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I don't go on many fishing trips, partly due
to the expense, but mainly because there is
no need. I live at the mouth of the Eagle Hill
River where it empties into Plum Island Sound,
and have easy access to an unheralded but excellent
striped bass fishery. Why spend thousands of
dollars to travel thousands of miles to fish
unfamiliar waters when I can walk 10 yards and
launch my kayak? Still, when the opportunity
arises, I will take a fishing trip (usually
cloaked in the guise of a family vacation), and
I had such an opportunity recently when the bride
booked a trip to Florida to spend Christmas with
my parents and then four days in the Keys.
The logistics of travel are much more complicated
than pre-9/11, even more so for the sportsman (I
don't know how hunters do it). I suspected that
the airline would frown on me bringing a cased-rod
on board as carry-on luggage, seeing that it looks
like a bazooka. And I might be paranoid, but I
also didn't want to put a $500 rod in luggage as
I think these specialty items might provide too
much of a temptation (and I have heard tales of
golf clubs disappearing in transit). So I purchased
a 7 piece 8-weight that fit in a suitcase, and made
certain to put anything that could be construed as a
potential weapon (leatherman, hooks, nail clippers)
in the luggage that would go aboard as baggage.
I've never really liked flying. First off, there
is the hassle of getting to the airport. Our flight
was at 7 am, we were required to be there 2 hours
early, and, not wanting to park at the airport, we
had to be at the bus station at 4. This meant
getting up at 3 am, which is something I can
willingly do for fishing but not for travel. And,
though not phobic about plane crashes, I can't help
but think that I don't want to die trapped in that
dark depressing claustrophobic little tube with its
1960s color scheme, a bag of peanuts as my last meal.
(On this flight we weren't even offered a bag of
peanuts but a menu from which to choose - and pay
for - our meal. I passed but an elderly gentleman
next to me got a small can of Pringles and a can of
beer, an odd breakfast, to be sure. His bill was
staggering-six dollars for one beer and a small
can of chips!)
But all went well, and after a visit with my parents
it was off to the Keys and winter fishing. I have to
say I was a bit ambivalent about fishing in January.
Sure, it would be fun, but it seemed, well, somehow
wrong. Agonia is a term coined by Christian
monk and aesthete Thomas Merton to describe man's
awareness, alone among God's creatures, that this
wonderful gift of life has to end. Nor'eastern striped
bass bums have their own Agonia, knowing that, come
late October, this wonderful fishery is gone for
another season. And now fishing in January seemed
blasphemous.
Before our trip I had posted some questions about
Keys' fishing on a Florida salt-water website, and
I received a wonderful e-mail from Hal Jacobs
(thanks again, Hal!) giving me the location of a
nice but little known flat. I tend to rely on the
kindness of strangers, and I'm always impressed
with the generosity of fly-fishers, saltwater
anglers being particularly gracious. This is
not to disparage the freshwater brethren; it's
just much easier to share an entire beach than
a small bend pool. Using Hal's instructions I
located a beautiful flat, devoid of fishermen
except for an occasional guide with a sport in
a flat's skiff, further indication of the high
quality of this particular spot.
But, while beautiful, it was unfamiliar, and I am
a creature of habit (to the extreme). I didn't
know the rhythms, where to be at what tide, and,
it being a family vacation, I didn't have the
luxury of fishing one spot through an entire
tide cycle. It was hit or miss. And while I
caught fish, barracuda and needle fish, and
other toothy creatures from the Jurassic period,
it wasn't like home, where I know that three
hours before high tide a nice rip forms over
the mussel bed at Pavillion Beach where the big
stripers gather to feast or how the bass will
hold in the deep slot off of Little Neck road
at dead low. And how when I hear the train
whistle on a weekday morning it's the 6:30 am
from Newburyport at the crossing on Federal
Street, which means I have exactly fifteen more
minutes of fishing if I'm going to make it to
work on time. I missed my home waters.
But they have bonefish and permit you might say.
I'd counter, I've never heard of anyone catching
twenty bonefish or permit in a day, though I've
done that and better with bass so many times I've
lost count. What about tarpon? you ask, and may
well feel you've won the debate. However, I'm
reminded of Hemingway's analogy of elephant
hunting with burning the taste buds off of your
tongue when mistakenly drinking the lye product
Eau de Javel instead of bottled water. Extremes
like elephant hunting and tarpon fishing and lye
drinking will leave you unable to savor anything
less heady. I'll stick with stripers (which can,
by the way, exceed four feet in length).
"Heaven for the climate, hell for the company,"
suggests Mark Twain, and the same could be said
of Florida and Massachusetts. When we arrived
in Boston our luggage was delayed, the Logan Shuttle
was behind schedule, and it was colder than a well
digger's ass - pretty much what I'd expected. Yet,
while some might think that the water is always
bluer on the other side, I have to say there's no
place like home waters. It was good to be back.
~ Dave
About Dave:
Dave Micus lives in Ipswich, Massachusetts. He is an
avid striped bass fly fisherman, writer and instructor.
He writes a fly fishing column for the Port City Planet
newspaper of Newburyport, MA (home of Plum Island and Joppa Flats)
and teaches a fly fishing course at Boston University.
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