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Boyhood Initiations
By Captain Bruce Peters
www.sportfishingcapecod.com
Looking back, I had it pretty good growing up here on the Cape.
If I got my papers delivered on time during the week, I could
expect enough cash at the end of the week to keep me supplied
with that new pickerel lure I'd seen at Mac's or sinkers and
bobbers to replenish the ones I'd lost. I had become a pretty
good fisherman (boy) or so I had thought at the ripe old age of
11 and was beginning the rites of passage into more
adventuresome fishing excursions. Yes, that was the sweetest
time of my life … I had my bike with baskets on both sides … big
enough to carry a tackle box, knapsack, lunch, a couple of rods
…whatever. I was old enough to be able to go pretty much
wherever I wanted as long as I left Mom a note on the kitchen
table telling where I was and when I'd be back. Sometimes I
would be so excited I wouldn't leave a note and get chewed out
when I got home. I would always say that I'd forgotten, but I
realize now that I was too excited about going fishing to stop
and take the time to write the note.
I knew every pond and marsh in East Orleans like the back of my
hand. Charlie Moore's, Little Charlie’s, Uncle Harvey's,
Griffin's, Crystal and Baker's all were my stomping grounds.
Back then Baker's was like the wilderness, there were ruffed
grouse drumming in the woods, crayfish galore to pick up or
spend hours trying to catch with a hook. As evening came slowly
in those late spring months and I headed for home, the
whip-poor-wills would start their evening songs. I didn't know
it then, but they were reassuring me that I indeed had it good.
May slowly warmed into June, the days got warmer and longer and
school got out, leaving me time for more fishing. My folks were
partial to taking the truck out the outer beach, usually Coast
Guard beach in Eastham on weekend days. My family would pack a
slew of food and drink and we’d go for the day usually till 9 or
10 at night. I don’t believe that I took my fishing stuff to the
beach for the first few outings, I mostly explored or played
hide and seek or war or whatever with my brothers. There is only
so much that I could do with my siblings and I don't remember
what it was that made me start bringing my fishing stuff with me
on these outings, but it started a transition from perch,
pickerel, trout and bass to larger fish in wilder waters.
It most likely started by watching the surf casters I'd met on
the beach and making a pest of myself asking questions of every
possible kind. To this day I always take the time to help out
kid with a patchwork fishing outfit, as I know that was me some
35 years ago. At any rate I began bringing my heaviest
freshwater stuff to the shore. My paper route cash supplied me
with the hot new "Rebels" as that was the best lure that money
could buy at that time, although this 12 year old couldn't see
how any fish would bite on those huge seven or eight inch jobs,
so I bought the smaller ones more sized to my outfits. I
remember the first fish that I caught that year, a brace of
schoolies, I'd guess about 20 inches long, but they may have
been even smaller.
I remember fishing at the north or Eastham side of the Nauset
Inlet. There were other fishermen there, far more knowledgeable
than I, and they were all catching an occasional fish, as the
tide started to ebb. They had fine surf rods, it seemed to me
they were twenty feet long. I had my small Rebels and my seven
foot freshwater spinning outfit. It was close to dusk as I
remember and the current in the inlet was running strong. I
would cast as far as I could, which due to the light weight of
the small lure, wasn't one quarter of what the real fishermen
were casting. It seemed that it was all I could do to get my
retrieve started before the current had swept my plug up against
the edge of the inlet. I kept at it with all the excitement of
watching those next to me catching fish. Eventually I caught
one. I had done it! I had caught my first striped bass ever. I
carefully laid the fish in the sand under the vehicle out of the
setting sun for my siblings to admire and fished some more. By
now the incoming tide had turned the sporadic bite into a full
blitz, but at that time in my life I couldn't have cared less. I
had a bass on the beach and I felt like the king of the world. I
caught another fish that evening before my family insisted we
could stay no more and we left for home.
Little did I know it then, but I was becoming transformed. The
excitement of bigger, saltier water eventually lured me away
from my freshwater ponds. I saved my money and bought an eight
or nine foot rod with a bigger reel and guides so I could cast
further and throw the larger lures. My paper route wound along
the southwest edge of Nauset Inlet from Mill pond to Snow Shore
landing, giving me ample access to learn and poke around the
shorelines on my own. I caught my share of flounder, schoolies,
and eels and learned when those spots had the best fishing. I
learned that the tide had a great deal to do with when those
spots were fishable. I eventually found the spot that was to
complete my transformation and initiate me into the man I now
am.
At the end of Champlain road near Snow Shore landing in Orleans
is a marsh that sticks into the inlet towards Priscilla Landing.
Its banks are firm peat from years of spartina growing there.
The current had undercut the bank at the very north edge,
allowing a dark and cool spot for the eels and bait fish to
escape the light of day. About forty yards out a shallow sandbar
paralleled the marsh edge, with a deep channel of eight or ten
feet between. At the end of the bar closest to the marshy point
, the bar came in to twenty yards away and tailed out into the
deep water. With the outgoing tide the current would sweep along
the edge of the marsh and funnel into the narrowing channel and
cross the edge of the bar. I immediately liked this spot as it
had deep fishable water close to shore, a soft, yet firm bank in
which I could sink my rod butt, and a readily accessible supply
of bait in mussels and clams.
One Sunday, after delivering my morning papers, I went to this
newly found spot full of excitement and anticipation of what the
day would bring. I unloaded my gear and stashed my bike in the
beach roses at the edge of the road. It took me a while to pick
my way across the marsh without stepping into a sinkhole. As I
went, I would pick up mussels for bait and, hopefully, I would
find a seaworm or a nice quahog. Reaching the edge of the marsh,
I put together my two rod pieces and threaded my line through
the guides. I had no sand spike yet at this stage of my fishing
career and therefore pushed the wooden butt of my rod a foot
into the spartina sedge. I then proceeded to rig my rod with a
pyramid sinker of 2 ounces on a nylon sliding rig. This was
something I had usually not done, but was trying for the first
time because of a tip from a wonderful old gentleman that ran a
tackle shop in Orleans (Mac Reed) that always had time to help
with advice for kids into fishing. A swivel to stop the sinker
slide and about two feet of leader to which I tied on a 3/0
hook. I never used those fancy pre-tied rigs with the colored
corks on them because they were too expensive. After gobbing on
a couple of mussels, I lobbed my rig out into the channel and
began the wait.
Leaving my rod pushed into the bank I started poking around,
looking for more bait as mussels seemed to catch more eels than
anything. I also kept my eye open for a couple of good rocks to
bash open the shellfish I found. I remember finding more than a
couple of big chowder quahogs that day because I took them back
to my rod and instead of rationing the clams, put a whole clam
on my rig. About to recast my setup into the channel, I noticed
the tide moving over the end of the bar at the deep edge. I
envisioned my weight holding on the bar with the clam drifting
at or off the edge into the deeper side. My first cast was off
the spot by ten feet, smack on the highest part of the sandbar.
Fearing I would lose my clam but not satisfied with the location
of my bait I slowly reeled back my bait and recast it at the
tailout edge of the bar. This cast was perfect. The tide drifted
my rig at the edge of the bar and as it sank out of sight I
could see my whole clam swinging downtide of the weight.
I again pushed the rig into the hole in the peat and probably
watched my rod pretty good for about 10 minutes or so. I don't
remember what I was doing, but I remember looking up at the
right moment to see my rod bending deeply towards the water.
Shocked, I ran slipping and sliding towards my pole and arriving
just as the peat gave way to the pressure of whatever was there
at the end of that line. I was in awe of the force that was
pulling on my rod. I had never hooked into something like this
before. The monofilament was stretching and whining out that it
was about to break when I realized the drag was too tight. The
line is going to break!!! I had never been in this situation
before. Frantically I unscrewed the drag washer on my spinning
reel. Nothing happened. I unscrewed some more and then the reel
broke loose, free spooling line out into a snarl that clogged
under my bail.
Thoroughly panicked at this point, I tried to reel some line on
the spool to help me fight the monster, to no avail. I couldn't
turn the handle and the line was not going in or out and that
telltale mono whining noise was starting again. I dropped the
rod and started hand lining the fish in. I did OK for a few
minutes and actually got the fish turned towards me a couple of
times. My hands were cut, I had to wind some line around my
hands to keep the mono from cutting into me any more and it
worked until the fish decided to make a break for the ocean. I
held on for a second or two and then it was over and he was
gone.
She had won the battle …and I have never been the same. Today at
47 years old I still chase the thrill of that big bass, heart
pounding fear in my throat, just as if I was that kid again.
Cape Cod Salties Sportfishing Club, April 2003, Backlash |
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