May 23, 1985 - Fishing: A Time for MemoriesPage 12A The Suffolk Times May 23, 1985
Fishing: A Time for Memories
By PAUL STOUTENBURGH
Overcast, dreary, wind out of the east
that can only mean more cloudy wea-
ther and possibly rain. Yet it tells me
there's a spot protected by high banks
that will be calm and might produce my
very first weakfish of the season. The
signs are right. The lilacs are blooming.
The shorebirds are passing through and
it's the middle of May.
My evening weakfishing started
when I was a teenager. We lived away
from town, and once you left the kids
in school and stepped off old J. Henry
Wolfs bus at the Main Road, you were
pretty much alone.
About this time of year wild as-
paragus started showing up along the
hedgerows, creek and bayfronts. I got
to know the creeks so well by walking
every foot of the ones around Cutchogue
in pursuit of these tender morsels.
Seems wild asparagus along the creek
edges is always more tasty than farm
cut.
When the asparagus was coming
good, you knew it wouldn't be long be-
fore the weakfish would be in. At first
I was just an observer, but it didn't take
me long to figure out the best way to
catch them. Harry Waite and I used to
sit in the creek till very late fishing for
weaks with nothing but a strip of squid.
We'd buy a pound in the beginning of
the season and cut strips off it, freezing
the rest. Man, did that squid smell hang
on to your hands! Perhaps that's why
the fish liked it so much.
Sometimes we got one or two fish, but
I can remember (and I have written
down in an old log) getting 20 or 30 in
an evening. We never had to go out of
the creek in those early days. I had an
old converted 17 -foot catboat with a
cabin and a wind break. We'd sit behind
Focus on
Nature
this, swapping youthful yarns while
drinking hot tea or coffee. I think I still
have that old alcohol stove. It had a sort
of metal pipe in the center with a wick
inside. When the wick got hot, the al-
cohol vapor in the stem gave a good hot
flame.
Another method we'd use when the
run of fish died down in the creek was
trolling. One spot never failed us. It was
just offshore about 150 feet, and all we
did was go back and forth. When we
made the turn around, we'd always get
a strike and usually a fish. This was
done in the evening. As soon as it got
dark the fish seemed to stop biting and
we'd head in. The companionship of
Harry in those early days was priceless
to me. We both dreamed in our own
worlds and shared our hopes. And what
better time to do that than while fish-
ing?
Simple But Dependable
That old boat was used year after
year. Each fall we'd haul her out on the
beach and leave her till spring when
we'd paint her all up and put her over-
board again. Funny how simple things
were in those days. It was a lot to spend
$10 on top and bottom paint, along with
caulking. Today a good bottom paint
runs over $100 a gallon. The old catboat
was bought about 10th -hand for $25
and lasted what seemed like forever
until a hurricane pounded it to pieces.
Some of these memories passed
through my mind tonight when I tried
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OLD PICTURES OF OLD BOATS and old days of fishing bring back
fond memories. We didn't have the best equipment but we surely knew
where to get the best fishing. We fished East Creek with squid on an
outgoing tide and always seemed to do well.
fishing again in one of my old spots.
This time I borrowed my son's boat and
took my three - horsepower outboard. It
finally started after putting up its usual
show of belligerence. It was good to be
on the water again.
The marsh spread out before me as I
headed out. Off to one side was one of
the newly erected osprey platforms we
put up this spring. It looked like there
had been some activity there, for a large
collection of stocks had been added, but
I couldn't see a bird on the nest. Perhaps
like "new" ospreys when they first come
north, they just played house.
At the mouth of the creek were peeps,
those ever -busy tiny shorebirds that
stop here on their way north to Hudson
Bay and beyond to nest. Farther along
were turnstones, those colorful black,
brown and white shorebirds that probe
in the sand and flip shells and stones
over, looking for whatever moves.
As I predicted, the water under the
cliffs was calm and I started my trolling.
I'd only brought along one lure, a silver
spoon with a white bucktail. I trolled
for over an hour with no luck. There
was a school of bunkers playing in the
area, and every once in a while I'd see
one break water. They are filter feeders
and will not take bait, but sometimes
you can snag one if you cast right into
them. I tried that, but as soon as my
lure hit nearby they'd sound.
Just Like Old Times
By now it was getting dark, a drizzle
had started and I was just about to head
in when I got a strike. The pole bent
and I pulled up. I'd hooked him! Slowly
I reeled in.
Once the fish broke water -- a bad
trick, for it's here they can throw the
hook -- it made a run. When it got near
the boat I let out line, for I was afraid
of ripping the hook out of its mouth.
Then I saw the flash of silver. It was a
weakfish! They'd returned, as they had
for over 40 years in this one spot.
That was my only fish. Probably one
fish in two hours is not much fishing to
some, .but it did me just fine. I did a lot
of reminiscing; saw some ducks;
shorebirds; a night heron; two ospreys
flying -- one with a fish (bet it didn't
take him two hours); and some good re-
laxing. Let's hope my grandchildren
will be able to fish this spot for at least
40 years more.
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