TBone
08-04-2004, 01:16 PM
Copied from the ProJo 8/3/2004
_________________________________________________
Mark Patinkin: A fish(ing) story
Governor proves to be an old salt; intrepid columnist turns green
01:00 AM EDT on Tuesday, August 3, 2004
I assumed this would be a new experience for Governor Carcieri, as it would be for me. I am no fisherman. I was told he hadn't fished in a while, either.
So when I was invited to go ocean fishing with him beyond Point Judith light, I thought there would be two of us amateurs in the boat.
It was Capt. Joe Pagano's charter craft, a 23-footer named Stuff-It because he's a taxidermist off-season. He docks it at Ram Point Marina on Great Salt Pond in Galilee.
I got there a little after 5 p.m. last Wednesday. Governor Carcieri was waiting. He wore a yellow foul-weather jacket, a gray "Rhode Island" sweatshirt and khakis.
The trip came together when Carcieri visited the New England Salt-Water Anglers Fishing Show a few months ago at the Convention Center. He ran into Captain Pagano, who invited him out. A Journal photographer joined the conversation. The three set last Wednesday as the day. Later, the photographer asked me along in a way that made me think this was new to the governor.
I figured we'd go out for maybe an hour or so. I don't have the stomach for much more than that.
The Stuff-It pushed off the dock.
I asked Carcieri if he'd brought his cell phone.
"Nope."
Did he leave it on purpose?
"Yes."
Fishing, he said, is about getting away from things. A state trooper and a scheduling aide were his only entourage. That made five of us.
I asked when he had last fished.
This was the first time this year, he said.
But he added he's indeed a fisherman: "I grew up on these waters."
That's when I learned he can claim more than amateur status. He spent a summer doing this kind of trip professionally. His father was an East Greenwich High sports coach who quahogged in warm weather. They didn't have much money, so Carcieri had to pay his way through Brown.
His first year, 1961, he did so by serving as first-mate on a deep-sea charter boat called the Sea Squirrel 2. For a summer, he went off this same shore almost every day from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. His job was to bait the lines and gut the fish. He made $56 a week, plus tips.
Some days, he said, they'd go hours without luck, then, suddenly, hit 30-pound shoal tuna, and as he put it, everyone would go "bananas."
Other times, they'd come across ones much bigger.
"I could tell you stories," the governor said. "They used to catch giant tuna right off the beach." Some, he said were 700 pounds.
Pagano, the charter captain, said the tuna aren't there anymore. You have to go out a long way find them now, if you can at all.
Today, Governor Carcieri owns a 24-foot Grady White with a 225 outboard, but seldom gets to use it. He guesses he's put no more than 150 hours on the engine in 10 years. Since he became governor, he's put on almost nothing.
He explained he's out at events every night. This was the first night he'd taken all for himself in a long time.
As we motored out of Great Salt Pond, we passed Jerusalem.
"I used to go door-to-door delivering milk there," Carcieri said. That was to make money for his second year tuition at Brown. "I did some crazy jobs," he added.
As we cruised along, Carcieri was able to pick out every spot where the state has been involved.
"We just repaired that pier," he said at one point.
We got into the Harbor of Refuge, protected by a state breakwater where rocks had fallen apart here and there. Carcieri said he'd make a mental note to take care of that.
We rounded Point Judith Light and for a half hour ran along the southern shore. Instead of going out 20 miles for deep-sea fishing at 180-foot depths, we'd be closer to shore in water a tenth that deep, or less.
I assumed that meant calm waters.
Finally, we stopped by a big rock a half-mile or so off Scarborough Beach.
So much for calm water. There had been a storm earlier, and four-foot swells were rolling by. To a rookie like me, it looked like footage from The Perfect Storm.
The governor barely noticed. He was studying the boat's depth meter for signs of shoals where striped bass often run.
"We've shallowed up," the governor announced.
Pagano stopped and put live eels on several rods. He explained it was mostly light tackle, 15-pound test line on spinning gear.
The governor said he preferred going after stripers not just for the better taste, but because bluefish tend to chop up your eels without taking the hook.
I needed a tutorial on how to handle a fishing rod, but Carcieri knew what he was doing. He set up at the back of the boat, and began casting.
The swells bounced the boat, and bounced it, and bounced it again.
I began to feel green.
The governor seemed as content as a man could be.
"The nice thing about being out on the water is you forget everything," he said.
Like what?
He smiled. "The legislature."
Does he have any other hobbies for escape?
"I don't play golf much," he said. "Being on the water is as good as it gets. That and being with my grandkids."
Carcieri has 13 of them, ranging from age 11 to 3.
He felt something strike his line, but when he pulled to set the hook, it was gone.
A moment later, he had one. He drew it in, lowering the rod, then reeling, and repeating until it was at the boat. Pagano pulled it aboard. It seemed good size to me, but Carcieri knew better. It was under 20 inches.
"Too small," he said. "Let it go."
Bass have to be over 28 inches to keep.
He went a while without another strike.
"They're here," he said, "they're just not that hungry."
Pagano kept bringing the boat back to the offshore rock for another drift. I got greener and greener.
We'd been out an hour now, and I was ready to go in.
Carcieri wasn't. He said he felt at home on the water. He remembers countless days quahogging with his dad from shores off Rocky Point to Colt State Park.
"It's like a farmer," he said. "You grow up on a farm, you love the land." He gestured toward the coast. "This is a special place."
Soon, he had hooked another, a bigger one, which got everyone in the boat cheering him on.
I decided to try it, and to my surprise, hooked one pretty quickly.
"How the hell did you do that," said Carcieri. "You only just put it in the water."
Somehow, I brought it in -- a 30-inch keeper. The governor gave me a raised-hand palm-slap for congratulations.
It was kind of fun, but the truth is, not everyone is meant to be a fisherman. I'm not.
The governor is.
We went for two hours, then three. The swells were nonstop, and I got only greener.
Finally, I abandoned the journalistic rule against influencing the story, and asked if we could go in now.
The governor was polite, but said you can't leave when the fish are biting.
After 15 minutes, I tried again: How about now?
The governor smiled. "Who invited this guy?"
We stayed yet another hour. Drift after drift after drift. The talking revved up whenever someone hooked one, but for long stretches, people were happily silent. They were just fishing.
The weather was gray and threatening, and we were the only boat I could see.
Now can we leave?
"We're just getting started," said the governor.
We'd pushed off at 5 and had been at it now almost three hours.
A misty dusk came down, softening the lights along the shore, and I had to admit, it was stunning to be out there.
"It's a beautiful coast," said Carcieri.
It is.
But I was still green.
I asked Captain Pagano if he ever gets tired of fishing trips. Nope. He sometimes will run seven a week from 6 p.m. to midnight. He said he'd never been to a nightclub, and had no desire. Fishing is the only nightlife he has ever craved.
At last, a bit after 8, the governor gave in to me, and said we'd probably wrap up around 8:30.
We wrapped up closer to 9.
By then, we'd caught about 12 and kept 7, the biggest a 25-pounder landed by the governor.
As Pagano put the rods away, a rain started, and it was dark out. He revved the engine and began bouncing back through the swells. I was holding on for life. The governor, smiling into the weather, merely leaned against the low cushioned wall behind the wheel.
By the time we pulled back to Ram Point, it was after 10 p.m. I was dying of hunger, but at the same time, too ill to think about eating.
Carcieri was content.
The next morning, his governor's life and schedule would start again.
But for this one stolen night, he'd gotten back out where he loves to be.
Mark Patinkin can be reached at mpatinkin [at] projo.com.
_________________________________________________
Mark Patinkin: A fish(ing) story
Governor proves to be an old salt; intrepid columnist turns green
01:00 AM EDT on Tuesday, August 3, 2004
I assumed this would be a new experience for Governor Carcieri, as it would be for me. I am no fisherman. I was told he hadn't fished in a while, either.
So when I was invited to go ocean fishing with him beyond Point Judith light, I thought there would be two of us amateurs in the boat.
It was Capt. Joe Pagano's charter craft, a 23-footer named Stuff-It because he's a taxidermist off-season. He docks it at Ram Point Marina on Great Salt Pond in Galilee.
I got there a little after 5 p.m. last Wednesday. Governor Carcieri was waiting. He wore a yellow foul-weather jacket, a gray "Rhode Island" sweatshirt and khakis.
The trip came together when Carcieri visited the New England Salt-Water Anglers Fishing Show a few months ago at the Convention Center. He ran into Captain Pagano, who invited him out. A Journal photographer joined the conversation. The three set last Wednesday as the day. Later, the photographer asked me along in a way that made me think this was new to the governor.
I figured we'd go out for maybe an hour or so. I don't have the stomach for much more than that.
The Stuff-It pushed off the dock.
I asked Carcieri if he'd brought his cell phone.
"Nope."
Did he leave it on purpose?
"Yes."
Fishing, he said, is about getting away from things. A state trooper and a scheduling aide were his only entourage. That made five of us.
I asked when he had last fished.
This was the first time this year, he said.
But he added he's indeed a fisherman: "I grew up on these waters."
That's when I learned he can claim more than amateur status. He spent a summer doing this kind of trip professionally. His father was an East Greenwich High sports coach who quahogged in warm weather. They didn't have much money, so Carcieri had to pay his way through Brown.
His first year, 1961, he did so by serving as first-mate on a deep-sea charter boat called the Sea Squirrel 2. For a summer, he went off this same shore almost every day from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. His job was to bait the lines and gut the fish. He made $56 a week, plus tips.
Some days, he said, they'd go hours without luck, then, suddenly, hit 30-pound shoal tuna, and as he put it, everyone would go "bananas."
Other times, they'd come across ones much bigger.
"I could tell you stories," the governor said. "They used to catch giant tuna right off the beach." Some, he said were 700 pounds.
Pagano, the charter captain, said the tuna aren't there anymore. You have to go out a long way find them now, if you can at all.
Today, Governor Carcieri owns a 24-foot Grady White with a 225 outboard, but seldom gets to use it. He guesses he's put no more than 150 hours on the engine in 10 years. Since he became governor, he's put on almost nothing.
He explained he's out at events every night. This was the first night he'd taken all for himself in a long time.
As we motored out of Great Salt Pond, we passed Jerusalem.
"I used to go door-to-door delivering milk there," Carcieri said. That was to make money for his second year tuition at Brown. "I did some crazy jobs," he added.
As we cruised along, Carcieri was able to pick out every spot where the state has been involved.
"We just repaired that pier," he said at one point.
We got into the Harbor of Refuge, protected by a state breakwater where rocks had fallen apart here and there. Carcieri said he'd make a mental note to take care of that.
We rounded Point Judith Light and for a half hour ran along the southern shore. Instead of going out 20 miles for deep-sea fishing at 180-foot depths, we'd be closer to shore in water a tenth that deep, or less.
I assumed that meant calm waters.
Finally, we stopped by a big rock a half-mile or so off Scarborough Beach.
So much for calm water. There had been a storm earlier, and four-foot swells were rolling by. To a rookie like me, it looked like footage from The Perfect Storm.
The governor barely noticed. He was studying the boat's depth meter for signs of shoals where striped bass often run.
"We've shallowed up," the governor announced.
Pagano stopped and put live eels on several rods. He explained it was mostly light tackle, 15-pound test line on spinning gear.
The governor said he preferred going after stripers not just for the better taste, but because bluefish tend to chop up your eels without taking the hook.
I needed a tutorial on how to handle a fishing rod, but Carcieri knew what he was doing. He set up at the back of the boat, and began casting.
The swells bounced the boat, and bounced it, and bounced it again.
I began to feel green.
The governor seemed as content as a man could be.
"The nice thing about being out on the water is you forget everything," he said.
Like what?
He smiled. "The legislature."
Does he have any other hobbies for escape?
"I don't play golf much," he said. "Being on the water is as good as it gets. That and being with my grandkids."
Carcieri has 13 of them, ranging from age 11 to 3.
He felt something strike his line, but when he pulled to set the hook, it was gone.
A moment later, he had one. He drew it in, lowering the rod, then reeling, and repeating until it was at the boat. Pagano pulled it aboard. It seemed good size to me, but Carcieri knew better. It was under 20 inches.
"Too small," he said. "Let it go."
Bass have to be over 28 inches to keep.
He went a while without another strike.
"They're here," he said, "they're just not that hungry."
Pagano kept bringing the boat back to the offshore rock for another drift. I got greener and greener.
We'd been out an hour now, and I was ready to go in.
Carcieri wasn't. He said he felt at home on the water. He remembers countless days quahogging with his dad from shores off Rocky Point to Colt State Park.
"It's like a farmer," he said. "You grow up on a farm, you love the land." He gestured toward the coast. "This is a special place."
Soon, he had hooked another, a bigger one, which got everyone in the boat cheering him on.
I decided to try it, and to my surprise, hooked one pretty quickly.
"How the hell did you do that," said Carcieri. "You only just put it in the water."
Somehow, I brought it in -- a 30-inch keeper. The governor gave me a raised-hand palm-slap for congratulations.
It was kind of fun, but the truth is, not everyone is meant to be a fisherman. I'm not.
The governor is.
We went for two hours, then three. The swells were nonstop, and I got only greener.
Finally, I abandoned the journalistic rule against influencing the story, and asked if we could go in now.
The governor was polite, but said you can't leave when the fish are biting.
After 15 minutes, I tried again: How about now?
The governor smiled. "Who invited this guy?"
We stayed yet another hour. Drift after drift after drift. The talking revved up whenever someone hooked one, but for long stretches, people were happily silent. They were just fishing.
The weather was gray and threatening, and we were the only boat I could see.
Now can we leave?
"We're just getting started," said the governor.
We'd pushed off at 5 and had been at it now almost three hours.
A misty dusk came down, softening the lights along the shore, and I had to admit, it was stunning to be out there.
"It's a beautiful coast," said Carcieri.
It is.
But I was still green.
I asked Captain Pagano if he ever gets tired of fishing trips. Nope. He sometimes will run seven a week from 6 p.m. to midnight. He said he'd never been to a nightclub, and had no desire. Fishing is the only nightlife he has ever craved.
At last, a bit after 8, the governor gave in to me, and said we'd probably wrap up around 8:30.
We wrapped up closer to 9.
By then, we'd caught about 12 and kept 7, the biggest a 25-pounder landed by the governor.
As Pagano put the rods away, a rain started, and it was dark out. He revved the engine and began bouncing back through the swells. I was holding on for life. The governor, smiling into the weather, merely leaned against the low cushioned wall behind the wheel.
By the time we pulled back to Ram Point, it was after 10 p.m. I was dying of hunger, but at the same time, too ill to think about eating.
Carcieri was content.
The next morning, his governor's life and schedule would start again.
But for this one stolen night, he'd gotten back out where he loves to be.
Mark Patinkin can be reached at mpatinkin [at] projo.com.