For Vernon
Marcus Garvey
May. Isle of Wight Bay, Ocean City.
It's Early.
The day is dreary, the bay is overhung with low flying clouds and splattered with a occasional droplets of rain. Temperature at around 70; water temp 63. Wind from the Southeast at about five keeping the tide in a little longer. The last remnants of the outgoing tide are oozing toward the inlet beyond the busy Route 50 drawbridge. Small wavelets are not big enough to even rock the boat. The fish do not appear to be hungry; not even a nibble.
Steve and the Scoutmaster finally have managed coordinate schedules so as to try their hand at catching a few flounder, the bottom dwelling flatfish (both eyes on same side) that lurk in the deeper parts of the relatively shallow bay. The flounder provides a mild, sweet tasting entree and the fillet, due to the physical configuration of the fish, is quite large and thick and, therefore easy to deal with. Or, so it is said. The allowed catch size has been reduced to sixteen inches this spring due to last year's low totals and the daily limit is increased to four. Although it would appear that nobody has bothered to tell the flounder, this is supposed to be a really good year, or maybe they have left to avoid the crowds.
Only a few other brave souls are in the neighborhood, most all of them with multiple lines out and letting the breeze or tide drag their bait through the deep water and then puttering upwind and drifting back again, being careful to avoid the sand bars that populate the middle of the bay. Sand in the motor's cooling system is not at all recommended. One of the accepted rigs for flounder is a simple combination of a sinker and a hook. The sinker is relatively heavy, maybe 3 oz, attached at the end of the line and the bait hook, on 18 to 30 inch leader following. Hook size is the fisherman's choice, size being somewhat relative to the angler's optimism regarding expected catch. The idea may be that, as the the sinker is dragged along the bottom it will disturb a sleeping fish, who will, upon waking, want breakfast which now just happens to be nearby at the end of the following leader. It's a good theory, however it does not account for the disposition of the fish or his dining schedule.
None of the boats shows any significant on board activity. Their occupants are mostly hunkered down in their hoods to avoid the moisture laden breeze. The lines are slack and the rods straight and still. Engines are mostly quiet. Courtesy demands that one does not get too close to another boat and disturb "his" fish. A cardinal sin would be entangling one's boat, propeller, or other gear in an other's lines. Murder would probably be a justifiable reaction.
Lady at the bait shop had said that "They're catching a lot of flounder on minnows and Gulp. George caught the limit yesterday down at the Thoroughfare." Now they knew where the Thoroughfare was (seen it on the map) and of course everyone knows what a minnow is but neither had a clue as to just what a "Gulp" was and neither was anxious to demonstrate his ignorance, leastwise in the company of witnesses.
Scoutmaster allowed as how they would need some minnows, lady says, "Sure, how many you need?, didja bring your bucket? " "Uh, no, I left it home," he says, "and two dozen should do it." "Better get us a bucket too."
Steve couldn't stand it any longer. "You got the Gulp?" his question sounding as if he wasn't sure he was asking about fish bait or some contagious infection. "Sure," she says, and produced a small plastic bag, 'bout the size of a package of M and M's containing a handful of flesh-colored plastic thingies that looked like a cross between a minnow and a grub worm and each having a worm-squirmy body and a long wiggly tail. The price tag showed $7.98. They looked at each other then back at the package. "We'll take that too," Steve says.
This is the first outing into serious(?) fishing here in the bay for these two. Both have fished a little in small bodies of water and have been on group fishing charters in the Chesapeake, where Captain Bob chose the bait and the mate baited the hooks and helped land the fish. Nobody here to help; they were on their own.
It all started three years or so ago when Fred, an auto mechanic friend, mentioned he had a pontoon boat that he wanted to sell. Fred is an independent, self employed businessman and service provider, operating in that foggy 'no man's land' somewhere between manufacturers' dealerships and shady trees, the difference being mostly more one of equipment and tools rather than skill. Not being a polished diplomat, Fred had, while struggling with a non- responsive muffler clamp, listening patiently to Steve's amateur analysis of a minor problem that his old Ranger was demonstrating, calmly suggested, from the horizontal safety beneath the car, that Steve should "stick to attempting to sell houses and leave the mechanicin' to folks who know what they're doing." Not being totally stupid, Steve took the hint and, thereafter, asked for Fred's opinion before, if ever, offering his.
The boat, however, was located at Deep Creek Lake in Garrett County, more than 150 miles west and, perhaps, 2000 feet higher in elevation. It had a 40 hp motor, but it seems that it belonged to the neighbor next-door to Fred's log cabin in the hills above the college near McHenry. It was a freshwater lake boat, no salt and little sand. Said it had not been used or serviced in a couple of years. It might have some rotted wood and the tires on the trailer might have dry rot. Given the length and intensity of Garrett County winters, these were not good signs.
Deer season in the mountains provided an opportunity to examine the boat and determine the scope of its deterioration. It was ugly. Quite simply, everything that could rot had done so or was making every effort to! However the price was right and a deal was struck. The neighbor was contacted concerning the motor. He wanted about three times as much for the motor as was being asked for the boat and trailer. Steve declined and neighbor agreed to remove it. It is now early December and Winter is closing fast.
Winter comes early at Deep Creek and with it comes precipitation, usually frozen. Neighbor is unable to remove the motor due to illness, boat is snowed in and he can't shovel it out, driveway is only partly plowed, etc. etc. Garrett now gets record setting snowfall and boat, trailer and motor spend the winter under the snow for the third or fourth year, the record snowfall is slow to melt and Spring has to be drug kicking and screaming from Winter's cozy bedrooms.
Finally, it appears that access to the boat can be had, and a local marina is contracted to retrieve it and replace the trailer tires if necessary. They were advised to remove the motor, notify its owner of its location and hold it hostage for the cost of removal. This worked well and the boat was ready for its new home. Title had been transferred and new license plates obtained. Tires were still good.
This is not a large unit, as pontoon boats go, but still the boat measures almost twenty feet in length with an eight foot beam. On the trailer, the deck is about shoulder height on a short fisherman. Add the trailer tongue and hitch and you have fair sized piece of equipment to be lugged the 150 miles home from Garrett County, not a reassuring thought when the only towing equipment at your disposal is an old Ford Ranger with well over 100,000 on the clock.
Scoutmaster has a full size Dodge pickup equipped with a big engine and four wheel drive, among other features. He agrees to fetch the boat and assist in it's resurrection provided Steve buys the gas and gives him rights to join in the fishing. Twelve miles to the gallon would be about its average for the Dodge, if you're going downhill and have a respectable tailwind. Add a boat and trailer and the numbers get smaller. Fortunately, the gas tank was large enough to permit reasonable trips out past the city limits and return without refilling, but you always knew that "filler up" was going to flatten your wallet.
Boat was uneventfully retrieved (if one considers travelling down from the mountains at turnpike speeds, pulling a boat and trailer with questionable tires to be uneventful) and parked in Steve's yard where the wife regarded it coolly and without comment. It was truly something to behold. the seats were plastic over rotten wood, the steering console leaned from the rot and the entire plywood decking was unsafe for pedestrians. Almost all the bolts holding things together were rusted tight. Steve considered the project carefully and planned for most of the spring and well into the summer. It was early fall before he was able to screw up his courage and begin.
Boat spends a summer and fall being stripped down to the metal, a winter in the garage being reassembled (displacing wife's car) and then a summer having the steering console reinstalled and a motor from an old Grady transferred over from an earlier resurrection project. Another winter and some minor usage proves the engine to be undependable. Motor replaced and it is winter again.. Boat is christened HMF Pintail, (Her Majesty's Flatboat, in honor of the wife and the location of the beach house.)
Now it's time. All is ready. Almost.
* * * * * * * * *
Where were we? Oh yes, on the Bay. The tide is slack and beginning to head toward its high point, now some two or three hours away, If there were to be any fish, they should come when the tide is moving, one way or the other. Or so they have been told. Hope someone told the fish.Boat was loaded and off they went; one eye on the depth finder and the other watching for the sparce bouys that mark the mid-bay sand. Half an hour and they're at the Thoroughfare. Relatively deep water in the channel. Fifteen to thirty feet, dropping to three or less about a hundred yards from the southern limit. SM rigs two lines with squid, drops one in the port side rod holder, pulls his folding chair up near the port rail, drops the second line over, props his feet on the rail and leans back in anticipation. Steve picks up an old bait casting rig, fishes a minnow out of the bucket, hooks him securely on the hook, flips the bait out a few feet, sets the rod in the starboard rod holder and retreats to the swivel chair behind the wheel. The boat drifts over near shallows, putters back then drifts again. Repeat. Nothing happens.
Wish we'd brought some beer.
Yeah.
You get the boat license? Didn't see a new sticker.
DNR's mailing it, got the license in my pocket. Should be OK"
Repeat the drift. Time drags. Steve changes bait; "Think I'll try one of these wiggly things", he says.
Now and then a bigger fishing boat roars by in the channel, up on plane and creating a huge wake.
"Asshole", Steve mutters as he once again putters back to deep water. Tide is coming in briskly now.
Suddenly the starboard rod holder rattles and the rod doubles up. "Fish on!" and it might be a good one from the look of it. SM goes for the net and Steve grabs the rod and begin to crank in the line.
Fish is strong and lively. Fish is maneuvered up to between the forward end of the pontoons and SM is attempting to get him in the net. It is at this point that the deficiencies of the cheap, short handled net are becoming apparent. SM has to be on his knees to reach the general neighborhood in which Fish is speedily and skillfully avoiding capture.
On about the third try, Fish is finally captured and brought aboard, net and fish are on the deck, SM is still on his knees. Fish flips out of the net onto the deck and the only solution appears to be hand to hand combat. SM pounces, wins the match and dumps Fish in the cooler. It's a small 24 inch cooler and Fish has to lie catty-cornered to fit in. Fish is not happy. Nearby boat gives a thumbs up sign as it edges a little closer, hoping to get a piece of the action.
"Nice one, uh, what is it?" Says Steve, looking at Fish. Fish is dark blue to gray, generally shaped like bass, white underbelly but no stripes. "It's not a Rock."
"Not a flounder either, but what th' hell is it? Sea Bass?"
"Don't think so, where's that regulation book you picked up at the bait shop? There's pictures"
"Thought you had it"
"Shit", " Now we got a fish and we don't have a clue as to what it is, whether or not it's legal, and if it is, is it big enough, and how many are we allowed., or anything"
" Well, we'll just keep it 'till we find out"
"That could get expensive."
"Yeah."
"Sucker took my bait'", says Steve, and he drops his newly baited hook over the side,
"I'm changing bait. This stuff ain't workin'", the SM says, as he pulls in one of his lines. "Where's the Gulp?"
Before the line's back in the water, Steve's rod has doubled over again and another life and death struggle ensues. SM calmly completes replacing his bait and drops the line over the side, replacing the rod in the port holder. "I'm coming," he says as he grabs the net.
It's another full sized mystery fish and before it is corraled and stashed in the cooler, SM's line is being tugged at wildly. It's Steve's turn to wield the net and SM rebaits his other hook and on the next drift, three more fish are added to the already crowded cooler. One more drift pass and the fun continues; the cooler is near about full but after the next pass, it stops as suddenly as it started. There was silence.
"We still don't even know what we're catching." Steve finally said, "How many we got?"
"Dammed if I know that either," SM responds, " "We better git, "fore somebody asks us what we got." "We don't want to look too stupid."
"That wouldn't be too hard, now would it?"
"Better hope we ain't got what we shouldn't 'uv."
Lunchtime has long since come and gone and their list of forgotten things, that already includes, beer, longer net, boat stickers, regulation book, gloves, has food and water added. By one or two o'clock they have had enough. They decide to go home. Hunger has set in. Cooler is almost full.
Water is almost flat and the boat is running good. Steve cranks it up to almost 20 knots before throttling back. "Not bad for an old pontoon, huh?" Up the canal quietly and on the lift in about 30 minutes.
The catch has to be cleaned, but first, to identify. Disposition of the catch depends upon the book.
Fetch the book with the pictures. 'Pears to be a Bluefish. Minimum eight inches.
SM heaves a sigh of relief, "Limit is ten." "That's ten each." " We only got 17, and the're all over a foot long; couple of big ones will go over 24."
"We're OK then." says Steve. "Where's the filleting knife?".
"What?"
"Filleting knife, you know, the long thin bladed one used to clean fish"
"Don't you have one?"
"This is your place, remember?"
Steve searched the kitchen and came back with a knife that bore some resemblance to what was needed. His left hand held a couple of bottles of Yingling. "You want lunch?"
"Let;s get it over with", came the reply.
Steve held out the knife to his partner. "I never filleted a fish."
Scoutmaster took the knife, and grinned, ear to ear. "Really? Well, neither have I." "We should've paid more attention to Cap't Bob." He ran his thumb over the knife's edge,"You sharpened this lately?" he inquired. "It come with th' house." Steve replied.
They stared at each other for a minute; then laughed. Big time. "Well, let's do it."
It wasn't pretty, in fact it was downright ugly. 'Blood, guts, and feathers' over most of the dock, fishheads that missed the scrap bucket, entrails accidently dropped on the bench, and, as they say, much, much, more. The ladies of the house watched for a few minutes, but at the sight of blood, discovered a number of chores that required their attention indoors. Marty, next door, owner and operator of the thirty foot offshore fishing rig on his lift, watched in silence, then remembered that he had to be at the gym in a few minutes for his daily workout. Eventually there was a large potful of what might be loosely referred to as fillets. There were scraps aplenty to provide a feast for the crabs.
Butchered Bluefish. Tired fishermen. No Flounder.
Hose down the dock, flush the motor, put away the gear and freeze the fish for later smoking and/or baking.
Add filleting knife to the list.
Learn how to use it.
Just another day.
And a long list of things not to forget next time.
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