There’s an old charter captain’s saying: “Many a trip and tip has been saved by the bluefish.” When you reel it back in it’ll be crumpled with bite marks. Hook an aluminum can to a line and toss it in the middle of a bluefish frenzy. Interestingly, unlike the tunas, mackerels and sharks, the bluefish is the only member of its scientific phylum category and considered by many seafarers to be the most indiscriminately voracious feeder in the sea. But properly grilled in tin foil with a marinade, bluefish are not bad. Being more oily and fishy tasting, they are often maligned by those who fish for the more desired “meat fish” like tunas, wahoos and mahi. I knew we’d get there first and Joe would want to reel one in but suggested that since we were about to be in a turbulent crowd he needed to remain at the helm for safety’s sake.Ī few side notes here about bluefish. But closer inshore with the lesser coveted bluefish, the courtesies are not always observed. Way out in the blue waters of the Gulf Stream where the valued marlin and tuna swim, when another boat “hooks up” you stand off as a courtesy so as not to interfere with the fight. Now amongst sportfishermen there exists a sort of etiquette about such things … sort of. This was a classic bluefish feeding frenzy and Joe was heading us right toward it while the other boats farther out had spied the same sight and were charging full throttle in our direction. For sure, directly off our starboard bow less than a half mile away was that telltale sign: a big patch of ocean, splashing and boiling, and above it winging in from all directions a swarming and diving cacophony of shrieking seagulls. I was just dozing off when Joe yelled, “Birds! Birds!” I was on my feet in a flash. I splayed myself out on the fish box to do just that, knowing if a fish hit, the reels’ clickers would certainly alert me. I had six lines in the water and decreed my handiwork so pleasing to the sea gods that I deserved a nap. I called to Joe to bump us up to trolling speed to give the lures a little action.Īfter a bit I put out another pair, then another. With Joe at the helm adjusting the electronics and chatting on the VHF radio, I was below, fiddling with fishing tackle, when I decided it was time to put some lines out – just a pair of Penn 6/0s on sturdy, roller-guided rods for the heck of it. This particular late July afternoon the sea was slick calm as we idled along a few miles off Spray Beach – I could always tell where we were from the water towers. And eat them while sitting on the sofa watching TV.” My motto around the dock was “I don’t bring sandwiches in a cooler. On occasion we’d go out for a half-day trip just to wet a few lines and really didn’t care what we caught since it was just nice to be out there cruising on a big, comfortable boat. And so I became our de facto harbor pilot, taking us out of Morrison’s Marina, down the waterway and out the inlet where Joe would take over and I’d head down to the cockpit, swapping my captain’s hat for a mate’s bandana. I was kind of a natural at boat handling while Joe’s skills were … well, he really wasn’t comfortable getting in and out of the slip. Joe, owned several boats, culminating with a stout 38-foot Henriques sportfish built in Bayville. Over the years, our next door neighbor, Capt. BEFORE HEADING OUT: The author some years back is seen in the only remaining photographic evidence of a very memorable fishing trip.
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