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My schedule has been so hectic lately that
I haven't been able to do much fishing, to
the point that I don't even have those open
wounds at the first joint of each pinkie finger
that I usually bear from early June until early
November from cinching knots with
saltwater-softened hands. I've been fishing
maybe just three days per week instead of my
usual five to seven during striper season, but
before you think, "geez, three days a week is
a LOT of fishing" remember that the striper
fishery is a six month gig here in northern
Massachusetts. Divide three by 2 (one half
of a year), and I'm averaging fishing 1.5 days
a week per year, barely the sustenance needed
for the fly fisher's soul.
This past Saturday I was determined to fish
in the morning, but, having worked the night
before and due at work in the afternoon, I
slept late and spent the rest of the day
cursing my lazy ways. I resolved to fish
Sunday morning, hoping to get out at 5 am,
two hours before high tide, and fish the
estuary system in front of my house that
fishes well on a flood tide, but having
worked late on Saturday, I again overslept.
This was only a minor inconvenience, though--a
nice thing about the salt is good tides
happen twice a day, and, with no commitments,
I could fish the evening tide. At least that
was the plan.
As I was preparing the gear I could hear a
rumbling, faint, like a large truck might
make. I wasn't sure what it was but I had
my suspicions; the day had been hot and
humid and it was likely that the sound
was distant thunder. I scanned the horizon,
and it was dark with storm clouds, but not
close. Always the optimist when it comes
to fishing, I counted on the storm passing
by my estuarine river and blowing out to sea.
I paddled the kayak to a marsh island, beached
the boat, and fished a prominent point where
a confluence of currents creates a dead
spot-perfect holding water for bait and bass.
On the second cast I hook a nice striper that
takes line on three successive runs before I
bring him to hand and release him. On the very
next cast the same thing happens, and again on
the next, déjà vu all over again, as Yogi Berra
so elegantly said. I can still hear thunder but
there is no lightning, and I think that I might
just dodge the storm.
Growing up in the Midwest and having seen many
a violent squall, I'm not particularly afraid
of thunder storms and have had some great
fishing when there is lightning - in the distance.
With a six month season I fish when I can, not
when I want to, and while I won't leave on a
fishing excursion during a thunder storm, I
won't cut and run if a storm comes up while
I'm fishing. Instead I'll judge the intensity
of the storm, its direction of travel, and make
a decision based on these and other factors
(like, are the fish biting?). This day the
storm is in the distance, but I'm now seeing
flashes of lightning and I know it is heading
my way by the direction of the wind and the
decreasing time between seeing the bolt of
lightning and hearing the clap of thunder
(counted in "Mississippis"). But I still
have time, or at least I think so.
Judging the speed of an approaching storm
using the Mississippi Method is an inexact
science at best, and just as I throw a long
cast there is a flash overhead, followed by
an explosion of thunder without even one
"Mississippi" between the two (maybe just
a "Miss..."). "God looks over babies and
drunks," my aunt used to say, but I'm old
and (at the moment) sober, so I know it's
time to quit.
I quickly reel in, intending to hunker down
on the marsh bank and keep a low profile,
but, as they often will on a reeled in fly,
a nice striper hits the streamer, and I find
myself playing a fish while holding a 9 foot
lightning rod, afraid that both fish and
fisherman will be fried. I'm grateful when
the bimini is finally at the tip and the taut,
20 lb. fluro is emitting that faint humming
noise like a violin string, usually music to
my ears but not at the moment. I reach down
and lip the bass, slip the barbless hook out
of its mouth, and release him just as another
bright flash cracks overhead. Now I'm in the
middle of an electrical storm, and I make myself
shrink so I'm not so obviously the highest point
on this flat marsh, and I lay the new Albright
on the ground, close but not too close. There
are numerous bolts, but it's not as if they are
striking the island (or even near by), and I
know I'm safe.
When the storm subsides a bit I move back to
the water's edge and debate whether to keep
fishing, but a glance toward the horizon shows
more thunderheads, so I decide to call it a day.
While the lightning was intense the rain was
sparse, but now the wind kicks up and the rain
falls with a purpose. Luckily it's not a long
paddle to shore; the waves are white-capped,
the swells chaotic (unusual for this protected
bay), and it feels a good bit like I'm kayaking
through class 3 white water.
Later at home, while watching the news, I see
that five people were injured when lightning
struck their picnic, and I shake my head and
wonder, "who the hell would be foolish enough
to be out picnicking in a thunder storm?" ~ 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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