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Written by Captain Thom Pelletier
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TRIBULATIONS OF A FLUKE-A-HOLIC
By
Capt. Thom Pelletier
Hello, my name is Thom and I’m a Fluke-a-holic. For many years I didn’t realize the depth of my malady, convinced that I was nothing more than your everyday, run of the mill, over-zealous fishing fanatic. My addiction to fluke fishing began innocently enough, as most addictions do, an extension of something else that is taken too far. Since childhood I had been drawn to the delights of catching fish. Even in my earliest years, I found fishing for Sunnies and Yellow Perch infinitely more entertaining and satisfying than trying to shoot a basketball into a net-laced iron rim over some genetically augmented skyscraper, at least a foot taller than me. Having some behemoth gorilla trounce me just when I was about to catch a football held even less allure.
As I look back, however, there were telltale signs of what lay ahead as far back as my introduction to serious (well, I thought it was serious at the time) saltwater fishing in the early seventies. Back then, going sport fishing, and I use that term very loosely, meant hooking up with a good buddy and his dad and heading to their boat in Galilee, Rhode Island. The boat was a 1964 Chris Craft 32 footer. On the days when we got both engines to run simultaneously on the wood hulled classic, we’d head out to conquer whatever suicidal gamefish made the mistake of coming our way. Any time we got off the dock before 9:30 it was considered an early start.
In those days we were one-rod warriors. Each of us used our same rod
and reels no matter what the quarry. From Block Island Blues to Cod,
Pollack and even Blue Sharks at Coxes Ledge, to Fluke and Scup or
Tautog along the shore, our outfits were of the one-size-fits-all
persuasion. My weapon of choice was a Shakespeare Wonder Rod, a
six-foot boat pole equipped with the old reliable Penn Squidder casting
reel. 50-pound test line was standard. (Did they make lighter line for
saltwater applications back then?).
We even used these same outfits on jetty jaunts to the East Wall of
Pt. Jude’s Harbor for those infamous midnight expeditions. On those
ill-conceived and therefore ill fated safaris into the dark abyss,
about every third cast resulted in a bird’s nest backlash of epic
proportions. Casting conventional reels at that time wasn’t nearly as
prevalent as it is today. Those proficient at this art were revered and
some believed also possessed the ability to actually walk on water. I
never in point of fact witnessed this second ability demonstrated but
the legend continued, and so shall I.
A half-hour of untangling was about the norm. I’m sure most all
of you are familiar with the drill. You mumble swear words with a
flashlight stuck between your clenched teeth for 20 minutes while
assessing and furthering the damage. You then realize just what a mess
you’re in and the cursing becomes louder and more animated. At that
point the light slips out of your mouth and down between the rocks,
never to be seen by human eyes again. Another 10 minutes of fruitless
line sorting by the flickering illumination of a cigarette lighter
ensues by which time the overwhelming rage leads to the inevitable
fillet knife trick. This solution only adds to the scope of frustration
as you kick yourself for not cutting the damn thing in the first place.
Anyway, before digressing further, let’s get back on subject. When
the decision was made to try for Fluke and all the stars in the heavens
aligned in such a way as to allow both small block Chevys to cooperate
at the same time, we’d head out along Rhode Island’s South Shore. Our
method of attack was simple. First we’d break out the store-bought
fluke rigs. You know, the ones with the spinner blades the size of
hubcaps spaced by pieces of colored tubing and tied to a 3-way swivel.
Another ring of the swivel accommodated a snap for your sinker that
could secure a Buick. The 80-lb. test leader material used on those
rigs could also double as your dock line in a pinch. Oh, yeah, and 4
ounces of lead. Whether the conditions were a wispy summer breeze or a
gale force blow - 4ounces of lead. Flooding moon tide or slack tide –
4 ounces of lead. 15 feet of water or 50, always…always, 4 ounces of
lead!
It was then, shortly after my very introduction to fluke fishing
that the red flags should have gone up. Whenever our crew discussed
what the quarry would be for the up coming weekend venture I would
invariably bellow “fluke!” It was quickly becoming my ”problem.”
One underlying aspect of the problem stemmed from a distinct fear
of being labeled as one of those notoriously peculiar “fishermen who
don’t eat fish.” For most of my days, the appeal of fish flesh had
never really tempted me. When the wife of a friend prepared some
freshly caught fillets in a secret recipe batter one evening, and
served them with a salad and a cold and frosty, I found the flavor
indescribably delicious. That was the beginning of my slide. Finally, I
had found a meaningful purpose (i.e. excuse) to justify my compulsion
to wet a line in search of the Summer Flounder.
There was a span of time in the early eighties when my attention
to flukin’ was held somewhat in check and diverted in a different
direction. If I remember correctly it was roughly within that same time
frame as my cousin acquired a brandy new 20-foot center console. He
informed me that he had taken advantage of the infamous $100 down $100
a month (until your newborn baby completes grad school and earns his
Masters) financing plan and now we were going to hit the big time. He
also informed me that we were going to be so busy with grand blue water
expeditions that Fluke fishing was soon to become a thing of the past.
In retrospect, it’s hard for me to pinpoint the truly irresistible
attractively of blasting out to a not clearly defined destination well
southeast of Block Island at 40 M.P.H. through a bone jarring
three-foot chop. It often got to the point where by the time we got to
wherever it was we were going and started slowing down, my teeth were
rattling. I couldn’t have gripped a rod if I wanted to as my hands
were too cramped from just hanging on. Added to these two mildly
unpleasant encumbrances were two other momentous factors. A, we were
greener than grass to these new environs and, 2, our tackle could have
drawn a comparison with hunting bears with BB guns. You’d think it
should have been plain to see that this new brand of excitement was
vastly superior to a serene drift along the mainland coast for those
glamourless Fluke.
That period was appreciatively short lived however because
directly thereafter came the first ThomCat, a fifteen-foot center
console skiff propelled by a trusty 35 Evinrude. For the first time I
had the power to pursue Fluke, which was by now more than a mild
fixation, without having to depend on others. Although I was limited to
the inner harbor in all but ideal conditions, I was now able to Fluke
fish unfettered. A couple of years later the second ThomCat came along.
Now an 18-foot cuddy cabin boat in which I could expand my stomping
grounds and continue to feed my habit even in a 15 to 20 M.P.H. breeze.
This ability further fanned the flames of my addiction. I was becoming
consumed.
Okay, enough with the ancient history and background. At that time
I was unaware and unready to recognize the monster developing within.
Each passing season fortified my obsession as I inched my way toward
total absorption. Winters were interminable and I was by no means a joy
to live with. After all, how many Fluke rigs can you tie on those
frigid winter nights before enough’s enough?
Advance to the middle nineties. By now it’s getting worse, much
worse. I’m starting to display symptomatic quirks similar to those
attributed to runners or joggers, who for whatever reason, aren’t able
to pursue their passion for any length of time. Even when I was on the
water, a complete change in demeanor would overtake me simply because I
didn’t hook up with a decent sized keeper within the first 15 minutes
of dropping a bait. Even when I was appeasing my habit, I was a
repressed malcontent.
Fluke-a-holic tendencies were even effecting my sleeping habits.
On Friday nights I’d get so jacked up with trying to insure myself
enough sleep to be fresh and sharp for Saturday morning’s foray, that
I’d wind up staring at the ceiling. There I’d lay, wide-eyed and
bordering wild-eyed at 2 A.M., any prospect of slumber at that time,
with the alarm set to go off in a mere 2 hours, was preposterous and
completely out of the question.
Then there were the incidences where I’d go into a complete funk for
no other reason than I had forgotten a particular rod and reel. Always
over-analyzing the game plan, I would envision some application for
that specific rig if a certain series of circumstances presented
themselves. Even the consolation of knowing full well that the other 5
outfits aboard could more than adequately handle just about any
scenario that could conceivable avail itself couldn’t dissuade a
tire-kicking tirade.
Pulling up an empty mummy trap would launch me on the grueling
mental mission of trying to scrutinize the psyche of this baitfish. I
would conjure up and actually envision illusions of a total collapse of
the entire ecosystem based on the apparent demise of this important
forage fish. Worse yet, paranoia was truly setting in and had me in its
grip. I started to imagine that my dock mates were emptying my trap
just so they could delight in the spectacle of viewing me freak out and
become totally unraveled.
An unfavorable forecast would really accelerate my trepidation.
The words “Small Craft Warning” would ignite an uncontrollable
twitching on my left side. Try as I might to make the best of a
weather-cursed day, I could never sufficiently convince myself that it
would be prudent to do some yard work anyway. I couldn’t rationalize
being off the water even though the back yard grass was so deep that we
were losing neighborhood children and pets out there.
Minor distractions that are viewed by most participants as just
part of the fishing game would instantly set me off. The degree of
anger generated by an unfortunate Sea Robin that erroneously took my
bait and necessitated a time consuming hook removal process was ugly.
It took all the cerebral restraint I could muster to deter dispensing
the dire and demonic dismemberment warranted for such a heinous wasting
of my precious flukin’ time.
Back at home I was getting vibes that the whole family structure
and all the governing factors and incidentals therein were some
subversive scheme to keep me off the boat and away from my Flukin’. I
was convinced that the entire establishment of Little League Baseball,
a veritable American institution, and one of which my kids had
participated in essentially since they could walk, had a singular
seditious objective. My inner sense was that their sole mission was
to, by whatever means necessary, keep my rods racked. Further
corroboration of this conspiracy manifest itself in the fact that after
the long and arduous regular season mercifully concluded, there was
All-Stars. Another encumbrance to the feasibility of my copping a vital
Flounder fix.
My compulsion was actually starting to threaten the foundation
of my marriage. An event that transpired one Friday evening in early
July a few seasons back immediately pops to mind. It started out
harmlessly enough, with my wife and I having some friends over for a
few hands of cards and a session of chitchat. As the evening progressed
the games were becoming more insignificant while the gossipy blather
more interminably giddy and longwinded. I started to get more than a
little antsy. Sweaty palms and jittery eyeballs were evincing
themselves. A glance at my watch further augmented my anxiety. My mind
was racing now. Silently, and I’m quite sure to myself, I posed frantic
question after frantic question. “What’s the deal? 8:45 and they’re
still here!! Are they going to spend the entire night here?!? Do they
realize tomorrow’s a 4 A.M fishing day? What’s going on here? What are
they thinking?!? What am I going to do?”
I had to think fast now. Beads of perspiration were now visible
on my brow and I needed a plan quickly. The panic I was experiencing
was having an effect on my creative contemplation capacity. The best I
could come up with was to feign an intense attack of fatigue. A poor
dramatist on my best day, this would be a challenge. The apprehension
related to pulling off this charade wasn’t helping anything either.
After several dozen yawns, a few real but most poorly acted, I
was starting to sense a trace of uneasiness in our guests. Maybe, just
maybe, my lame endeavor was having some effect and I could pull this
off. What I didn’t realize was that the same uneasiness that was
finally seeping into the heads of our ostensibly permanent houseguests
was also being intercepted by my wife.
My mounting angst and the subsequent delirium generated makes
what followed thereafter a little hazy. I think what ultimately put our
visitors over the edge was when I somehow, unconsciously, and with no
malicious intent, scribbled on the score sheet in rather bold letters
“GET OUT”. I vaguely remember an almost shrieking voice delivering an
unruly rant about it ”being a cold day in hell before we would ever be
graced with their presence again” or some such babble. This added to my
bewilderment, as I hadn’t become aware of any presents from the get-go.
The look occupying my wife’s face when she returned from chasing
the appalled couple down the driveway had me conclusively persuaded
that the next thing I’d be seeing would be stars. Instead she took the
other route and refused to resume any meaningful conversation with me
again for what would constitute a lifetime in many lower life forms.
That calamitous episode proved to be a turning point of sorts
for me. I think I have attained a handle on my Flukin’ Jones of late.
Age and self-preservation have teamed to relax and mellow the ill
effects of my plight. On the home front, following these many months
since the ”incident”, the bride’s starting to come around. I’m
convinced the right aggregation of adornments for the upcoming
Anniversary, Birthday, and Christmas trilogy could go a long way toward
inducing absolution. The alleged Little League debacle is now but a
faint memory. The kids aren’t kids anymore. They drive themselves to
whatever is on their agenda these days.
I didn’t miss more than 5 or 6 days of work in any one month last
season, and that’s a positive. Of course, I’m told that the only way to
completely beat an addiction is with cold turkey abstinence………….. Yeah,
right,…….that’s gonna happen...
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