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June 08, 2000 - 'Tis the season for weakfishing6A • The Suffolk Times • June 8, 2000 s the season for weakfishing At this stage of my life fishing has taken on a different meaning. By that I mean years ago fishing centered only around the all -out effort to catch fish. Today my idea of fishing has mel- lowed. Don't get me wrong. Fishing still holds that mystical lure but FAG V $ in a much softer way. Fishing ON means more than NATURE just catching fish. It embodies the by Paul whole experience Stoutenburgh from the first thought of going fishing to all that goes on in- between, and it's the "all" I find that makes the day. A perfect example of this was the other night when the conditions were right and I decided to give it a try. We'd hard the weakfish were in, and that immediately stirred old mem- ories of when weakfishing was the nat- ural thing to do each spring. It was the time when the lilacs were in bloom. It was the time to go and buy a pound of frozen squid, put half in a jar (to seal the smell) in the refrigerator to be used later, and take the other half down to the channel and try my luck. It would be a time when the night herons that once nested here would share the water's edge with you as they stalked killifish in the shallows. Today those herons are mostly a thing of the past. It was the time when youthful dreams of fish found me in the quiet evenings down where the tide ran swift and my fishing pole, line, sinker and the squid would all be working at the time - honored art of fishing. A few years later I'd do that same fishing in the same channel but then I'd be in my own boat that had acquired the name, the "Putt- Putt." It was powered by a one - cylinder Gray marine engine with an immense cast - iron fly wheel. In those days you never had to worry about other boats in the channel for there were few peo- ple around and fewer still who would venture out at that time of night to go fishing. I'd always take my best friend, Harry Waite, along and we'd sit in the boat until the late hours of the night telling tales that only young men tell. We'd fish with squid on the bottom, off the stern of the boat, waiting for that inevitable bite that would make the evening complete. I can still remember as we sat in the hush of evening, our lines out, Harry smoking his pipe. The memory lingers so bright that I can almost smell the fragrance of the tobacco smoke to this day. Now, many, many years later, Barbara and I were going to try fishing in that same swift - running channel, but this time we'd use a white bucktail instead of squid. We collected our gear and headed down to the dock, where I found myself in another world of sights and sounds. A robin sang far off in the quiet background as evening settled in. We walked out on the old dock, planks creaking as we moved along. The marsh that had slept through the winter was now showing new green spears of thatch, while the upper marsh (Spartina patens) grew in lush and reen almost as gf if it had recently been fertilized. I couldn't help think- ing how well nature had taken care of itself. Here the marsh flourished with- out any help from man. Its old decay- ing vegetation of last year and its col- lection of detritus had formed a com- post that provided the necessary nutri- ents for this year's new growth. It was a perfect example of recycling. A few boats lay idle on the surface of the glass -like water, their tethered lines lying limp and lifeless. A lone gull was our only welcome. Gone were the little bufflehead ducks that had spent the winter feeding in the creek. The same was true of the red - breasted mergansers that probed the dark and murky bottom with their long- toothed bills in hopes of finding hidden snails, crustaceans or even an occasional killie that thought it was safely hidden. In their place, but in fewer numbers, were the cormorants, relative newcomers to our creeks. It seems to me they spend more time underwater than they do above, the exception being when we see them drying their wings in open position atop a piling or buoy. The tide was half out, and as we entered the mouth of the channel we could see 15 or 20 shorebirds probing the sandy beach edge. I also noticed the pushed -up mounds of sand that the mating horseshoe crabs had made the night before. The egg - laying each year by these 200- million - year -old survivors always signals to the birds that it's time for feasting. Their eggs in the sand will provide the shorebirds with fuel to their next stop on their way north to the nesting grounds in the treeless tun- dra. As the season progresses north- ward, the shorebirds move with it, feeding on horseshoe crab eggs along th Suffolk Times photo by Paul Stoutenburgh Each spring, about the time the weakfish show up, the horseshoe crabs come out of their hidden haunts at the bottom of the bay. High on the water's edge they mate and lay their BB -sized eggs. As the warm sun Incu- bates them, the eggs develop into little horseshoe crabs and swim free. I » tim e+ 1 0% ... > >e . .. – now A. It r7 11111=0VVrX N.JH♦.►A 75 years ago May 29 -June , 1925 Southold news: There seems to be some opposition in this staid old village against Sunday baseball. The boys were shut out of the school diamond, so hired a field on the road to Bayview. This is not satisfactory to golfers, so two public- spirited men contributed $250 toward the enterprise with the understanding that a lot should be procured in some other locality. An effort will be made to do so. [May 291 No Sunday baseball: In order to avoid any further mis- understanding, the public is hereby advised that one of the terms of the lease of the baseball grounds is that there shall be no ball playing on Sunday. If we fail to live up to this provision of the lease the grounds will be ploughed and we will lose the only logical ball field we have. — Southold Board of Education. [June 5] 50 years ago June 2, 1950 Movie star visits Mitchell's: Mitchell's Restaurant on Front Street, Greenport, which for years has been known as one of the best eating places on Eastern Long Island, had as its guest recently the famous moving - picture star Robert Montgomery and a party of eight from Southampton. For sale: Southold —Large farmhouse on 300 -foot Back to our boat, we turned the key and the motor sprang to life, and we were off in a slow idle. We passed the old osprey platform out on the marsh with its now - devoted pair standing guard. It seems a miracle that these birds, traveling independently, some- times as far as South America, could come back each spring to their old nest and join up with their mate. (Ospreys mate for life.) road frontage, together with garage and guest cottage. $6,000. Southold— Five -room, year -round bungalow on the water, with central heat, garage and all improvements. This is a dream house for a young couple. Price $8,500. 25 years ago June 5, 1975 Beach closings Irk town: County Health Services say people on the East End ought not to get mad at them for closing down their beaches, that they're doing their job. People are getting mad anyway. Half of Southold Town beaches are scheduled to close — McCabe's, Goldsmith Inlet, Goose Creek and Cedar each — because they have no sanitary facilities.... On those beaches which will not be opened this year, the town must put up signs reading: "Unprotected beach. No swimming allowed, by order of the Southold Town Board." The county health department will also post signs forbidding swimming. No Orient Point plans: County Legislator Norton Daniels withdrew his legislation this week which would have created a county park on 48 acres of land on Orient Point. The legislation was removed from the agenda and consideration by other county legislators in response to the negative reaction expressed at a meeting with Orient Point residents. e way. Among the busy shorebirds (mostly turnstones) that always seem to be on the go, we picked out a pair of piping plover. They were probably nesting on the open beach near- by. Their kind are having a rough time finding a local beach where man does not trespass. To help these endangered birds, the Nature Conservancy has set up a group of war- dens who locate active nesting sites, mark off the areas and post signs telling the public of the pip- ing plover's dilemma. Their efforts have been most rewarding, for we are finding ' more and more being fledged each year. Many thanks to the wardens and the dedicated group of volunteers who make this program so successful. We tried our luck fishing in the channel with a white bucktail, casting it out and drawing it back, but we had no luck. The evening was so delightful that we put aside our weak attempting at fishing and headed out into the bay that was still, calm and quiet. We could see the ripples and occasionally the snapping tails of a small school of bunkers (members of the herring fami- ly). We headed over to see if we could lure a weakfish or a bluefish that might be feeding on them. We trolled 'round and 'round with not a strike, but the evening was perfect so we headed toward the cove and found least terns nesting along a 200 -foot stretch of Nature Conservancy's Meadow Beach. Here was another endangered species being protected. The Conservancy had already been there and put strings up around the nesting area. The big, bold signs tell people to stay clear and give the nesting birds a chance. Once they are finished nesting, the signs and enclosures will come down. Our first venture out into the bay couldn't have been nicer. Calm water, a beautiful late evening and no one around but us. By now it was begin- ning to get dark so we headed back toward home. Our fishing would have to wait for another day. The trip back was dreamy. A red - winged blackbird called in the marsh, letting us know it was guarding its nesting grounds. The last bird in the creek was a little least R,. °~ w_ in �. k ...... Mv;. ................... gig� .. I s mss. P M � a a NO MNl Suffolk Times photo by Paul Stoutenburgh Each spring, about the time the weakfish show up, the horseshoe crabs come out of their hidden haunts at the bottom of the bay. High on the water's edge they mate and lay their BB -sized eggs. As the warm sun Incu- bates them, the eggs develop into little horseshoe crabs and swim free. I » tim e+ 1 0% ... > >e . .. – now A. It r7 11111=0VVrX N.JH♦.►A 75 years ago May 29 -June , 1925 Southold news: There seems to be some opposition in this staid old village against Sunday baseball. The boys were shut out of the school diamond, so hired a field on the road to Bayview. This is not satisfactory to golfers, so two public- spirited men contributed $250 toward the enterprise with the understanding that a lot should be procured in some other locality. An effort will be made to do so. [May 291 No Sunday baseball: In order to avoid any further mis- understanding, the public is hereby advised that one of the terms of the lease of the baseball grounds is that there shall be no ball playing on Sunday. If we fail to live up to this provision of the lease the grounds will be ploughed and we will lose the only logical ball field we have. — Southold Board of Education. [June 5] 50 years ago June 2, 1950 Movie star visits Mitchell's: Mitchell's Restaurant on Front Street, Greenport, which for years has been known as one of the best eating places on Eastern Long Island, had as its guest recently the famous moving - picture star Robert Montgomery and a party of eight from Southampton. For sale: Southold —Large farmhouse on 300 -foot Back to our boat, we turned the key and the motor sprang to life, and we were off in a slow idle. We passed the old osprey platform out on the marsh with its now - devoted pair standing guard. It seems a miracle that these birds, traveling independently, some- times as far as South America, could come back each spring to their old nest and join up with their mate. (Ospreys mate for life.) road frontage, together with garage and guest cottage. $6,000. Southold— Five -room, year -round bungalow on the water, with central heat, garage and all improvements. This is a dream house for a young couple. Price $8,500. 25 years ago June 5, 1975 Beach closings Irk town: County Health Services say people on the East End ought not to get mad at them for closing down their beaches, that they're doing their job. People are getting mad anyway. Half of Southold Town beaches are scheduled to close — McCabe's, Goldsmith Inlet, Goose Creek and Cedar each — because they have no sanitary facilities.... On those beaches which will not be opened this year, the town must put up signs reading: "Unprotected beach. No swimming allowed, by order of the Southold Town Board." The county health department will also post signs forbidding swimming. No Orient Point plans: County Legislator Norton Daniels withdrew his legislation this week which would have created a county park on 48 acres of land on Orient Point. The legislation was removed from the agenda and consideration by other county legislators in response to the negative reaction expressed at a meeting with Orient Point residents. e way. Among the busy shorebirds (mostly turnstones) that always seem to be on the go, we picked out a pair of piping plover. They were probably nesting on the open beach near- by. Their kind are having a rough time finding a local beach where man does not trespass. To help these endangered birds, the Nature Conservancy has set up a group of war- dens who locate active nesting sites, mark off the areas and post signs telling the public of the pip- ing plover's dilemma. Their efforts have been most rewarding, for we are finding ' more and more being fledged each year. Many thanks to the wardens and the dedicated group of volunteers who make this program so successful. We tried our luck fishing in the channel with a white bucktail, casting it out and drawing it back, but we had no luck. The evening was so delightful that we put aside our weak attempting at fishing and headed out into the bay that was still, calm and quiet. We could see the ripples and occasionally the snapping tails of a small school of bunkers (members of the herring fami- ly). We headed over to see if we could lure a weakfish or a bluefish that might be feeding on them. We trolled 'round and 'round with not a strike, but the evening was perfect so we headed toward the cove and found least terns nesting along a 200 -foot stretch of Nature Conservancy's Meadow Beach. Here was another endangered species being protected. The Conservancy had already been there and put strings up around the nesting area. The big, bold signs tell people to stay clear and give the nesting birds a chance. Once they are finished nesting, the signs and enclosures will come down. Our first venture out into the bay couldn't have been nicer. Calm water, a beautiful late evening and no one around but us. By now it was begin- ning to get dark so we headed back toward home. Our fishing would have to wait for another day. The trip back was dreamy. A red - winged blackbird called in the marsh, letting us know it was guarding its nesting grounds. The last bird in the creek was a little least 6A • The Suffolk Times • June 8, 2000 At this stage of my life fishing has taken on a different meaning. By that I mean years ago fishing centered only around the all -out effort to catch fish. Today my idea of fishing has mel- lowed. Don't get me wrong. Fishing still holds that mystical lure but FOCUS in a much softer way. Fishing ON means more than NATURE just catching fish. It embodies the by Paul whole experience Stoutenburgh from the first thought of going fishing to all that goes on in- between, and it's the "all" I find that makes the day. A perfect example of this was the other night when the conditions were right and I decided to give it a try. We'd heard the weakfish were in, and that immediately stirred old mem- ories of when weakfishing was the nat- ural thing to do each spring. It was the time when the lilacs were in bloom. It was the time to go and buy a pound of frozen squid, put half in a jar (to seal the smell) in the refrigerator to be used later, and take the other half down to the channel and try my luck. It would be a time when the night herons that once nested here would share the water's edge with you as they stalked killifish in the shallows. Today those herons are mostly a thing of the past. It was the time when youthful dreams of fish found me in the quiet evenings down where the tide ran swift and my fishing pole, line, sinker and the squid would all be working at the time- honored art of fishing. A few years later I'd do that same fishing in the same channel but then I'd be in my own boat that had acquired the name, the "Putt- Putt." It was powered by a one - cylinder Gray marine engine with an immense cast - iron fly wh_ eel. In those days you never had to worry about other boats in the channel for there were few peo- ple around and fewer still who would venture out at that time of night to go I'd always take my best friend, "Es the season for weakfishing Harry Waite, along and we'd sit in the boat until the late hours of the night telling tales that only young men tell. We'd fish with squid on the bottom, off the stern of the boat, waiting for that inevitable bite that would make the evening complete. I can still remember as we sat in the hush of evening, our lines out, Harry smoking his pipe. The memory lingers so bright that I can almost smell the fragrance of the tobacco smoke to this day. Now, many, many years later, Barbara and I were going to try fishing in that same swift- running channel, bu this time we'd use a white bucktail instead of squid. We collected our gear and headed down to the dock, where I found myself in another world of sights and sounds. A robin sang far off in the quiet background as evening settled in. We walked out on the old dock, planks creaking as we moved along. The marsh that had slept through the winter was now showing new green spears of thatch, while the upper marsh (Spartina patens) grew in lush and green, almost as if it had recently been fertilized. I couldn't help think- ing how well nature had taken care of itself. Here the marsh flourished with- out any help from man. Its old decay- ing vegetation of last year and its col- lection of detritus had formed a com- post that provided the necessary nutri ents for this year's new growth. It was a perfect example of recycling. A few boats lay idle on the surface of the glass -like water, their tethered lines lying limp and lifeless. A lone gull was our only welcome. Gone were the little bufflehead ducks that had spent the winter feeding in the creek. The same was true of the red - breasted mergansers that probed the dark and murky bottom with their long- toothed bills in hopes of finding hidden snails, crustaceans or even an occasional killie that thought it was safely hidden. In their place, but in fewer numbers, were the cormorants, relative newcomers to our creeks. It seems to me they spend more time underwater than they do above, the - xception being when we see them Drying their wings in open position atop a piling or buov. Back to our boat, we turned the ke and the motor sprang to life, and we were off in a slow idle. We passed the oId osprey platform out on the marsh with its now - devoted pair standing guard. It seems a miracle that these birds, traveling independently, some- times as far as South America, could come back each spring to their old nest and join up with their mate. (Ospreys mate for life.) The tide was half out, and as we entered the mouth of the channel we could see 15 or 20 shorebirds probing the sandy beach edge. I also noticed the pushed -up mounds of sand that the mating horseshoe crabs had made the night before. The egg - laying each year by these 200- million - year -old survivors always signals to the birds that it's time for feasting. Their eggs in the sand will provide the shorebirds with fuel to their next stop on their way north to the nesting grounds in the treeless tun- dra. As the season progresses north- ward, the shorebirds move with it, feeding on horseshoe crab eggs along the way. Among the busy shorebirds (mostly turnstones) that always seem to be on the go, we picked out a pair of piping plover. They were probably nesting on the open beach near- by. Their kind are having a rough time finding a local beach where man does not trespass. To help these endangered birds, the Nature Conservancy has set up a group of war- dens who locate active nesting sites, mark off the areas and post signs telling the public of the pip- ing plover's dilemma. been most rewarding, for we are finding more and more being fledged each year. Many thanks to the wardens and the dedicated group of volunteers who make this program so successful. We tried our luck fishing in the channel with a white bucktail, casting it out and drawing it' back, but we had no luck. The evening was so delightful that we put aside our weak attempting at fishing and headed out into the bay that was still, calm and quiet. We could see the ripples and occasionally the snapping tails of a small school of bunkers (members of the herring fami- ly). We headed over to see if we could lure a weakfish or a bluefish that might be feeding on them. We trolled 'round and 'round with not a strike, but the evening was perfect so we headed toward the cove and found least terns nesting along a 200 -foot stretch of Nature Conservancy's Meadow Beach. Here was another endangered species being protected. The Conservancy had already been there and put strings up around the nesting area. The big, bold signs tell people to stay clear and give the nesting birds a chance. Once they are finished nesting, the signs and enclosures will come down. Our first venture out into the bay couldn't have been nicer. Calm water, a beautiful late evening and no one around but us. By now it was begin- ning to get dark so we headed back toward home. Our fishing would have to wait for another day. The trip back was dreamy. A red - winged blackbird called in the marsh, letting us know it was guarding its nesting grounds. The last bird in the creek was a little least tern that was probably trying to get a late meal before turning in for the night. They hover like kingfishers above their prey and then plunge into the water after a minnow meal. It's a delicate little bird and one I look for- ward to seeing each spring. We were in no rush to get home and the idling engine with its little wake behind took us through the nar- rows of the channel and up the creek to our dock. Lights were coming on in people's homes as we moved along. As we got near the dock we cut the engine and drifted in. All was quiet. Our fishing trip was over. It was a per- fect outing even though we came home emptyhanded. 6A • The Suffolk Times • June 8, 2000 At this stage of my life fishing has taken on a different meaning. By that I mean years ago fishing centered only around the all -out effort to catch fish. Today my idea of fishing has mel- lowed. Don't get me wrong. Fishing still holds that mystical lure but FOCUS in a much softer way. Fishing ON means more than NATURE just catching fish. It embodies the by Paul whole experience Stoutenburgh from the first thought of going fishing to all that goes on in- between, and it's the "all" I find that makes the day. A perfect example of this was the other night when the conditions were right and I decided to give it a try. We'd heard the weakfish were in, and that immediately stirred old mem- ories of when weakfishing was the nat- ural thing to do each spring. It was the time when the lilacs were in bloom. It was the time to go and buy a pound of frozen squid, put half in a jar (to seal the smell) in the refrigerator to be used later, and take the other half down to the channel and try my luck. It would be a time when the night herons that once nested here would share the water's edge with you as they stalked killifish in the shallows. Today those herons are mostly a thing of the past. It was the time when youthful dreams of fish found me in the quiet evenings down where the tide ran swift and my fishing pole, line, sinker and the squid would all be working at the time- honored art of fishing. A few years later I'd do that same fishing in the same channel but then I'd be in my own boat that had acquired the name, the "Putt- Putt." It was powered by a one - cylinder Gray marine engine with an immense cast - iron fly wh_ eel. In those days you never had to worry about other boats in the channel for there were few peo- ple around and fewer still who would venture out at that time of night to go I'd always take my best friend, "Es the season for weakfishing Harry Waite, along and we'd sit in the boat until the late hours of the night telling tales that only young men tell. We'd fish with squid on the bottom, off the stern of the boat, waiting for that inevitable bite that would make the evening complete. I can still remember as we sat in the hush of evening, our lines out, Harry smoking his pipe. The memory lingers so bright that I can almost smell the fragrance of the tobacco smoke to this day. Now, many, many years later, Barbara and I were going to try fishing in that same swift- running channel, bu this time we'd use a white bucktail instead of squid. We collected our gear and headed down to the dock, where I found myself in another world of sights and sounds. A robin sang far off in the quiet background as evening settled in. We walked out on the old dock, planks creaking as we moved along. The marsh that had slept through the winter was now showing new green spears of thatch, while the upper marsh (Spartina patens) grew in lush and green, almost as if it had recently been fertilized. I couldn't help think- ing how well nature had taken care of itself. Here the marsh flourished with- out any help from man. Its old decay- ing vegetation of last year and its col- lection of detritus had formed a com- post that provided the necessary nutri ents for this year's new growth. It was a perfect example of recycling. A few boats lay idle on the surface of the glass -like water, their tethered lines lying limp and lifeless. A lone gull was our only welcome. Gone were the little bufflehead ducks that had spent the winter feeding in the creek. The same was true of the red - breasted mergansers that probed the dark and murky bottom with their long- toothed bills in hopes of finding hidden snails, crustaceans or even an occasional killie that thought it was safely hidden. In their place, but in fewer numbers, were the cormorants, relative newcomers to our creeks. It seems to me they spend more time underwater than they do above, the - xception being when we see them Drying their wings in open position atop a piling or buov. Back to our boat, we turned the ke and the motor sprang to life, and we were off in a slow idle. We passed the oId osprey platform out on the marsh with its now - devoted pair standing guard. It seems a miracle that these birds, traveling independently, some- times as far as South America, could come back each spring to their old nest and join up with their mate. (Ospreys mate for life.) The tide was half out, and as we entered the mouth of the channel we could see 15 or 20 shorebirds probing the sandy beach edge. I also noticed the pushed -up mounds of sand that the mating horseshoe crabs had made the night before. The egg - laying each year by these 200- million - year -old survivors always signals to the birds that it's time for feasting. Their eggs in the sand will provide the shorebirds with fuel to their next stop on their way north to the nesting grounds in the treeless tun- dra. As the season progresses north- ward, the shorebirds move with it, feeding on horseshoe crab eggs along the way. Among the busy shorebirds (mostly turnstones) that always seem to be on the go, we picked out a pair of piping plover. They were probably nesting on the open beach near- by. Their kind are having a rough time finding a local beach where man does not trespass. To help these endangered birds, the Nature Conservancy has set up a group of war- dens who locate active nesting sites, mark off the areas and post signs telling the public of the pip- ing plover's dilemma. been most rewarding, for we are finding more and more being fledged each year. Many thanks to the wardens and the dedicated group of volunteers who make this program so successful. We tried our luck fishing in the channel with a white bucktail, casting it out and drawing it' back, but we had no luck. The evening was so delightful that we put aside our weak attempting at fishing and headed out into the bay that was still, calm and quiet. We could see the ripples and occasionally the snapping tails of a small school of bunkers (members of the herring fami- ly). We headed over to see if we could lure a weakfish or a bluefish that might be feeding on them. We trolled 'round and 'round with not a strike, but the evening was perfect so we headed toward the cove and found least terns nesting along a 200 -foot stretch of Nature Conservancy's Meadow Beach. Here was another endangered species being protected. The Conservancy had already been there and put strings up around the nesting area. The big, bold signs tell people to stay clear and give the nesting birds a chance. Once they are finished nesting, the signs and enclosures will come down. Our first venture out into the bay couldn't have been nicer. Calm water, a beautiful late evening and no one around but us. By now it was begin- ning to get dark so we headed back toward home. Our fishing would have to wait for another day. The trip back was dreamy. A red - winged blackbird called in the marsh, letting us know it was guarding its nesting grounds. The last bird in the creek was a little least tern that was probably trying to get a late meal before turning in for the night. They hover like kingfishers above their prey and then plunge into the water after a minnow meal. It's a delicate little bird and one I look for- ward to seeing each spring. We were in no rush to get home and the idling engine with its little wake behind took us through the nar- rows of the channel and up the creek to our dock. Lights were coming on in people's homes as we moved along. As we got near the dock we cut the engine and drifted in. All was quiet. Our fishing trip was over. It was a per- fect outing even though we came home emptyhanded. 6A • The Suffolk Times • June 8, 2000 At this stage of my life fishing has taken on a different meaning. By that I mean years ago fishing centered only around the all -out effort to catch fish. Today my idea of fishing has mel- lowed. Don't get me wrong. Fishing still holds that mystical lure but FOCUS in a much softer way. Fishing ON means more than NATURE just catching fish. It embodies the by Paul whole experience Stoutenburgh from the first thought of going fishing to all that goes on in- between, and it's the "all" I find that makes the day. A perfect example of this was the other night when the conditions were right and I decided to give it a try. We'd heard the weakfish were in, and that immediately stirred old mem- ories of when weakfishing was the nat- ural thing to do each spring. It was the time when the lilacs were in bloom. It was the time to go and buy a pound of frozen squid, put half in a jar (to seal the smell) in the refrigerator to be used later, and take the other half down to the channel and try my luck. It would be a time when the night herons that once nested here would share the water's edge with you as they stalked killifish in the shallows. Today those herons are mostly a thing of the past. It was the time when youthful dreams of fish found me in the quiet evenings down where the tide ran swift and my fishing pole, line, sinker and the squid would all be working at the time- honored art of fishing. A few years later I'd do that same fishing in the same channel but then I'd be in my own boat that had acquired the name, the "Putt- Putt." It was powered by a one - cylinder Gray marine engine with an immense cast - iron fly wh_ eel. In those days you never had to worry about other boats in the channel for there were few peo- ple around and fewer still who would venture out at that time of night to go I'd always take my best friend, "Es the season for weakfishing Harry Waite, along and we'd sit in the boat until the late hours of the night telling tales that only young men tell. We'd fish with squid on the bottom, off the stern of the boat, waiting for that inevitable bite that would make the evening complete. I can still remember as we sat in the hush of evening, our lines out, Harry smoking his pipe. The memory lingers so bright that I can almost smell the fragrance of the tobacco smoke to this day. Now, many, many years later, Barbara and I were going to try fishing in that same swift- running channel, bu this time we'd use a white bucktail instead of squid. We collected our gear and headed down to the dock, where I found myself in another world of sights and sounds. A robin sang far off in the quiet background as evening settled in. We walked out on the old dock, planks creaking as we moved along. The marsh that had slept through the winter was now showing new green spears of thatch, while the upper marsh (Spartina patens) grew in lush and green, almost as if it had recently been fertilized. I couldn't help think- ing how well nature had taken care of itself. Here the marsh flourished with- out any help from man. Its old decay- ing vegetation of last year and its col- lection of detritus had formed a com- post that provided the necessary nutri ents for this year's new growth. It was a perfect example of recycling. A few boats lay idle on the surface of the glass -like water, their tethered lines lying limp and lifeless. A lone gull was our only welcome. Gone were the little bufflehead ducks that had spent the winter feeding in the creek. The same was true of the red - breasted mergansers that probed the dark and murky bottom with their long- toothed bills in hopes of finding hidden snails, crustaceans or even an occasional killie that thought it was safely hidden. In their place, but in fewer numbers, were the cormorants, relative newcomers to our creeks. It seems to me they spend more time underwater than they do above, the - xception being when we see them Drying their wings in open position atop a piling or buov. Back to our boat, we turned the ke and the motor sprang to life, and we were off in a slow idle. We passed the oId osprey platform out on the marsh with its now - devoted pair standing guard. It seems a miracle that these birds, traveling independently, some- times as far as South America, could come back each spring to their old nest and join up with their mate. (Ospreys mate for life.) The tide was half out, and as we entered the mouth of the channel we could see 15 or 20 shorebirds probing the sandy beach edge. I also noticed the pushed -up mounds of sand that the mating horseshoe crabs had made the night before. The egg - laying each year by these 200- million - year -old survivors always signals to the birds that it's time for feasting. Their eggs in the sand will provide the shorebirds with fuel to their next stop on their way north to the nesting grounds in the treeless tun- dra. As the season progresses north- ward, the shorebirds move with it, feeding on horseshoe crab eggs along the way. Among the busy shorebirds (mostly turnstones) that always seem to be on the go, we picked out a pair of piping plover. They were probably nesting on the open beach near- by. Their kind are having a rough time finding a local beach where man does not trespass. To help these endangered birds, the Nature Conservancy has set up a group of war- dens who locate active nesting sites, mark off the areas and post signs telling the public of the pip- ing plover's dilemma. been most rewarding, for we are finding more and more being fledged each year. Many thanks to the wardens and the dedicated group of volunteers who make this program so successful. We tried our luck fishing in the channel with a white bucktail, casting it out and drawing it' back, but we had no luck. The evening was so delightful that we put aside our weak attempting at fishing and headed out into the bay that was still, calm and quiet. We could see the ripples and occasionally the snapping tails of a small school of bunkers (members of the herring fami- ly). We headed over to see if we could lure a weakfish or a bluefish that might be feeding on them. We trolled 'round and 'round with not a strike, but the evening was perfect so we headed toward the cove and found least terns nesting along a 200 -foot stretch of Nature Conservancy's Meadow Beach. Here was another endangered species being protected. The Conservancy had already been there and put strings up around the nesting area. The big, bold signs tell people to stay clear and give the nesting birds a chance. Once they are finished nesting, the signs and enclosures will come down. Our first venture out into the bay couldn't have been nicer. Calm water, a beautiful late evening and no one around but us. By now it was begin- ning to get dark so we headed back toward home. Our fishing would have to wait for another day. The trip back was dreamy. A red - winged blackbird called in the marsh, letting us know it was guarding its nesting grounds. The last bird in the creek was a little least tern that was probably trying to get a late meal before turning in for the night. They hover like kingfishers above their prey and then plunge into the water after a minnow meal. It's a delicate little bird and one I look for- ward to seeing each spring. We were in no rush to get home and the idling engine with its little wake behind took us through the nar- rows of the channel and up the creek to our dock. Lights were coming on in people's homes as we moved along. As we got near the dock we cut the engine and drifted in. All was quiet. Our fishing trip was over. It was a per- fect outing even though we came home emptyhanded.