Fish_Eye
10-18-2002, 11:59 AM
I know many of you folks have fallen in love with Cuttyhunk, here's what happened during my recent visit last weekend:
My wife Donna, my German Shepard, Sasha and I were staying at the legendary Cuttyhunk Fishing Club and we had the entire place to ourselves (thanks to Oriel Ponzecchi who purchased the club and saved it from being raised and turned into condos). We had made the pilgrimage: to premiere my new video with Lefty Kreh, to do some additional filming and diving, to celebrate my wife’s birthday, and to surf fish the world’s greatest location for striped bass.
Occasional gusts to forty knots with wind swept rain out of the east made the stay in the rustic clubhouse both spooky and romantic. When the wind would blow just right from the east, a couple of clapboards would vibrate and produce a sound, not unlike the bugling of a bull elk…the fact that the sound emanated from the stag’s head that adorned an old bureau made it particularly eerie!
It’s always a thrill staying in the same place that Grover Cleveland, William Howard Taft and Teddy Roosevelt did; the fact that they came here to fish for stripers was just bully with me.
On Saturday we met up with our good friends Ed and Wendy Hughes and their black lab Jake. The regular ferry service had been cancelled, but they managed to make the crossing on one of the islander’s fishing boats. Now there were two of us compulsive/obsessive fishermen trying to keep our wives happy, while trying to refrain from dashing out the door and spending all our time fishing. We scored a few points with the girls on Saturday as the wind continued to howl and a driving rain persisted through the night.
Sunday morning Ed grabbed his fly rod and headed for the west end of the island. I couldn’t join Ed because I had an appointment to film some of the outstanding reference material and exhibits that were on display at the Historical Society. After spending an hour and a half shooting pictures of all the huge stripers that had been caught in the past, I couldn’t take it any longer. I packed up my camera, thanked Shelly for opening up the museum for me, and then raced back to the bass club where I jumped into my waders and headed to the shore.
It was still blowing at least fifteen to twenty from the east and the air was filled with a cold, wind-whipped drizzle. I only had two images left on my digital camera’s memory chip, and with the crappy conditions, I decided to leave it at home; besides, I didn’t want to lug any more gear than I needed to.
As I headed away from the Club, I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake by not fishing where the old “Home Stand” was located; lots of fifty-pound fish have been taken from that location. No! I would head straight to one of my favorite areas. Over the past five years I dove this shoreline many times and had an idea of where the big fish would be.
For those of you not familiar with Cuttyhunk, walking the south side of the island is a bit challenging -- it is littered with stones the way most beaches are blanketed by grains of sand. The rocks vary in size from softballs to bowling balls and they seem to always move underfoot. What makes it even more difficult is that instead of watching where you are walking your eyes keep wandering over to the water where giant boulders peer out of the surf…each one looking more like a fish magnet than the other. Half way to my favorite spot I had to stop and make some casts. The area looked fantastic! It was one of many short points that punctuate the southwestern side of the island and it featured a boulder field that was awash with the combination of a high tide and three-foot surf.
I tied on a Hab’s two and a half ounce, yellow needlefish with a red head, pearl belly, and yellow bucktail. It looked so enticing as it dangled (thanks to a non-slip loop knot) from the end of the twenty five pound test fluorocarbon leader (yeah, I know I should have been using forty, but I thought Ed was bringing a full selections of leader material – moral of the story, bring what you need) that acted as a shock leader connected via a modified Albright (Crazy Alberto knot) to my full spool of fifty pound test PowerPro line. I tried to get a solid footing on the pile of stones that made up that stretch of slanted shoreline, and then, with a snap of the eleven foot Ron Arra, XSRA 1322-2 graphite rod, the needlefish landed to the right side of a reef. I s-l-o-w-l-y cranked the handle on the spinning reel and watched as the needlefish surfed down the face of a well-sculpted wave. Before the next wave caught up to the lure, a striper leaped out of the water and pounced on the plug. It put up a nice tussle but was quickly subdued…a beautiful linesider somewhere around twenty-five pounds. I tossed it back into the foam and quickly shot off another cast.
As I steadily retrieved the lure across the surface I couldn’t help but wonder if I was doomed – generally, when I catch a fish on the first cast, it’s not a good omen, it’s usually quite the opposite. Sure enough, on my next cast the line parts at a wind knot and the lure goes off into Vineyard Sound. I knew it, I knew it, it would be all downhill from here! Damn that fish for hitting my first cast!
I turned to my plug bag and yanked out a very special offering. Mike Fixter, a California based, custom plug maker had sent me an oversized “Pikie” in the same color combo of yellow and red. I tied it on with a non-slip loop knot that would insure that this giant swimmer would swing and sway with every shake of its head. This heavyweight lure, with a metal lip, would offer enough resistance to prevent the dreaded wind knots that sometimes occur when you reel in a lure slowly and the line doesn’t go on the reel under tension.
I heaved the bulky white cedar offering into the suds and slowly cranked the handle of my Van Staal 250. The metal lip dug in and the fanny of the plug waggled back a forth like a Hula dancer in slow motion. I walked down the beach and from the center of the small cove I tossed the lure over a mind field of submerged boulders. As each wave receded, you could see the water boil over the tops of these massive stones. The drizzle was unrelenting and the overcast was so thick it was like perpetual dusk. The waves continued to roll in and crash against the last stand of big boulders that lined the very edge of the shoreline; the spray was shooting up 10 feet into the air and was hitting me smack in the face…I was in bass fishing heaven! You couldn’t ask for better conditions.
I made a long cast just to the left of rock that stuck out of the water like a rounded pyramid; the lure swam down the face of a wave and then disappeared in the wash. The lure reappeared for a few seconds and then disappeared in an explosion of white water. I dropped the tip of the rod slightly, keeping the line tight by reeling like a mad man, and then I leaned back against the weight of the fish. I was firmly attached to a cow that continued to thrash the water in a violent display of power and determination…I could clearly hear the ruckus, even amidst the sound of crashing waves! I just stood there in amazement as the fish continued slapping its broom-like tail against the water, beating it into froth. The show seemed to go on forever, until finally the fish managed to get its head down. Now that massive tail was driving the fish into deeper water, and fortunately for me, it was making a beeline away from the rocks. The Van Staal’s drag worked flawlessly and the only sound louder than the drag’s clicker was the sound of my beating heart. After that first short run of about 40 yards, the fish turned to the west and ran my line up against one of the big boulders. I could feel the line rubbing against the stone as the stretchless braid telegraphed a sickening “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” vibration right down the graphite rod. Now, I’m very aware of just how hard my heart is beating and I’m determined to turn the fish. I kept a low rod angle and was trying desperately to minimize the chaffing against the rock. It was no use and I couldn’t turn the fish. To my right stood an eight-foot high stone, a third of it was underwater and the side facing me had a number of ridges and convenient crevices. I scrambled up the rock and with the added elevation I managed to keep the fish near the surface and finally turned it. As it doubled back I reeled furiously and prayed that line was only on one side of a rock and not buried between two boulders. When the fish ran past the rock the line sprang free and now the fish was starting to tire. I slid off the rock and started to pump the big fish in. Using the wave action to my advantage, I coaxed the fish through a narrow corridor of clear water and ran the gauntlet of stones that lined each side. Finally the big fish slid up onto a bed of smooth rocks and I quickly grabbed her by the lip and behind the gill plate. I struggled to hoist her up, and was able to clearly see that she stretched up to just beneath my shoulder, and her tail wasn’t all the way off the ground; she was anywhere from 57” to 59” inches long and she was had a full, thick body. Her head was enormous; you could fit your head in it! One set of trebles was firmly planted in the bottom of her jaw and the second set was hooked in the side of her mouth. I backed the hooks out, hefted her up again and carried her back to the surf; as a wave washed in she lunged forward and disappeared into the wash. I had finally caught a striper well over 50 pounds, and had the great pleasure of watching her swim away. I was ecstatic…but I wasn’t through fishing.
I continued to work that same area in the hope that another cow would come calling, but no one was home. I walked down the beach a little further and resumed casting. I put a little extra effort behind my next toss and SNAP went the shock leader. It had broken off an inch below the knot…it must have gotten nicked during the battle. The lure swam down a couple of waves and then stopped abruptly. The 18 feet of leader must have gotten wedged between the rocks and there it sat, taunting me. I immediately tied on a three and a half ounce Gibb’s pencil popper. I went direct from the PowerPro to the lure without any leader and then tried to snag that historic lure. Between the gusting wind and the crashing waves I just couldn’t hit my target. I danced the white pencil across the water on each failed attempt at retrieving the Pikie. No fish! No lure!
Continued....
My wife Donna, my German Shepard, Sasha and I were staying at the legendary Cuttyhunk Fishing Club and we had the entire place to ourselves (thanks to Oriel Ponzecchi who purchased the club and saved it from being raised and turned into condos). We had made the pilgrimage: to premiere my new video with Lefty Kreh, to do some additional filming and diving, to celebrate my wife’s birthday, and to surf fish the world’s greatest location for striped bass.
Occasional gusts to forty knots with wind swept rain out of the east made the stay in the rustic clubhouse both spooky and romantic. When the wind would blow just right from the east, a couple of clapboards would vibrate and produce a sound, not unlike the bugling of a bull elk…the fact that the sound emanated from the stag’s head that adorned an old bureau made it particularly eerie!
It’s always a thrill staying in the same place that Grover Cleveland, William Howard Taft and Teddy Roosevelt did; the fact that they came here to fish for stripers was just bully with me.
On Saturday we met up with our good friends Ed and Wendy Hughes and their black lab Jake. The regular ferry service had been cancelled, but they managed to make the crossing on one of the islander’s fishing boats. Now there were two of us compulsive/obsessive fishermen trying to keep our wives happy, while trying to refrain from dashing out the door and spending all our time fishing. We scored a few points with the girls on Saturday as the wind continued to howl and a driving rain persisted through the night.
Sunday morning Ed grabbed his fly rod and headed for the west end of the island. I couldn’t join Ed because I had an appointment to film some of the outstanding reference material and exhibits that were on display at the Historical Society. After spending an hour and a half shooting pictures of all the huge stripers that had been caught in the past, I couldn’t take it any longer. I packed up my camera, thanked Shelly for opening up the museum for me, and then raced back to the bass club where I jumped into my waders and headed to the shore.
It was still blowing at least fifteen to twenty from the east and the air was filled with a cold, wind-whipped drizzle. I only had two images left on my digital camera’s memory chip, and with the crappy conditions, I decided to leave it at home; besides, I didn’t want to lug any more gear than I needed to.
As I headed away from the Club, I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake by not fishing where the old “Home Stand” was located; lots of fifty-pound fish have been taken from that location. No! I would head straight to one of my favorite areas. Over the past five years I dove this shoreline many times and had an idea of where the big fish would be.
For those of you not familiar with Cuttyhunk, walking the south side of the island is a bit challenging -- it is littered with stones the way most beaches are blanketed by grains of sand. The rocks vary in size from softballs to bowling balls and they seem to always move underfoot. What makes it even more difficult is that instead of watching where you are walking your eyes keep wandering over to the water where giant boulders peer out of the surf…each one looking more like a fish magnet than the other. Half way to my favorite spot I had to stop and make some casts. The area looked fantastic! It was one of many short points that punctuate the southwestern side of the island and it featured a boulder field that was awash with the combination of a high tide and three-foot surf.
I tied on a Hab’s two and a half ounce, yellow needlefish with a red head, pearl belly, and yellow bucktail. It looked so enticing as it dangled (thanks to a non-slip loop knot) from the end of the twenty five pound test fluorocarbon leader (yeah, I know I should have been using forty, but I thought Ed was bringing a full selections of leader material – moral of the story, bring what you need) that acted as a shock leader connected via a modified Albright (Crazy Alberto knot) to my full spool of fifty pound test PowerPro line. I tried to get a solid footing on the pile of stones that made up that stretch of slanted shoreline, and then, with a snap of the eleven foot Ron Arra, XSRA 1322-2 graphite rod, the needlefish landed to the right side of a reef. I s-l-o-w-l-y cranked the handle on the spinning reel and watched as the needlefish surfed down the face of a well-sculpted wave. Before the next wave caught up to the lure, a striper leaped out of the water and pounced on the plug. It put up a nice tussle but was quickly subdued…a beautiful linesider somewhere around twenty-five pounds. I tossed it back into the foam and quickly shot off another cast.
As I steadily retrieved the lure across the surface I couldn’t help but wonder if I was doomed – generally, when I catch a fish on the first cast, it’s not a good omen, it’s usually quite the opposite. Sure enough, on my next cast the line parts at a wind knot and the lure goes off into Vineyard Sound. I knew it, I knew it, it would be all downhill from here! Damn that fish for hitting my first cast!
I turned to my plug bag and yanked out a very special offering. Mike Fixter, a California based, custom plug maker had sent me an oversized “Pikie” in the same color combo of yellow and red. I tied it on with a non-slip loop knot that would insure that this giant swimmer would swing and sway with every shake of its head. This heavyweight lure, with a metal lip, would offer enough resistance to prevent the dreaded wind knots that sometimes occur when you reel in a lure slowly and the line doesn’t go on the reel under tension.
I heaved the bulky white cedar offering into the suds and slowly cranked the handle of my Van Staal 250. The metal lip dug in and the fanny of the plug waggled back a forth like a Hula dancer in slow motion. I walked down the beach and from the center of the small cove I tossed the lure over a mind field of submerged boulders. As each wave receded, you could see the water boil over the tops of these massive stones. The drizzle was unrelenting and the overcast was so thick it was like perpetual dusk. The waves continued to roll in and crash against the last stand of big boulders that lined the very edge of the shoreline; the spray was shooting up 10 feet into the air and was hitting me smack in the face…I was in bass fishing heaven! You couldn’t ask for better conditions.
I made a long cast just to the left of rock that stuck out of the water like a rounded pyramid; the lure swam down the face of a wave and then disappeared in the wash. The lure reappeared for a few seconds and then disappeared in an explosion of white water. I dropped the tip of the rod slightly, keeping the line tight by reeling like a mad man, and then I leaned back against the weight of the fish. I was firmly attached to a cow that continued to thrash the water in a violent display of power and determination…I could clearly hear the ruckus, even amidst the sound of crashing waves! I just stood there in amazement as the fish continued slapping its broom-like tail against the water, beating it into froth. The show seemed to go on forever, until finally the fish managed to get its head down. Now that massive tail was driving the fish into deeper water, and fortunately for me, it was making a beeline away from the rocks. The Van Staal’s drag worked flawlessly and the only sound louder than the drag’s clicker was the sound of my beating heart. After that first short run of about 40 yards, the fish turned to the west and ran my line up against one of the big boulders. I could feel the line rubbing against the stone as the stretchless braid telegraphed a sickening “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” vibration right down the graphite rod. Now, I’m very aware of just how hard my heart is beating and I’m determined to turn the fish. I kept a low rod angle and was trying desperately to minimize the chaffing against the rock. It was no use and I couldn’t turn the fish. To my right stood an eight-foot high stone, a third of it was underwater and the side facing me had a number of ridges and convenient crevices. I scrambled up the rock and with the added elevation I managed to keep the fish near the surface and finally turned it. As it doubled back I reeled furiously and prayed that line was only on one side of a rock and not buried between two boulders. When the fish ran past the rock the line sprang free and now the fish was starting to tire. I slid off the rock and started to pump the big fish in. Using the wave action to my advantage, I coaxed the fish through a narrow corridor of clear water and ran the gauntlet of stones that lined each side. Finally the big fish slid up onto a bed of smooth rocks and I quickly grabbed her by the lip and behind the gill plate. I struggled to hoist her up, and was able to clearly see that she stretched up to just beneath my shoulder, and her tail wasn’t all the way off the ground; she was anywhere from 57” to 59” inches long and she was had a full, thick body. Her head was enormous; you could fit your head in it! One set of trebles was firmly planted in the bottom of her jaw and the second set was hooked in the side of her mouth. I backed the hooks out, hefted her up again and carried her back to the surf; as a wave washed in she lunged forward and disappeared into the wash. I had finally caught a striper well over 50 pounds, and had the great pleasure of watching her swim away. I was ecstatic…but I wasn’t through fishing.
I continued to work that same area in the hope that another cow would come calling, but no one was home. I walked down the beach a little further and resumed casting. I put a little extra effort behind my next toss and SNAP went the shock leader. It had broken off an inch below the knot…it must have gotten nicked during the battle. The lure swam down a couple of waves and then stopped abruptly. The 18 feet of leader must have gotten wedged between the rocks and there it sat, taunting me. I immediately tied on a three and a half ounce Gibb’s pencil popper. I went direct from the PowerPro to the lure without any leader and then tried to snag that historic lure. Between the gusting wind and the crashing waves I just couldn’t hit my target. I danced the white pencil across the water on each failed attempt at retrieving the Pikie. No fish! No lure!
Continued....