East Coast of the USAby Jonathan Boulton Hyannis airport was seething with bad tempered press people, crotchety because they hadn't got the scoop on JFK Junior's plane crash into the waters between Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket off the Cape Cod. However, they were all leaving and I was just arriving and I didn't have to wait more than ten minutes for the picturesque flip across to the island. On final approach to the airport, we dipped low over beautiful beaches, flat bottomed boats fishing tidal rips and miles of flats dotted with skiffs dazzling in the summer sun. I was almost sure I saw the shapes they were casting to, as we throttled back just before touching down - it was going to be shitty week. Nantucket is like no other place I've been to. Steeped in history, it was the largest whaling port in the world at one stage, the pebbles of the cobbled streets were ballast from the old whaling ships. The beautiful houses are summer getaways for the rich and famous worth millions of Dollars for a few weeks use in the summer vacations. The town is an intriguing blend of nautical antique stores, Ralph Lauren designer out lets and a collection of world class restaurants. The harbor is not unlike St Tropez, with boats worth the GDP of a small South American country. What I found most bizarre though, is that with all the summer hustle and bustle you would think that any self-respecting bit of oceanic wildlife would give the place a very wide berth. Not so, degradation of fish stocks and almost the total disappearance of the highly sort after Striped Bass brought about a change in mind set second to none. Starting in the Seventies heavy catch restrictions were placed upon both recreational and commercial fishermen. You see, it is the unfortunate process whereby man has to destroy something before he realizes what a good thing he is missing. In the States they have come full circle with this, in 5 weeks of fishing there I didn't see a single fish killed, even if regulations permitted takings. Some State Game and Fisheries Departments that I spent time with might receive 20 Million Dollars a year for fishery management alone. Its no wonder that serious habitat enhancement work can take place and result in world class wild fish fisheries with that sort of dedication and budget. The Stripers and Blues are now back in such numbers that excellent fishing is to be had by everyone from the serious flyfisherman to the young kid throwing his pencil popper from the beach. I was in Nantucket in Mid July which isn't even the best time of year and totally OD'd on my Thomas and Thomas 8wt. The stripers migrate up the East Coast in the summer, pretty much following the cold water, feeding voraciously putting on weight before their return in fall to Chesapeake Bay, where they reproduce. As a general rule of thumb the stripers move first with the blues following close behind. Mike Cody owns "All over it" the premier beach guide service on the island. Late summer stripers prefer cooler water and low light conditions, hence Mike has you coffee in hand a loaded into his customized Land Cruiser by 3:30 in the morning. We drove to several spots, walk to the waters edge and wait to hear the stripers spanking baitfish, failing that we set up at a likely looking spot like Retriever Point on the inside of the island and wait to see if it happens. Mike reads the water like a train timetable and even with no busting bait, my eel pattern hits a brick wall and a dogged fight commences with the sun just breaking over the inky horizon. After the early morning action its back to town for breakfast and then round to Bill Fisher's Tackle Shop. Bill Pew runs Nantuckets' best tackle shop, but that is not the real attraction. It is a meeting place for all the local characters to talk about their passion; fishing and annoying out of town holiday makers who don’t drive on the beach correctly and lack etiquette when it comes to pushing into a group of anglers who are hooking up from the beach. The banter is fast and furious and more entertaining than cable TV. "So where you getting them stripers Ellis" Mike asks the local cop, an intimidating fellow, originally from up state New York, with a large gun on his hip. "Why cant you find your own fish you *&%! Gucci beach guide." Everything is refereed by Bill Pew, the owner of his shop who usually has his nose buried in an old Penn, which he expertly strips and services. The chirping is however all very friendly, and amusing the way that no one discloses exactly where they got the fish, especially if there are a few holiday makers straining their ears for some local info. " Mystery rip doing well again Pew" is usually enough to have some out of towners searching for a non-existent point for a week! Good blue fish are taken from the beach and Mike's faithful retriever Gusty expertly swims out into the breakers and lands the fish. Even more impressive is that on unhooking the fish, Mike sends Gusty back into the surf where the fish is released. The blues are the same as our shad or elf, an aggressive feeder with a mean set of gnashers. However, the only difference being that Nantucket Blues are not virtually extinct as ours are thanks to our conscientious fishermen. Shoals of these fish are vast and with an average size of 4-5lbs they are an awesome fly rod target. Mike uses other skippers if clients really want to hammer the blues as I did. A short boat ride finds long nutrient rich 'slicks 'created by an upwelling of plankton, the baitfish consequently concentrate hear and the blues are not far behind. The engines are cut and a big hookless pencil-popper is bounced along the surface back toward the boat. Very soon slashing fish can be seen as the popper approaches the boat. It's not as easy as it sounds because by the time the popper is pulled clear of the water and the cast is made the fish are moving at a hell of a speed. A good lead has to be given and a lightening fast double hand strip has to be in place before the fly hits the water - then the game is on with an 8/9lb Blue heading for Nova Scotia at the end of your line. These guys were not fussy, and you could throw anything at them, as long as you landed it in their zone, it was a great opportunity to use and lose those ugly flies that every one has in their box but never actually tries. The razor sharp teeth soon reduced the slickest looking deceiver into a few measly strands of bucktail and anything just short of a bare hook kept getting hit. Each morning we hit Mikes' hotspots looking for breaking stripers and hoping to connect with a 'keeper' - a fish of over 28 inches. His favorite fly was a large Clouser if we were fishing a steep drop off, or an epoxy-headed eel pattern if we in relatively shallow water or over weed beds. On commenting on the fairly limited colour range in his boxes Mike retorted "In the words of Lefty - if it ain't chartreuse it ain't no use!" and boy did we prove that right. We kept trying earlier and earlier, as Mike was not happy with the water temperature and it is a known fact that the really big stripers are nocturnal feeders. Eventually we waded out along a stone jetty as the tide started to pull out of the bay and in the darkness the sweet sound of someone throwing bricks into the water followed by a rain of baitfish as they erupted away from the marauders down below. My first cast produced a solid take, the line cleared the basket in a second and a huge fish broke the water as it powered away. Ever had that feeling that the beast of a fish at the end of your line is actually in control of the situation, and no matter what you do he is going to come out on top? I tightened up on the fish, which just resulted in an acceleration and a series of strong head shakes then the sickening feeling of the fish burying itself in a huge grass bed. It was now lodged solid and after five minutes hadn't budged. I started to wade parallel with the snagged fish feeling my way slowly forward in the darkness, with the icy water horribly close to the top of my waders, eventually I must have got a good angle because the brut ripped free and headed off once more. Then came the worst feeling of all, a reverberating scratchy sensation that makes its way up the leader, through your rod and into the very marrow of your bones. I quickly retrieved the leader and replaced the section that had been pulled over a bed of clams. I retied the same fly and punched out the line as quickly as I could, a wonderful fishy dejavous struck as a fish smacked the fly on the first strip, this was a great fish but only in the second Division compared to the first. Mike was happy, but I was over the moon, that was just starting to dip below the darkness only to be replaced by the sun on the opposite horizon. I had my 'keeper', I lifted it clear of the water for a quick shot and the only thing I will 'keep' is the memory. Taken from |
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