I used to count fish. Most probably do when they start fishing as a way to catalogue it, or for whatever reason. I stopped mostly after reading Longest Silence–if you did you probably know the exact passage about “trout number seven”–and also because it is a nonsensical way to record a fishing experience.
Looking back on my fishing journals, I recorded a day in the year 2000 where I caught 30 just-stocked brook trout on a river where I paid for a beat. Should that carry more weight than the trip that year down the Rio Hatiguanico in Cuba? The one with the ornithologist who served me rum and helped me hook my first tarpon on fly? By numbers it does.
So I started counting days. In 2008 I recorded over 100 excursions with a fly rod and I knew with the birth of my first child that year that the pace would not last unless I moved to Florida and/or won the lottery. In 2013, I recorded 52. Once a week seems more than reasonable for someone in a northern locale with a full-time job and family, and who is not a guide.
Still, counting days is not a perfect math, either. The year in my head doesn’t add up to the numbers on the page–a notion my wife would find insane¹. Maybe it’s because I turned down as many invitations to fish as times I actually spent fishing–I am probably the king of the “Yeah sounds awesome oh wait I can’t” response. Maybe it’s because of the skunk days I withstood trying to force carp to like me. But likely it’s because much of my fishing time came in clusters or consisted of stolen moments².
Either way, in 2013 I got to be on the water in some of my favorite places in the world in both Florida and New York with some of my favorite people and also got to watch my two daughters catch panfish on little pink Ugly Sticks by the dozen. So, yeah, 2013 was good. And as the great Neil Young sings, “numbers add up to nothing.”
Happy New Year.
1. (And most likely is.)
2. (In the Wordsworthian “Spots of Time” vein.)
The website space.com has an article up detailing the lasting effects of the interstellar object, estimated between five and miles in diameter, that crashed into earth at the spot now known as the Chesapeake Bay Crater.
Without this epochal event, there is no Chesapeake Bay and no striped bass fishing as we know it today. Stuff to think about, walking the beach.
The sun came out and the shallows warmed and fish moved into them. Others held fast in the current rips, poised for ambush, and still others patrolled the drop-offs or took cover in the newly thickening weeds. The fish hit the flies of those who were there and the pics are for those who could not be.
There is no known reason for a trout to be in this pond. It is a warm water pond of municipal park vintage with no appreciable depth, a small battery of largemouth and one billion bluegill.
The bluegill hit flies when the sun is out and are at the ready when a lunchtime bend is needed. The bass have seen too many lures to let their guard down often, but when they do the results ripple through the entire containment.
In October a truck shows up full of trout and people line the banks and fill buckets. They are typically cleaned out within days, their long term prospects on par with the tank lobsters at the diner.
Honestly, from my vantage point I thought it was a bass. I had on a bluegill popper but cast it over and watched the fish turn and slash.
I waited for the jump but the fish rolled on its side like an omega dog and let me pull it to the bank.
Somehow it survived the winter I guess but I still don’t like its prospects.
John has a 37 Contender. John’s 37 Contender has twin 250-hp Yamahas on the transom. A 37 Contender with 500-hp of propulsion in the hands of someone capable is a serious and righteous machine.
Sure it costs some coin to take that ride, but what else are you going to spend it on for kicks? Drugs? Invest in an alpaca farm?
Before the fish is even at hand, thinking about the next one. Getting that one off and getting out there again before it all dies down.
The fish at hand might feel debased by it all, if it even had a cerebral cortex, but as such it’s probably OK just being not dead.
Sorry about that. As Snoop says it, “You gotta get yours but fool I gotta get mine.”
To steal some lines from another song, Too much of everything is just enough.
Not the foliage, not the hot cider or the baseball, but this…this is what makes New England in the fall the happiest place on earth.
The water outside the inlet looked glassy and the rain bait made audible splashes as they circled together and jumped to escape pursuit. Bluefish caused this. They appeared as bright flashes when they turned sideways and slashed through the tiny fish with their mouths open. Once in a while one would break the surface with its forked tail. Then everything would go down but fish oil slicked on the surface and the water glittered from the refraction off thousands of tiny free-floating scales. Evidence of dismemberment.
One bait ball remained tight and we idled over to it and I witnessed something I had never seen before. The rain bait pulsated and we made casts around the edges and waited for the thump. Something peeled away from the bait ball and followed my fly but it was not quite right. It swam lazily behind right up to the boat, and another followed and they were red and clumsy and did not eat. We moved closer and watched as two dozen of their kind fanned their pectorals and jacked the bait. Sea robins.
Hey man, this is the ocean. Everything eats everything, and everything’s looking for a reason to go off.
Is that at some point there will be intersection.
Some friends are involved in things of a promotional nature, and I’m going to mention them here:
Richard Siberry, a photographer and videographer and beach junky, is seeking financial backing for his much-anticipated Montauk Rocks movie through Kickstarter.
Matt Smythe, of Fishing Poet, is working social media for Thomas & Thomas rods, which is giving away a free rod to one random person who “likes” them on a social media platform.
That is all.