The call went something like this:

Ring-ring

DB: Harbormaster.

JB: Yes, I'd like to report an unauthorized mooring tenant in the harbor.

DB: Say that again? What?

JB: Yes, there is an individual of an unauthorized species that is occupying a guest mooring in the bay. Can you do something about it?

DB: What?!

JB: Don, there's an effin opossum clinging to this mooring ball next to Can 21!

DB: I'll heat up the oil....

...ok, so you get it. Actually, Don called animal control. Skip then appeared and I pointed to the sorry creature. He looked at it and bent over in laughter, which made me bend over in laughter. Funny.

Before animal control arrived I managed to track down David Grossman who was able to snap a few pictures of the opossum.

How did he get there? I have no idea. Some people guessed that it was on a boat and jumped off. Others think it simply swam out there. I think it swam and got a little disoriented.

But while we're on the subject, here are some facts about opossums:

OPOSSUMS FACTS
(http://www.rutherfordcounty.org/pets/pdfs/OPOSSUMS%20FACTS.pdf)

• Opossums lived during the Age of the Dinosaurs... fossil remains have been found from 70 million years ago! This means that the opossum is part of the Earth's oldest surviving mammal family.

• The opossum doesn't have a permanent "nest" because it is nocturnal and transient. It will spend and average of 2-3 days in the same hideout, then move on. Some weeks later it may return to your place, depending on your hospitality.

• Opossums have soft, rounded opposable thumbs with no fingernails, on their hind feet.

• Opossums do not dig holes, as their paws are very soft and tender, much like a human hand.

• Opossums may drool, growl and show their 50 teeth when frightened, but in reality are placid and prefer to avoid any confrontation.

• They are slow-moving with very sensitive hearing and smell, opossums are not territorial and will adapt to any environment where food, water and shelter exist.

• Opossums do not hang by their tails-the tail stabilizes their position while climbing and walking.

• Besides their natural predators in the wild, humans, cars and cats are the demise for this docile creature. Very few survive to adulthood, and usually live only 1-2 years if they do.

• "Playing Possum" is one of the most effective ways the opossums defends itself. When unable to flee, extreme fear places the opossum into an involuntary coma. They become stiff and their mouths will gape open. This condition will last 40 minutes to 4 hours. Most predators will abandon their attack, once the opossum is thought to be dead.

• Opossums cannot jump. An opossum may get into a trash can only if it has been knocked over by another animal, or if it's against a fence and the opossum drops into it, which can trap the opossum in the trash can. Just tip the can over and eventually the opossum will scramble away.

• Opossum fur coloring is most commonly gray, but can range from white and cinnamon to black.

• Baby opossums are usually born between the months of February and June.

Fishing

Dave Yozzo came up from New York to work on some Flupsy research. After work we fished for a little while. In the wind-driven rain. That Tuesday afternoon/evening was harsh and we were the only fools out there. The east wind was coming at us at around 20 kts and where I decided to take us fishing was in the open and the Cape Cod Bay rollers battered us around little. The rain (which hasn't really paused - two weeks later) was pretty much sideways and stinging our faces. But the rips were hot and we enjoyed lots of feisty stripers. "Now!" I yelled on each drift through the standing waves and "Wrreeee!" went our reels. It was fun, but the only downside was that the fish, beautiful as they were, were too small to keep. And Dave wanted to take one home. I could sense it.


That evening was spent playing some music at some run down place on the Jones River. That was more fun than the fishing though. Dave could have turned up a few notches for us. Actually, not really. But his fingers were like a harpsman's and some notable tunes evolved out of Tom Petty, REM, and Pearl Jam originals.

The next morning I found Dave reading in the living room with that look on his face: okay, let's go fishing. So we did. We managed to have better luck. The weather was slightly better because the wind was lighter and the rain turned mostly to mist. We did well in some of my favorite spots. Two keepers and lots of others. Slug-Gos were the bait of choice but I also landed several on Fin-S baits and some of Joel's homemade jumping minnows.

We cleaned the fish. My two fillets went to Andy, better known as A2 on the water, who's birthday I missed the previous week - a great guy who I have yet to fish with. Dave's went into his cooler for the trip back home to New York. The sole keeper lobster we hauled in from my pots went to my daughter, Jane, who loves lobster and anything else that comes out of the bay.

A few days later, Dave and I were in a project meeting in NYC (drenched by the heavy rain that day) and recounted our trip to the Duxbury rips among others during coffee breaks, etc. And then it dawned on me, as it has numerous times in the past, how lucky we are to be able to fish like this here. Not just HERE here, but in New England. My friends in Wales are suffering through a complete collapse of their fish stocks and read these accounts within a storm of frustration. We're lucky for the fish and a lot of other things on the bay.

One thing I forgot to mention. Before heading out on Tuesday evening, a local charter captain and his group of clients brought in a nice bluefin (pictured below). We grabbed the frame for our lobster traps...and for scraps.