Make Your Bait Attractive...

Aunt Eileen had the same joke on every trip on the Capt. Gillen from Captree.

"Make yaw bait attractive," she'd say in the most unattractive voice she could muster. She'd chuckle and then shove the business end of a Eagle Claw through the poor, limp spearing's eye and into a clam belly.

Indeed, Aunt Eileen. Truer words were never spoken. Make your bait attractive. That's what we set out to do, however me and my purist brother have since eschewed bait fishing (except if you're jigging live shrimp with Capt. Sid in Islamorada, that doesn't count, that's classy and fun). 

Make your bait attractive. My brother, the scientist, one of America's brightest, insists on attractive bait. The man can walk a Rebel Minnow and wreak havoc with a Smack It Jr. And on a day when the bass are sparse and spread outspread out, on the prowl for sand eels, shrimp, crabs, whatever. The spring tide was up and the estuary had filled with clean water from the Gulf of Maine. The fish were in, but something was weird. There were few signs of feeding bass, and even fewer encounters with large schools of bait.

The tide was in our favor, but the weather was not. We paddled out early in the incoming tide. Straight into it really. There was a stiff breeze from the northeast; we did our best to paddle near the bank to abut the wind's persistent shove off the bow. We made slow progress to our first hole, but it wasn't too far. My brother chucked and plugged a Stillwater Smack It Jr. I threw a small deceiver, a herring pattern with big ole googly eyes. The incoming was starting pick up, creating strong rips around and between a spartina grass island.

Terry chucked his Smack It upstream into the current. It chugged along per the manufacturer's instructions. My brother does everything with mechanical precision - his MIT mind creates mini experiments. He's constantly calculating, and somehow he's able to log and recall what works in each hole on certain tides. It's my second time on this stretch of water, and I insist on making life difficult with my 8 wt. New water with unproven fly tactics - not a recipe for a spectacular day of fly casting. With puritan flyrodder blinders I flogged the water, stripping across the current, covering the middle and lower parts of the water column. Slow long stips, fast short strips. Upstream, downstream. I wasn't too effective. Meanwhile, the surface exploded twice behind my brother's efficient plug. Each fish slammed the plug, but we didn't manage a hook up. We moved on, convinced that the fish were still feeding closer to the river inlet.

We pushed on into the tide. The sun ducked in and out of the overcast sky. It was a stormy day, stiff winds and threatening clouds lingered all day. Our second spot was far more promising than our fist. We made our way behind a series of islets, pulling up to a ripping channel. Fishy fishy water. Something out of an Ed Mitchell diagram - a rip of cool, bait-filled water from the Gulf.

This was the only time we saw bait and fish in the same place all day. While drifting the rip we pitched towards the grass, (yes, i inssited on complicating things by casting a fly from the drifiting canoe, and no, it was not stable nor safe) as if we were fishing for largemouth in the Ozarks. Three chugs into a 40 ft. cast, Terry's Smack It was murdered by a ninja bass - never saw it coming. Terry's rod bent, but this time he had the drag dialed in. Our first of the day, and she's a pretty one; dark brown along her dorsal, a well-fed, non-resident fish stopping over on her trip north.

I put my fly rod down. My traditionalist ego hurt, I switch to a spinner. I missed my first fish shortly after. I finally managed my first, a nice 25" fish caught from the canoe. In all the excitement I suppose I really forgot about my fly rod, because I smashed the tip of my 8 wt. Redington in two. It took some time to suppress the sinking, searing disappointment turned embarrassment. I demolished my first saltwater 8 wt. - my brother would later assuage my conscious and remind me that I really needed a new one anyway - that I had outgrown it. 

What a good brother.

We found fish on the backside of the tide. We fished the outgoing and the incoming tides. The fishing wasn't stellar, but the fish were around. The struck most heavily on or around the last hour of the tide.

More than anything I learned the importance of paying close attention to what you do and how you do it. My brother's attention to detail no doubt yields more fish, and in that spirit I've started a new fishing log to record my exploits for posterity. 

These here posting are accounts of fishing trips past, present and future. I get my time on the water when I can. I'd fish every day if I could, but being a city dweller on Central Park North, I have to cram as much fishing as possible into weekend marathons.